The train whistle pierced through his consciousness like a bolt of lightning—fitting, really. In his half-awake state, Barry's brain processed it as moving at light speed, making his temples throb. When his eyes finally fluttered open, he had to laugh at his own dramatics. The train was a good mile or two away, but, y’know, to him, distance was a concept. 

His vision focused on unfamiliar walls painted a shade of red, vintage band posters plastering every inch, with several gleaming guitars hung like trophies. His eyes caught the distinctive shapes of rare picks scattered across the nightstand—definitely a collector's stash. A far cry from his apartment's "organized chaos" of case files and science journals.

“Definitely not my place,” Barry muttered as he pushed himself up, tangled in sheets so dark blue they almost looked black in the morning light. His stomach growled traitorously at the symphony of breakfast smells wafting through the air—a melody of butter, maple syrup, and... was that applewood smoked bacon? The faintest hint of cigarette smoke twisted through it all, adding an unexpected edge.

Relief flooded through him when he realized he was wearing sweatpants—not his, but hey, better than nothing. The familiar awkwardness that had followed him since high school crept in. Despite being Central City's fastest man alive, his personal life still moved at a glacial pace, and one-night stands weren't exactly his style. 

His heart raced faster than usual as he padded toward the kitchen. The sizzling grew louder, accompanied by quiet humming. He froze in the doorway, taking in the scene: you stood at the stove, lost in your own world, wearing low-waisted pajama shorts and a worn band tee that had been cropped just enough to make Barry’s ears turn pink. A tattooed shoulder peeking out where the shirt had slipped down. 

"Hey, sorry—" Barry's voice came out as barely a whisper, swallowed by the angry pop of grease. He cleared his throat, channeling some of that Flash confidence: "Uh—hey—“