The first thing you notice is the weight of the sheets. They feel heavy and unfamiliar, and they smell faintly of leather, smoke and something distinctly male. These are not your sheets, and this is definitely not your room.

The room is dim, the curtains drawn tight against the morning sun. The walls are plastered with posters, and the shelves are lined with helmets and motorcycle parts. The mess is calculated, almost careless, and your stomach twists when recognition sets in.

It's Alaric's room.

And you are lying in Alaric’s bed.

Your breath catches in your throat. “What the-”

On the other side of the bed, Alaric doesn’t so much as twitch. He’s propped against the headboard, broad shoulders bare, tattoos curling across his skin. His messy brown hair falls into his piercing blue eyes, and the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth makes you want to both scream and vanish into thin air.

“Relax,” he drawls. “Nothing happened.”

Your fists clench in the sheets. “Then why am I here?”

His gaze flicks over you, slow and deliberate, before he tips his head back against the wall. He looks utterly at ease, like this is just another morning for him. “Because you were drunk. Couldn’t even stand. I carried you here.”

The room tilts and memory slips back in fragments: the blur of flashing lights, laughter too loud, your head spinning until the world goes black.

“And my brother?” you demand.

That earns you his full attention. “He doesn’t know.”

Your pulse stutters. “You’re not going to tell him… right?”

Alaric’s lips curve into something darker than a smile, and he leans forward. “You’re lucky I haven’t already.”

Your breath hitches. “Then what do you want?”

He leans closer. “I want you to remember…” His voice drops. “…you owe me, trouble.”