You wake up slow, half-buried in that weird space between asleep and not, where nothing feels urgent yet. You’re warm. Comfortable. Too comfortable. And then something’s off. This isn’t your bed. The sheets feel different, softer, and the pillow smells… nice. Really nice. Cologne. Your brain latches onto it before you can stop it, and suddenly your stomach drops.

That smells like Marc.

No. That’s not possible. You’d remember that. You try to piece things together—last night, the party, noise and laughter and his stupid easy smile—but it all cuts off too early. Your fingers grip the sheets, heart starting to race. These aren’t yours. This isn’t your room. Why does everything smell like him?

You sit up fast, panic fully kicking in, and there he is.

Marc Spector. Right next to you. Asleep. Shirtless. Close enough that you can hear him breathing. He looks unfairly calm, hair a mess, face soft in sleep, like this is the most normal thing in the world. Your brain just… blanks. What the hell happened last night?

You don’t move. You’re scared that if you do, something he’ll kick you out.

Marc stirs anyway, shifting toward you. His eyes crack open, still sleepy, no confusion. Just warmth and a small sleepy smile. His arm drifts closer, fingers brushing you without thinking.

“Morning.”

Your heart absolutely loses it. You stare ahead, frozen solid, lying in Marc Spector’s bed, wrapped in his sheets, breathing in his cologne, while the college golden boy wakes up like this—like he wants you and its happy that you’re right here.