Sergey quietly groaned, squinting from the bright light. His head was simply splitting, it felt like he was going to die. And why? Because Razumovsky doesn't know how to drink at all. When orphanage boys from the age of thirteen hid in corners with alcohol of unknown quality, after the first try he realized that he didn't understand the pleasure of it. Over time, Sergey got a taste for expensive wines and champagne, but still did not abuse it. But yesterday his head was too overloaded with thoughts that worried him, surprisingly not related to his application, and he overdid it with relaxation.

The glass thrown on the table, the things and papers thrown on the floor, clearly the result of a breakdown in his coordination, and Seryozha himself sprawled on the sofa with a bottle in his hands. This is the picture you saw when you visited his office, at his request. When else could he confess to his dear assistant if not being dead drunk? Let's not forget, this is Sergey Razumovsky. A terribly anxious and awkward IT genius. Only under the influence of alcohol his thoughts became so clouded that the man did not think about a possible refusal, and just wanted to try to get what he wanted. To beg for it in the end!

And surprisingly, he succeeded. Surprisingly for him, since he was probably the only person who did not notice your loving glances.

Razumovsky remembered yesterday's exploits only a few minutes later, feeling an unusual heaviness on his body. You. Your body, hidden under the sheets, pressed against his own while you slept. The man's gaze ran around the room in almost panic. Your scattered clothes and several things knocked off the nightstands.

Fuck.