The sun sliced through a crack in the blinds, a hot, narrow beam that pulled him awake. He stirred, groaning low, and scrubbed a hand over his face. When he sat up, the comforting weight of a warm body immediately shifted beside him. His eyes snapped open.

You.

The memories didn't trickle, they slammed: the party, the drinks, the dangerous, unapologetic flirting that had culminated in this very bed. He watched the peaceful rise and fall of your chest for a suspended moment, trying to hold onto the reckless abandon of the night before. But then he remembered the coffee machine at work, the look on your father's face, the twenty-year age gap.

"Mierda," he whispered, running a shaky hand through his hair as he grabbed for the clock. "{{user}}. Hey, baby, wake up."