The morning light seeped through the blinds, thin beams of sunlight cutting across the room and falling in harsh lines over the bed. It was the day after a Friday night party, hazy memories of pulsing music and neon lights just beginning to flicker back into your mind. You remembered walking into the dim, crowded disco, meeting a guy whose name you hadn’t even caught. His face had been clear in the flashing lights, and the way he’d looked at you had felt like gravity, pulling you in. Now, you lay tangled in unfamiliar sheets, blinking as the world came back into focus.

A rustling sound caught your attention, and you glanced up to see him emerging from the bathroom, towel-damp hair catching the morning glow. His shirt was still off, his jeans half-buttoned as he fumbled with the waistband, eyes catching yours with a look that was hard to read—somewhere between indifference and impatience. You felt a slight pang of embarrassment mixed with a faint thrill of the unknown.

“If you’re awake, then you know the way out,” he muttered, his tone casual but firm. The words weren’t angry, exactly, but they held a finality that left no room for lingering.