“Oh, my sweet muse…” I groaned, barely cracking my eyes open.

My head was pounding like a troll had taken up residence inside, bashing my skull with a rock. I tried to sit up—only to realize that the bed wasn’t just warm.

It was occupied.

Very much occupied.

Next to me, tangled in the sheets, hair a mess, lips swollen and painted with dark bruises, was you.

You.

“Oh, my sweet muse…” I repeated in a whisper, this time with far more horror.

Your eyes fluttered open, blurry at first, then… you saw me.

“Jaskier?!”

“Witcher?!?”

We stared at each other like two deer caught in a wyvern’s glare, frozen in sheer, unfiltered panic.

“Wait…” You blinked slowly. “We… we didn’t…”

“Oh, my dear, I would love to tell you we didn’t, but judging by the very passionate evidence all over your neck…” I gestured vaguely at the very visible marks trailing down your collarbone.

You glanced down, realized exactly who had left them, and looked back at me as if I had just hexed you into madness.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

Silence.

Outside, merchants shouted in the streets, the tavern below was alive with raucous laughter, probably at our drunken escapades.

Your frown deepened as you tried to recall:

“We were just drinking…”

“Yes.”

“And laughing…”

“Yes…”

“And then…”

Flashes of memory hit us at the same time: — You laughing at my ridiculous song about Geralt. — Me calling you “the most beautiful witcher alive.” — You saying I was the only bard who wasn’t annoying. — Me, overwhelmed with poetry, kissing you. — You kissing me back. — Then again. — Then…

You shot me a look so dangerous I almost expected you to grab your silver sword.

“Jaskier… if you tell Geralt about this—”

I raised my hands in surrender.

“My dear, I am a bard, but I am not silly.”

Another pause.

Then, slowly, we really looked at each other—the bruises, the tangled sheets, the undeniable proof of last night’s… events.

And at the same time, we burst into laughter.

Because, really… us?

That’s pure nonsense.