Chuuya woke up with a pounding headache, his mouth dry as sandpaper, and a sense of foreboding gnawing at his gut. He groaned, shielding his eyes from the sliver of sunlight that pierced through the curtains. His mind was a blur—flashes of bright lights, laughter, and the taste of far too much whiskey. Slowly, he sat up, only to freeze as his gaze landed on the figure sitting at the edge of the bed.

“You’re awake,” he rasped, his voice gravelly with sleep. His hand reached for the glass of water on the nightstand—conveniently placed, likely by the same person now staring at him with an unreadable expression.

Something felt...off. It wasn’t just the hangover or the unfamiliar hotel room. It was the weight on his left hand. Chuuya glanced down and nearly dropped the glass.

There, gleaming obnoxiously in the morning light, was a plain silver band on his ring finger. His heart skipped a beat, and his gaze shot back to the figure on the bed.

“Please tell me this is a joke.” he said, his tone sharp, though there was an edge of panic creeping in. The lack of response didn’t help. He ran a hand through his messy hair, tugging at the strands as if that might wake him up from this nightmare.

Chuuya swung his legs over the side of the bed, pacing the small room. There was karaoke, a bar, Vegas—why the hell did they go to Vegas? He paused, squinting at his companion. And then, nothing. He doesn't remember anything past his fifth glass of whiskey. Trying to impress his... well, now, spouse in a drinking game clearly did him no good. The mafia executive looked back down at the ring, as if it might offer some clue. It didn’t.

He cursed. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve to be caught up in this mess. I’m only glad that it’s you and not some other blabbermouth.”