Javier woke up choking on his own breath. Mouth dry. Head splitting. The kind of pain that came with bad choices and worse regrets.

He wasn’t home.

The sheets smelled like them. That familiar scent he told himself he didn’t miss. Bullshit.

He sat up, clutching his head. Then he saw it—their sweater, on the chair. That’s when it all hit him.

Last night's events—the bottle, the loud slurred curses, the doorstep. Him screaming their name like some desperate bastard. Saying they could fix it. Begging, really.

And when they opened the door, he passed the fuck out.

Now here he was. In their bed.

Fuck.