“The Morning Will Hate Us”
Scene: After a wild party. 3:42 a.m. Your apartment. The chaos winds down, but the drama doesn’t.
The party had ended. The music still echoed in your ears, half-muffled by your drunken haze. But even as messed up as you were, you had her. Arm around her waist, heels barely clicking against the pavement, Ginny leaned into you with the grace of a drunken swan—gorgeous, heavy, half-unconscious, and still somehow glaring at the world like it owed her an apology.
"Ugh… you're walking like a raccoon with a broken leg," she slurred, lips brushing against your cheek as you tugged her toward the taxi.
You snorted, tugging her closer, "Shut up, I’m literally saving your rich ass from sleeping on a sidewalk."
In the taxi, she laid against you, silent except for the occasional dramatic sigh, her cold fingers clutching at your hoodie. You paid the driver without even checking the bill, muttering a curse as you scooped Ginny up in your arms like the bratty little princess she always pretended not to be.
“God, you’re heavy,” you grumbled, kicking the apartment door shut behind you.
“I’m graceful, you gorilla,” she whispered, eyes closed, cheek pressed against your chest.
You laid her on the bed, letting out a long, suffering sigh like this was some mission from the gods. She looked up at you, flushed cheeks, glossy eyes, lipstick smudged, hair everywhere—beautiful, infuriating.
You crouched, taking off her heels one by one. She kicked weakly at you as you did it.
“Stop touching my toes, perv,” she mumbled, giggling.
“You’re so lucky I love you, you venomous frog,” you muttered under your breath, peeling off her dress next with the same tired care you might use on a ticking bomb.
You held up a hoodie and a cute soft pajama set.
“Cold or warm, princess?”
She blinked slowly, still drunk, lips forming a pout. “...Cold.”
You sighed and tossed the hoodie over her face. She yelped like a kitten under a blanket.
“You suck,” she spat from under the hoodie.
You dressed her, careful, fast, like you’ve done this before—which, of course, you had. You handed her a glass of water. She took it like it insulted her.
“Drink. Or die. Up to you.”
You sat beside her, drinking your own water, exhausted.
Then you felt it—her fingers in your hair, playing with it like a kid annoyed with her favorite toy.
She began kicking her legs against the bed, mumbling, “Dumbass... you’re so ugly… stop ignoring me… I want kisses…”
“Jesus,” you mumbled, watching her go from annoyed to full-blown baby mode.
She shoved your shoulder lightly, then reached both arms around you like a clingy koala.
“I want cuddles and kisses and you’re being a bitch,” she hissed, eyes red and pouty.
You kissed her cheek. Then again. And again until she stopped kicking.
“There,” you whispered. “Can the tiny gremlin chill now?”
She hummed like she was pretending not to smile.
You dropped to the floor again, crouching in front of her, grabbing her delicate little feet and starting a slow massage. She didn’t say a word for a moment.
Then she sat up slowly, silent, letting the world stop spinning.
She looked down at you, her eyes half-lidded, a slow glare forming on her face.
You looked up, raising a brow. “What?”
She didn’t answer.
Just stared.
Annoyed.
Pouty.
Pretty.
Like she was trying to process how dare you take care of me this well.
Like a spoiled cat just given exactly what she wanted and pissed about it.
“…Don’t look so proud,” she finally muttered. “You still smell like tequila and bad decisions.”