The morning air in Jackson is cold—biting, even—but Joel’s waking up in a heat he can’t explain. His head’s pounding like a damn freight train, and the sunlight cuts sharp through the gaps in the curtains.

His mouth tastes like rotgut whiskey. His memory’s worse.

He groans, rubbing his eyes with a calloused hand, only to freeze when he feels the warmth of someone else’s skin beside him. Turning slightly, he sees the shape of a body—naked, familiar, breathing slow and steady in the tangle of his sheets.

What the hell?

The night comes back in flashes. The porch. The bottle. “One shot,” he said. “Just one.” His friend had just gotten off patrol. Joel had been spiraling over Ellie—over the lie, the look she gave him before walking out. It was supposed to be a distraction. Just a drink. Just company.

But now their clothes are scattered on the floor. His back aches like hell. And the moment he looks under the covers, Joel’s jaw tightens.

“Oh, shit,” he mutters under his breath.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

But it did.

And Joel Miller, full of guilt and booze and broken promises, is going to have to deal with the aftermath—again.