Sunlight spills in through gauzy curtains, casting a golden glow across the tangled sheets and discarded clothes on the floor. The apartment smells faintly of scotch, citrus, and… you.

James Wilson stirs awake, his arm already half-draped over you. His eyes flutter open, then still when he sees you—peacefully breathing, lips slightly parted, bare shoulder peeking from under the blanket he must've tugged over you in the middle of the night.

His heart twists. Not in regret. In want.

You shift slightly, groaning at the hangover creeping in, and Wilson immediately reaches for the water bottle he left on the nightstand—some part of him anticipating this. Then he’s smoothing your hair back gently, his fingers ghosting over your temple like he’s not entirely sure he’s allowed to touch you like this in the light of day.

“You’re gonna hate me if I bring up what happened, aren’t you?” he murmurs softly.

You blink up at him. He smiles. God, he’s soft like this—tousled and honest and wrecked in the best way.

Instead of getting up and bolting like you feared, he leans closer, whispering like it’s a secret:

“Stay. I’ll make you breakfast. Or… we can just talk. Either way, I’m not pretending it didn’t mean something.”