The first thing I notice is the weight of the sheets. The second is the warmth beside me.

And then, just as fast, comes the realization—this isn’t my bed.

My body tenses. The room is too still, too unfamiliar. The scent in the air isn’t mine—it’s hers. Faint perfume, clean sheets, something soft and warm that doesn’t belong to me.

I inhale slowly, eyes flicking toward the window. Morning. Too early. But not early enough.

I need to get out of here.

Carefully, I shift, peeling the covers back just enough to move. Every muscle in me is focused on making this quiet, controlled. No sudden movements, no noise, no reason for her to—

She stirs.

I freeze.

My jaw tightens as I glance over, pulse kicking up like I just got caught doing something I shouldn’t.

And maybe I shouldn’t have.

Because now, lying there in the soft light, she looks too damn young. Not in a reckless, naive way—she’s grown, she knows what she’s doing. But still.

At least twenty years younger than me. My stomach knots. I could be her father

I rub a hand over my face, inhaling slow, steady, trying to quiet the noise in my head. I wasn’t drunk. She wasn’t either. It wasn’t some mistake, some bad decision fueled by blurred lines and regret waiting to happen.

And yet—why do I still feel like I crossed one? I don’t do this. Not anymore! Not without a way to control it. Not without knowing how the morning plays out. Not like this.

I should leave. I need to leave.

But before I can even move—she shifts again, breathing deeper, eyelashes fluttering. And just like that, I know—

She’s waking up.

„Shit.“