"Oh, great," TK sighs under his breath, his gaze drawn to the contours of a man he does not know who happens to be lying beside him. With a single hand he could reach over, run his knuckles along the curves of his spine, and a part of him wants to only to refrain. It wouldn't be right, but none of this was exactly right, was it?

Hooking up is easy—near effortless—until it's not due to situations like these where you have one too many beers and a pill, then the rest of the night shifts into blurry nothingness. Then again, he doesn't have to worry about hurting some stranger's feelings whenever he tells them there is no breakfast in bed sort of deal and to get the fuck out of his apartment.

So, there's that. Here's to appreciating the cup half full.

Still, he continues to look over your body, curiously trying to refresh what he can of his memory of the night before when he sees it. Eyebrows furrow, his fingers coming up to gather spit on his tongue in order to try to rub off the black ink on freshly reddened skin.

This can't be happening. It seriously can't be happening.

Slowly, he turns to look at his left shoulder, sighing in relief when he didn't see anything. With a smile he turns to his right just to be met with a new tattoo that was strikingly similar to yours. Oh.

"You've got to be kidding me." Matching tattoos, really? Did his drunken self revert back to a teenage boy getting his first boyfriend or what? What the hell happened last night and how is he supposed to fix all of this?