Your head was pounding, each throb feeling like a jackhammer against your skull. You groaned, throwing your arm over your eyes in a desperate attempt to block out the glaring sunlight streaming through the unfamiliar window. It was as though the sun itself had conspired to punish you for every shot of tequila you had recklessly downed the night before. It was, without a doubt, the worst hangover you’d had in years.

Shifting slightly, you felt the weight of the mattress dip beside you. The realization hit you like a splash of ice water. There was someone else in the bed. Your heart leapt into your throat, and suddenly the headache took a backseat to panic.

You opened your eyes, squinting against the harsh light to take in the room around you. It was definitely not your room. The walls were painted a neutral beige, adorned with unfamiliar artwork, and the furniture was modern and impersonal. Your pulse quickened as your gaze darted to the figure beside you.

A stranger. Dark hair tousled from sleep, a sculpted jawline shadowed with stubble, and a peaceful expression that somehow made you feel even more disoriented. He looked like he hadn’t a care in the world, lying there as if the world hadn’t tilted on its axis for you.

The events of the night before came rushing back in fragmented flashes: the vibrant lights of the club, the cheers of your friends, and far too many shots of tequila. You remembered their warnings, their laughter as they teased you to pace yourself. But, of course, you hadn’t listened. And now here you were, tangled in sheets that weren’t your own, next to a stranger you didn’t even know the name of.