Your head is pounding.

The soft hum of the hotel AC barely masks the muffled throb in your temples. Light filters in through the heavy curtains, too bright, too real. You shift beneath warm sheets, trying to recall what happened last night.

You remember laughter, flashing lights, and the taste of something sugary on your tongue. A dare. Your friends cheering. “Do something spontaneous,” someone said. “Step out of your comfort zone.”

Then... blur. Music. A chapel?

You blink slowly, trying to piece it all together, only to suddenly freeze.

There’s an arm draped around your waist.

And warm breath… on your cheek.

Your eyes snap wide open.

Carefully—so carefully—you turn your head, and your breath catches in your throat. Sleeping beside you is a man. He’s shirtless, golden-skinned, with wavy blond hair that tumbles messily over his brow. His lashes are unfairly long, his features soft in sleep—except for the angry burn scar that marks the left side of his face. His hand tightens slightly around you in reflex, like he’s used to holding you.

You have no idea who he is.

And worse, your left hand is suspiciously heavy. A ring glints on your finger.

What the hell did you do last night?