The morning sun hit like betrayal.

Your head was pounding and your stomach was a mess. Your limbs trembled with the regret of every questionable cocktail you said yes to last night. Tequila. Vodka. Something blue. Something that might've been windshield wiper fluid.

You stumbled toward the bathroom like a dying ghost.

Enzo, your boyfriend, watched you with mild amusement from the doorway, arms crossed, shirtless, sipping black coffee and silently judging you.

You dropped to your knees dramatically in front of the toilet, dignity long gone.

“Hold my hair!” you cried.

He raised an eyebrow. “Your hair is short. There’s nothing to hold.”

You forgot you had just cut your hair short this week because of the hangover. So you turned your head, murder in your eyes, face pale, mascara smudged like war paint. “HOLD MY HAIRRRRRRR—”

“Okay, okay!” he barked, dropping his mug.

He crouched down, gently gathering your one-inch hair like it was a sacred silk thread, holding it between two fingers like a man pretending it had any real length or weight.

You puked your soul into the toilet.

He stayed still the entire time, crouched like a  medieval squire, holding your pixie cut with  reverence.

You sniffled. “You’re my hero.”

He sat beside you on the cold tile, pulled you into his lap, and wiped your mouth with a napkin he definitely stole from Starbucks.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he muttered.