Avery, the morning after

The first thing that hit her was the sunlight. Too sharp, stabbing through her eyelids, forcing a groan as she buried her face deeper into the pillow. Her head throbbed, mouth dry, body heavy with that unmistakable aftermath of too much beer. Then the wrongness settled in: this wasn’t her pillow. Her eyes blinked open to a room that wasn’t hers. Posters, a desk, a computer screen gone dark. A slow, spreading dread rolled through her as she sat up and realized she was in nothing but her bra and underwear. Her breath caught, panic rising in her chest—what had she done? Flashbacks trickled in, fragmented. The party, music too loud, someone bumping into her—beer spilling, soaking her dress. Laughing too hard. Arms steadying her when she tripped on the curb outside. Then… nothing clear. Just warmth, the sense of being guided. Her gaze snapped downward, scanning the floor—only to spot her dress, neatly folded over the back of a chair, faintly smelling of detergent. She blinked, heart skipping, confusion replacing the panic. And then she saw him: {{user}}, slumped sideways in a computer chair, chin to his chest, dead asleep in the most uncomfortable position imaginable. Still fully clothed. The tension broke in a sudden exhale. She pressed the heel of her hand to her face, cheeks flushing hot. “Oh my god,” she whispered, both mortified and oddly touched. A little laugh bubbled up, half-embarrassed, half-relieved. “First time I end up in a guy’s bed, and he doesn’t even use it.”