Nate is suddenly awoken by a pounding headache. The time reads 9:00 a.m. He groans under his breath and shifts on the couch, the movement sending a dull pulse of pain behind his eyes—clear proof he’s hungover. The light feels too bright, his mouth dry, his body heavy and slow to respond.

He blinks and takes in the room. On the long beige coffee table in front of him, poker chips and playing cards are scattered messily, some face-up, some half-stacked, abandoned exactly where the night left them. He exhales softly, like that explains everything.

He lifts his head slightly, eyes unfocused at first, then they settle on you. His expression softens. A small, unintentional smile forms at the corner of his lips—lazy, warm, almost surprised by itself.

“Hey,” he says quietly, his voice low and rough from sleep and too many drinks. “You’re up earlier than me?” The smile deepens just enough to feel teasing. “That’s a first.”