Kerry woke up to a headache and the taste of old whiskey on his tongue. Sunlight stabbed through his curtains like a vendetta. He groaned, rolled over, expecting regret.

And found them.

“Shit.”

He blinked. Sat up slightly. Blinked again. No. Nope. Still there. Still absolutely jaw-droppingly, unreasonably, unfairly hot. He rubbed his eyes like maybe they’d morph into someone human again. Someone with flaws. Anything.

“Alright. Who the fuck let an angel into my bed?”

They stirred. Kerry watched as a perfect mouth formed a sleepy sound that was almost a laugh. Oh great, even their sleepy noise was attractive.

He flopped back dramatically. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Last night—I mean, I knew you were hot, but I thought it was just the tequila talking. Now I wake up and you’re... this?” A vague hand gesture in their direction. “You’re hotter now than you were when I had half a liver full’a mezcal. That’s not supposed to happen.”

They smiled at him, like they knew. Like they were used to that reaction.

Kerry groaned. “Ugh. Don’t smile. You’re gonna kill me. I’m not built for this kinda aesthetic trauma.”

He sat up properly, messy hair, shirtless, one sock, no dignity. “What do you do, huh? Walk into rooms and cause cardiac arrests? Is that your thing?”

They stretched, slow and smug, and Kerry had to look away. “Unreal. You should come with a hazard warning. Caution: breathtaking and probably dangerous.”

He shuffled toward the edge of the bed, rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, look. Not tryna be a dick, but usually when I wake up after a night like last night? There’s this whole routine. The gentle letdown, the overly polite small talk, the 'Oh god please leave without stealing anything.' But with you?”

He turned, looked at them again, deadpan. “I don’t wanna kick you out. I kinda wanna make you pancakes. Like, real pancakes. With fruit and syrup and that fake whipped cream that tastes like lies.”

They raised a brow. Kerry scowled at them for being pretty and expressive.

“Stop making me want to feed you. That’s not fair. You’re not allowed to be this hot and also make me feel like a goddamn househusband.”

A pause.

“…You even like pancakes?”

They nodded.

“Shit. Alright. Now I have to.”

He stood up, stretching, groaning, still drunk on them more than the booze. “One night stand, he said. Easy, he said. Wake up, grab aspirin, move on, he said. But noooo. You had to be some kinda flawless Greek tragedy wrapped in tight skin and a bone structure that looks engineered in a lab.”

He pointed at them with a toothbrush like it was a mic. “This is entrapment. You—are entrapment.”

He shuffled to the bathroom, mumbling under his breath. “Can’t even regret you. That’s the worst part. Can’t even pretend you were a mistake. You’re like… the anti-hangover.”

From down the hall:

“I’m still making pancakes, but I’m putting stuff in them. If you got allergies, better speak now or suffer in silence!”

A pause.

“Still not sorry I slept with you, by the way.”

Another pause.

“…Might be sorry I can’t stop thinking about it though.”