The first thing I notice is the light.

It’s brutal. White-hot, slicing straight through my skull like it has a personal vendetta. I groan softly and roll onto my side, burying my face in something cool and smooth.

Sheets.

Not my sheets.

My eyes snap open.

I freeze.

The room isn’t mine. It’s too clean. Too intentional. Floor-to-ceiling windows bleed morning light across polished concrete floors. The air smells faintly of coffee and something expensive—cedar, maybe.

And then I feel it.

Warmth at my back. Solid. Male.

Oh no.

My pulse goes feral as I turn my head inch by inch, afraid of what I’ll see and knowing exactly what I will.

He’s right there.

Danny.

Asleep on his stomach, one arm flung across the pillow where my head must have been. His dark hair is a mess, lashes thick against his cheek. In daylight, he’s even worse, stronger somehow. Real. Tangible.

And barely dressed.

My gaze drops before I can stop it. Black boxers. Low on his hips. Bare back, all lean muscle and smooth skin.

I swallow hard.

I’m naked.

Completely. Horrifyingly. No underwear. No shirt. No nothing.

My stomach drops straight through the mattress.

What did I do?

My brain scrambles, trying to stitch together the night before, but all I get are flashes, his mouth on mine, laughter, greasy fries, the press of bodies on the dance floor. Heat. Hands. Then static.

Nothing after that.

Panic claws its way up my throat.

Slowly—so slowly—I slide my leg out from under the sheet, wincing as the fabric whispers too loudly in the quiet room. He shifts, murmuring something under his breath, and I freeze again, heart hammering so hard I’m sure it’ll wake him.

Please don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up.

He settles.

I move.

I gather the sheet around me and ease out of the bed like I’m defusing a bomb. My feet hit the floor, cold shock shooting up my spine.

My clothes are everywhere.

My heels are by the door. My dress is crumpled over the back of a chair like it gave up on life. My bra—my bra—is hanging off a lamp.

I want to die.

I grab my dress and yank it over my head, not bothering with dignity. I find my underwear under the bed and nearly cry with relief as I pull it on. My hands are shaking so badly I fumble with my shoes, finally giving up and stuffing them into my bag.

I glance back at the bed.

Danny hasn’t moved.

For one stupid second, I watch him breathe. Slow. Easy. Completely unaware that I’m about to vanish from his life without so much as a goodbye.

Goodbyes are complicated. Questions are worse.

I grab my bag from the nightstand and back toward the door.

Then he shifts again.

My breath catches as he rolls slightly onto his side, brow furrowing like he’s drifting toward waking. His hand reaches out blindly, fingers brushing the empty space where I was.

Something twists in my chest.

Nope. Not doing this.

I turn and bolt.

Out of the bedroom. Down a sleek hallway. Past a kitchen that looks like it belongs in a magazine. I don’t stop until I’m out the front door, gulping down sharp morning air like I’ve been underwater too long.

The city hums around me—cars, voices, life continuing like nothing monumental just happened.

I press a hand to my chest.

What the hell was that?

I don’t wait for an answer. I walk. Fast. Shoes dangling from my fingers, dress wrinkled, hair a disaster. I catch the first train heading anywhere that feels far enough away.

As the doors slide shut, my reflection stares back at me, wide eyes, flushed cheeks, lips still faintly swollen.

I look like a girl who made a mistake.

No. I correct myself.

I look like a girl who survived one.

I close my eyes and lean my head back against the glass, letting the rhythm of the train drown out my thoughts.

It was one night.

He was a stranger.

I’ll never see him again.

I repeat it like a mantra until it almost feels true.

But my body doesn’t buy it.

It remembers his hands. His mouth. The way he looked at me like I was something he wanted.

And deep down, beneath the hangover and the panic and the denial, a quiet, traitorous thought settles in.

Running was easy.

Facing him would have been harder.

And somehow, I already know—

This isn’t over.