The memories come back in broken flashes.

Heat. A mattress dipping beneath shifting weight. Kaiven and {{user}}.

There’s the sound of Kaiven's voice. A breathy noise they don’t remember meaning to make. Somewhere in the haze, Kaiven’s voice cuts through it, low and controlled, repeating {{user}}’s name like an anchor.

"F.. fuck.. {{user}}..."

Morning.

{{user}} wakes and immediately knows something’s off.

The clothes are different—clean, loose fabric instead of what they wore last night. The scent on them isn’t alcohol anymore. It’s soap. Him.

Their head throbs as they shift, the sheet sliding against bare skin that shouldn’t be bare.

At the edge of the bed, Kaiven sits quietly, already dressed. He’s watching them.

He reaches for the glass of water on the nightstand and sets it within {{user}}’s reach. “Next time,” he says, voice low, “don’t drink so much.”