Chapter Text
You wake up with the worst hangover of your life.
Every hangover has been the worst hangover of your life, but this one is especially horrible. Your head feels like an eight pound bowling ball, and your throat burns like a bitch. But that was just the typical hangover routine.
What made this the worst one yet is the fact that you’ve woken up in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar bed. With an unfamiliar body in the sheets beside you.
What the fuck? You sloppily comb a hand through your sweaty bangs. You can’t even remember where you went with your friends last night. When did you even start drinking? Everything past 10 PM yesterday is a complete blank.
Sudden panic surges through your system, kickstarting your good senses immediately. What the fuck. You may be a social drinker with free-spirited friends, but you’ve only ever been that smashed twice in your life. Neither of those incidents had ever ended with a one-night stand, but like hell you were going to wait for this guy to come around and start proposing.
With the lightning reflexes and stealth you’d gained from the hours spent on fps video games in your youth, you fight through the fatigue encasing your sore limbs and slip out from beneath the sheets with little disturbance as possible.
The initial contact between your bare foot and the frigidity of the wooden floor forces a small hiss through your clenched teeth. You clamp a hand across your mouth and glance back anxiously. To your relief, the lump in the sheets stays unmoving. Man, this guy must’ve been really wasted last night.
You collect your clothes (haphazardly strewn across the floor) and begin to brusquely stuff your phone, wallet, and keys back into your bag (Kate Spade, because you’re a classy yet fashion-forward girl, but not basic enough for Michael Kors) when a muffled groan sounds out from behind you. Your pace quickens tenfold, and both jacket and jeans are on in a flash. As you approach the flimsy-looking door with its chipped white paint and brass chain lock, your hand pauses above the handle.
Guilt creeps up your throat, as the knowledge that this guy was just as hungover as you, if not more, forces you to turn and and rifle through your bag for an extra aspirin.
You leave it on the nightstand with a half glass of water before hastily shutting the door.
The memory of these events quickly slip from your mind as you look forward to a hot shower at home. Besides, it’s not like you were ever going to see this guy again...right?