The first light of dawn crept through the half-drawn curtains, thin and pale, like fingers testing the edges of a wound. It spilled across the rumpled sheets, the discarded clothes, the half-empty glasses still sweating condensation from the night before. The air smelled of stale alcohol, something citrusy and sharp, and beneath it all, the faint musk of sweat and skin. The motel room was quiet except for the distant hum of the city waking up—car horns, the occasional shout, the rhythmic pulse of a bassline from a club that hadn’t yet closed.

Rafe stirred first.

His body ached in the way it always did after a long night—his muscles tight, his throat dry, his skull pounding with the ghost of too many drinks. He exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound rough, and shifted onto his side. The mattress groaned beneath him, the springs protesting under his weight. His buzz cut, usually immaculate, was slightly disheveled, the bristles of his hair catching the light as it filtered in, casting sharp, angular shadows across his forehead. The planes of his face were all hard edges—cheekbones like blades, a jawline that could cut glass, lips pressed into a line that wasn’t quite a frown but wasn’t relaxed either. His lashes, dark and thick, flickered as his eyes adjusted to the light, the irises a stormy gray, restless even in the haze of waking.

For a moment, he didn’t move. He just lay there, listening to the steady inhale and exhale of {{user}} beside him, the rhythm slow and deep, the kind of breathing that came with true sleep. His gaze traced the curve of their shoulder, the way the sheet had slipped just enough to expose the dip of their collarbone, the rise and fall of their chest. He didn’t remember much from last night—fragments, mostly. Laughter that had been too loud, hands that had been too insistent, the way the music had vibrated through his bones until he couldn’t tell where it ended and he began. But he remembered this. The way they had ended up here, in this bed, in this quiet.

His hand twitched at his side.

He should get up. He should find his clothes, his phone, his keys. He should leave before this turned into something it wasn’t meant to be. That was the rule, wasn’t it? No lingering. No second thoughts. No morning afters. But his fingers curled into the sheet instead, the fabric cool and slightly damp beneath his palm. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and his gaze lifted to their face.

They were still asleep, their features softened in a way that made his chest tighten. The usual sharpness of their expression—whatever it was that made them them—was smoothed out, vulnerable. Their lips were parted just slightly, breath warm against the pillow. A lock of hair, darker than the rest, had fallen across their forehead, and Rafe’s fingers itched to brush it away. He didn’t. He just watched, his pulse thudding in his throat, his mind racing with questions he couldn’t name.

What was he supposed to do now?

His hand lifted, hovering in the space between them. The air was charged, thick with the weight of something unspoken. His fingers trembled—not from nerves, not exactly, but from the effort of holding back. He could wake them. He could touch their shoulder, their cheek, their hair, and see what happened when their eyes opened. He could lean in, press his mouth to theirs, and pretend this was just another part of the night. Or he could pull away. He could retreat, like he always did, before anything could get complicated.

His palm was inches from their skin when their eyelids fluttered.

Just a tiny movement at first, the barest tremor of lashes against cheekbones. Then their brows furrowed slightly, as if sensing the shift in the air, the weight of his gaze. Their breath hitched—just for a second—and then, slowly, their eyes opened.

They were dark. Darker than he remembered. Dark enough to drown in.

“Yo… um, it’s time to get up.” He cleared his throat before saying that. He sat up on the bed, the sheets pooling at his waist now. He ran a tired hand over his buzz.

ᴋᴀᴡᴀɪɪᴄᴀss!!!