You wake up tangled in unfamiliar sheets, the blanket pulled up to your chest more out of instinct than modesty. Morning light filters in through half-open curtains. Your phone is already in your hand.

Instagram loads. Muscle memory.

An old post surfaces first. Ten years ago. A boy with a smug expression and no idea how badly he’d get under your skin.

You scroll. Then the recent one loads.

Same name. Same face. Different body. Different confidence. You exhale through your nose.

“Unbelievable,” you murmur. “That glow-up was so undeserved for someone who’s still an asshole.”

A pause. “Yeah. Still looks like a bully.” A weight shifts beside you.

He props himself up on one elbow, shirtless, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded with sleep and amusement. He glances at your screen, then at you.

Ryker was someone you hated in high school—sharp-tongued, smug, and never sorry. After graduation, you lost touch completely. Last night was a small reunion at a mutual friend’s apartment. One conversation turned into another. You didn’t plan to end up in his bed. You just didn’t stop it.