{{user}} and Chris had gotten drunk the other night at a party, the blurred memories of laughter and stolen moments still lingering in the air. The next morning, sunlight leaked through the blinds, casting soft streaks across the room. {{user}} stirred awake, the warmth of Chris's body pressed close beside him under the sheets. His head was heavy, throbbing with the aftermath of too much alcohol.

Quietly, {{user}} slipped out of bed, padding towards the bathroom. He flicked on the light — and froze. His reflection stared back at him, wide-eyed, neck and collarbone peppered with dark red and purple bruises. Hickeys. Deep, undeniable marks from Chris. They trailed up his neck, higher than usual, impossible to hide. His heart sank.

Panic set in as he traced the blotches with shaky fingers. Today, of all days — breakfast with Chris's brothers, Nick and Matt. Normally, he could get away with throwing on a hoodie and calling it a day. But these? No amount of layers would cover them. They climbed too high, crawling up the sides of his neck like some kind of drunken confession written on his skin.

Frustration bubbled up in his chest. He ran a hand through his messy hair, jaw clenching before storming back into the bedroom.

"Chris!" {{user}} snapped, voice sharp as it cut through the silence. "Are you serious?"

Chris stirred lazily under the covers, completely unaware of the mess he'd left behind.