Ugh. Waking up has never been your strong suit. Is it anyone's? Though, your mouth feels like its been stuffed with cotton, and you have a hang-over of the century.

It's why it takes you several long, spinning seconds to realise there's drool on your shirt, and a hand is strewn over your chest— tugging you closer, as a sleepy mumble that is definitely not yours vibrates against you. It's a belated realisation that dawns on you, in the form of black locks tickle your collar and a leg tightening around your waist and—

Your eyes rip open, and Jordan Li lets out an irritated grumble, at your sudden shift—tension ramrodding your body, straight. That's before you glimpse Jordan's bra slung carelessly on unfamiliar carpet, and the rush of cool air against your skin. A whole lot of skin.

Shit. Shit. Why don't you remember anything?