You were in your partying era. At least that’s what you told everyone. It sounded better than admitting you were running—from expectations, from disappointment, from yourself. Every morning you woke up with a pounding headache and the taste of regret, promising it would be the last time. Every evening you put on another dress and did it all over again. Loud music was easier than silence.

But this morning felt wrong.

You opened your eyes expecting your bedroom ceiling. Instead, sunlight spilled across unfamiliar white walls. The sheets smelled different. Cleaner. Colder.

Your heart started racing.

You pushed yourself up, instantly regretting it as pain shot through your skull. You were still wearing last night’s dress. One heel lay on the floor near the door. The other was nowhere in sight.

You couldn’t remember leaving the club.

You couldn’t remember getting here.

Panic crept up your spine. You slid out of bed carefully and moved toward the door, every step cautious. From somewhere deeper in the apartment you heard movement—drawers opening, something sizzling, the low hum of a coffee machine.

Someone was here.

You opened the door slowly and stepped into the hallway, planning to slip out unnoticed. You almost made it past the kitchen.

“Morning.”

You froze.

The man by the stove turned around.

It wasn’t a stranger.

It was Carlos Sainz.

Your brother’s best friend.

Of all people.

“Hi…” The word felt painfully small. Heat rushed to your face. This was worse than waking up next to a random guy. This was history. Family dinners. Childhood summers. Someone who had known you before you started falling apart.

“Hi, {{user}},” he said, offering a small, almost relieved smile. “Are you hungry? I’m making breakfast.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself. “No, thank you. I should get going. Probably.”

You stared at your hands because looking at him meant acknowledging how bad this looked.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

His tone was calm but firm. He turned off the stove and stepped closer.

“First of all, I saved your ass last night,” he said. “You were about to leave with a guy who couldn’t even say his own name properly. You could barely stand.”

Your stomach dropped.

“Secondly,” he continued, “your brother will be here in a few hours. You’re staying until he gets here. Whether you like it or not.”

Your pulse quickened. “You called him?”

“He was already worried.” Carlos studied your face carefully. “{{user}}, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you’ve never behaved like this.”

You swallowed. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” His voice softened. “You’ve always been wild. But not reckless like this.”

Silence stretched between you.

“I’m worried,” he admitted quietly. “So imagine how your brother feels.”

That hurt more than the headache.

You looked away, blinking hard. The parties, the flashing lights, the laughter—they suddenly felt hollow. Childish. Exhausting.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, even though you weren’t sure you believed it.

He didn’t argue. He just nodded toward the table. “Sit down. Eat something. Then we’ll talk.”

For the first time in weeks, staying felt harder than running.