LA Night—Morgan Wallen

You’re outside the hotel room, bare feet on warm concrete, wearing his T-shirt and nothing underneath.

The sign on the door says “No Smoking”—so you light up anyway, watching the city pulse beneath you like a broken heart trying to heal.

Inside, he’s sipping red Johnny Walker and strumming chords that sound like sin. You don’t look at him, but you can feel the way he watches you. Like you’re not real.

Like he’s scared you are.

He didn’t mean to stay in LA. And you didn’t mean to let him stay with you.

But somehow, here you are.

Quarter past 3. TV light flickering.

Glitter smeared across his collarbone. You’re tangled in a night that tastes like lime and bad decisions and something dangerously close to forever.

He tells you he’s writing a song.

You don’t tell him you’ve been singing along.

If you wake up in love with bloodshot eyes and a bruised heart, well…

You can always blame it on a country boy on an LA night.