You woke up with your cheek pressed into a sofa cushion and the immediate, soul-deep certainty that you had made several bad decisions the night before.

The first bad decision had been drinking whatever Logan handed you.

The second had been accepting a refill from Dean, which, in hindsight, felt less like a drink and more like a personal attack.

The third had probably been deciding you were “totally fine” when you were very clearly not totally fine, because now your head was pounding, your mouth tasted like regret, and your stomach was doing that unpleasant little roll that made you afraid to move too quickly.

For a few seconds, you didn’t even open your eyes.

You just lay there beneath the low morning light, listening.

The house was quiet in a way it never was at night. No music shaking the walls. No shouting from the kitchen.

You shifted slightly and immediately regretted it.

Your palm felt clammy against the sofa. Your skin was too warm beneath the thick hoodie you had somehow ended up wearing. The fabric smelled faintly like laundry detergent, cold air, and something warm and masculine you could not place.

You blinked down at yourself.

The hoodie was not yours.

It was dark, oversized, and soft from wear, the sleeves falling past your wrists. You frowned at it, tugging clumsily at the front as if staring harder would make an explanation appear.

Then, slowly, pieces of last night began to come back.

The party.

Allie laughing too hard with a red cup in her hand.

Someone bumping into her elbow and the cold shock of her drink spilling straight down your chest.

Your top sticking to your skin.

Your immediate gasp.

Allie nearly crying because she felt so bad.

You trying to say it was fine while standing in the middle of the packed living room, tipsy, embarrassed.

Then someone had appeared beside you.

A low voice. Warm. Amused, but not mocking.

You okay?

You remembered looking up.

Garrett Graham.

You remembered him taking one look at your soaked top, then glancing away so quickly it was almost funny. Like he was trying very hard to be decent and failing to look casual about it.

Then he’d disappeared upstairs.

Then a hoodie had landed over your head.

Here. Put that on before Dean starts a fight with the lamp for looking at you wrong.

You groaned softly into the sofa cushion.

Before you could decide whether that was embarrassing or extremely embarrassing, something creaked above you.

Footsteps.

Slow, unhurried.

You turned your head just enough to look toward the staircase, cheek still pressed into the sofa cushion, eyes narrowed against the soft morning light spilling through the front windows.

Garrett appeared at the top of the stairs like.

Barefoot. Shirtless. Half-asleep.

One hand dragged lazily through his messy dark curls, pushing them back from his forehead only for a few pieces to fall right back into place. His skin looked warm and golden in the thin morning light, his shoulders broad, his chest still faintly marked from sleep. Black sweatpants hung low on his hips, loose and careless.

He descended a few steps slowly, still blinking away sleep.

Then he saw you.

Garrett stopped halfway down the staircase, one foot on the next step, both hands braced casually on the railing. For a second, he just looked at you sprawled on the sofa in a hoodie that clearly swallowed half your body.

Then recognition flickered across his face.

And his mouth curved.

Then he smiled.

“Well,” he said, voice rough from sleep, hands settling on the banister as he leaned forward slightly. “I was wondering where that went.”

You frowned, still half-dead on the couch.

“What?”

Garrett nodded toward the hoodie swallowing half your body.

“That,” he said. “My hoodie. With my number on the back.”

Your eyes dropped to the fabric again.

Then back to him.

His smile widened, gray eyes bright with amusement.

You tried to sit up, immediately decided the world was hostile, and sank back into the couch with a quiet groan.

Garrett’s expression shifted. “Rough morning?”