The first thing I felt was pain.

Not heartbreak pain.

Not emotional pain.

Actual physical pain.

The kind that sits behind your eyes and pounds against your skull like someone trapped a drummer inside your brain. I groaned and buried my face deeper into the pillow, trying to escape the sunlight burning through my eyelids.

My mouth tasted like tequila and regret.

Typical Friday night.

I tried pulling the blanket tighter around myself, but something felt… wrong.

The bed was too firm.

The room smelled unfamiliar.

And underneath the fading scent of alcohol was something warmer—masculine cologne mixed with clean sheets and skin.

My eyes snapped open.

For a second everything was blurry. Gray walls. Black curtains. A television mounted across the room. Clothes all over the floor.

Then my heart nearly stopped.

Someone was lying beside me.

A man.

A very shirtless man.

Ross.

I froze so hard I stopped breathing.

Oh no.

No no no no.

Ross lay on his back beside me, still asleep, one arm stretched across the mattress dangerously close to my waist. His dark hair was messy, his chest bare beneath the twisted sheets, his face relaxed in a way I’d honestly never seen before.

He looked unfairly attractive.

That was the first horrible thought my hungover brain decided to produce.

The second horrible thought?

Why the hell was I in bed with him?

Panic hit instantly.

I jerked upward, clutching the blanket against my chest—and immediately realized I was half naked too.

“Holy shit,” I whispered.

I checked under the blanket fast.

Bra.

Underwear.

Still on.

Thank God.

But my dress was nowhere in sight.

My pulse pounded harder as I looked around the room again, trying to force my memory to cooperate.

Friday party.

Music.

Shots.

Dennis screaming the lyrics to some terrible song.

Mark laughing at him.

Then…

Nothing clear.

Just fragments.

Ross standing close to me in a hallway.

His hand on my lower back.

My fingers gripping his shirt.

My stomach flipped.

Beside me, Ross groaned softly and shifted.

Then his eyes slowly opened.

For one long second he just stared at the ceiling, confused.

Then he turned his head toward me.

And froze.

We looked at each other in silence.

“Well,” he finally said, voice rough with sleep. “This looks bad.”

I stared at him. “Looks bad?”

“You’re right,” he corrected. “Looks terrible.”

“Oh my God.”

“You already said that.”

“I’m saying it again!”

Ross sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The sheet slipped lower on his waist, revealing more of his chest, and I immediately looked away before my brain betrayed me further.

Which was difficult.

Because Ross had one of those bodies that looked sculpted entirely out of bad decisions and female suffering.

Broad shoulders.

Lean muscle.

Tattoo curling around one arm.

It should honestly be illegal.

“What happened?” I demanded.

“You don’t remember?”

“No!”

He looked at me carefully for a second, like he was deciding how much to tell me.

“You got drunk.”

“I figured that part out.”

“Very drunk.”

I glared at him.

“You challenged Dennis to a drinking contest.”

“That sounds believable.”

“You lost.”

“That sounds fake.”

Ross smirked slightly.

And annoyingly, that tiny almost-smile did stupid things to my stomach.

“You also yelled at a guy for calling you sweetheart.”

“I stand by that.”

“You poured your drink on him.”

“I absolutely stand by that.”

Ross laughed softly under his breath.

The sound caught me off guard.

Ross didn’t laugh often. At least not openly. Most of the time he carried himself like he was permanently one inconvenience away from violence.

Calm.

Controlled.

Intimidating.

Which was exactly why women threw themselves at him constantly.

Not that I noticed.

Okay, I noticed.

Everyone noticed.

But waking up beside him half naked was a completely different level of problem.

“What happened after the party?” I asked carefully.

Ross leaned back against the headboard. “Some idiot wouldn’t stop touching you.”

My stomach tightened.

“What idiot?”

“Guy named Tyler. I think.”

“Oh.”

I vaguely remembered him.

Tall.

Loud.

Annoying.

“You told him no,” Ross continued. “He ignored you.”

The look in Ross’s eyes darkened slightly.

“I handled it.”

I blinked. “Handled it how?”

Silence.

“Oh my God,” I whispered. “You hit him.”

“He’s alive.”

“That’s not an answer!”

“He deserved it.”

I stared at him.

Ross stared back completely unbothered.

Honestly, the scary part wasn’t that he’d hit someone.

The scary part was how easy it was to imagine.

I sighed and pressed my fingers against my forehead. “Okay. Fine. Then what?”

“You got upset,” he said. “Mark and Dennis were dealing with everyone downstairs, so I brought you up here to calm down.”

I looked around again.

“Your apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“And I just… slept here?”

“Pretty much.”

Something in his tone made me narrow my eyes.

“What does pretty much mean?”

Ross looked suddenly amused.

“It means you threw up in my bathroom.”

“Oh no.”

“You cried for twenty minutes because your heel broke.”

“Oh my God.”

“You threatened Dennis with physical violence.”

“That one feels justified.”

“It probably was.”

I groaned and covered my face.

“This is humiliating.”

“You’ve had worse nights.”

“That doesn’t help!”

Ross chuckled again.

The mattress shifted as he moved, and suddenly I became painfully aware of how close we were.

Too close.

The room felt warm.

Dangerously warm.

I lowered my hands slowly and finally noticed something near his collarbone.

A faint red mark.

Lipstick.

My lipstick.

My heartbeat stumbled.

Ross saw where I was looking immediately.

The air changed.

“What’s that from?” I asked quietly.

He held my gaze for a second too long.

“You kissed me.”

My stomach dropped.

“What?”

“You kissed me.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You definitely did.”

I searched my memory desperately.

Flashes returned in pieces.

The hallway upstairs.

Ross standing in front of me.

My hands on his chest.

His eyes locked on mine.

Then—

Heat.

Close enough to feel his breath.

“Oh my God,” I muttered for the thousandth time.

Ross looked almost entertained now. “You really like saying that.”

“I kissed you?”

“Very aggressively.”

My face burned alive.

“Nope. Don’t believe it.”

“You grabbed my shirt.”

“No.”

“You pulled me into a wall.”

“Ross.”

“You told me to stop looking at you like that.”

Every word made my pulse worse.

“What does that even mean?”

“You tell me.”

I stared at him in horror.

Because somewhere deep under the missing memories and tequila fog, part of me knew he was telling the truth.

And that was the problem.

Ross and I had been dancing around something for months.

Maybe longer.

The lingering eye contact.

The arguments that felt weirdly personal.

The tension every time we ended up alone together.

I ignored it because Ross was dangerous territory.

Not dangerous dangerous.

Emotionally dangerous.

The kind of man who looked at you like he could ruin your life and enjoy doing it.

“You stopped me?” I asked softly.

Ross went quiet.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

His jaw tightened slightly.

“Because you were drunk, Sarah.”

The way he said my name did something unfair to my nervous system.

Low.

Controlled.

Careful.

Like he’d spent the entire night holding himself back.

And somehow that affected me more than if he’d admitted wanting me.

I looked away first.

Outside, distant traffic hummed through the city. Somewhere downstairs I heard Dennis yelling about coffee and someone telling him to shut up.

Normal sounds.

But nothing felt normal anymore.

Not after hearing I kissed Ross.

Not after waking up in his bed.

Not after noticing how impossible it suddenly was to stop looking at him.

“You should drink water,” he said eventually.

“You sound like a disappointed parent.”

“You acted like a feral raccoon last night.”

“That feels dramatic.”

“You bit Dennis.”

I blinked. “I what?”

Ross burst out laughing.

Actual laughing.

Deep enough that his shoulders shook slightly.

And I hated how attractive it was.

“You’re lying.”

“I swear I’m not.”

“I did not bite Dennis.”

“You absolutely bit Dennis.”

“Why?”

“He tried taking your phone.”

“That still doesn’t explain the biting!”

“You were defending yourself.”

I stared at him while he laughed quietly to himself.

And suddenly I realized something terrifying.

I liked this version of Ross.

Not the guarded version everyone else saw.

Not the intimidating guy who barely spoke at parties.

This version.

Relaxed.

Messy-haired.

Looking at me like I was the most entertaining thing in the world.

The realization hit hard enough to make me nervous.

Ross noticed immediately.

His expression shifted slightly.

Softer now.

More focused.

The tension returned so quickly it made my chest tight.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you talk a lot when you’re drunk.”

“Oh God.”

“You said some interesting things.”

I pointed at him immediately. “No. Absolutely not. We’re done talking about drunk me.”

His mouth twitched. “Scared?”

“Yes!”

“That’s fair.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Tell me.”

Ross leaned his head back against the wall behind the bed, watching me carefully.

“You really want to know?”

“No.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Because anxiety is killing me.”

He was quiet for a second.

Then his gaze lowered briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes.

“You told me you were tired of pretending.”

My breath caught.

Everything inside me went still.

Because unlike everything else from last night…

That sounded familiar.

A faint memory surfaced.

Me standing close to him in the hallway.

Angry.

Emotional.

Too honest.

Ross staring at me like he already knew exactly what I meant.

“You were drunk,” I whispered weakly.

“Maybe.”

The room suddenly felt way too small.

My pulse hammered so loudly I was convinced he could hear it.

“What did you say?” I asked.

Ross held my gaze.

“I asked what exactly you were pretending about.”

I swallowed hard.

“And?”

“And then you kissed me.”

Before I could respond, the bedroom door suddenly slammed open.

“ROSS, if you finished the last coffee, I swear to—”

Dennis stopped mid-sentence.

Mark appeared behind him carrying two coffees.

The silence was immediate.

Dennis looked at me.

Then Ross.

Then the bed.

His grin spread slowly.

“Well,” he said. “This is the best morning of my life.”

“GET OUT,” I yelled.

Dennis ignored me completely. “I knew it!”

“Nothing happened,” Ross said calmly.

“Sure,” Dennis replied. “You’re both half naked in bed for academic reasons.”

Mark looked deeply exhausted already. “Dennis…”

“No, no, let me enjoy this.”

I grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at his face.

He caught it effortlessly.

“You threw things at Ross too,” he informed me cheerfully.

“I’m starting to understand why.”

Dennis walked into the room like he owned it while Mark handed me coffee with the sympathy of a man witnessing a public execution.

“You okay?” Mark asked softly.

And there it was.

That warmth.

That gentleness that always made me feel safe around him.

Mark had this calming presence that balanced out Dennis’s chaos and Ross’s intensity. He was the easy one to be around.

The uncomplicated one.

At least usually.

“I think so,” I muttered.

Dennis looked between me and Ross dramatically. “So who confessed feelings first?”

“Nobody confessed anything,” Ross said.

Dennis gasped. “Oh my God, there are feelings.”

“Dennis,” Mark warned.

“What? You all have unresolved sexual tension. I’m not blind.”

I nearly choked on my coffee.

Ross looked ready to murder him.

Mark rubbed his forehead. “Can we survive one morning without emotional damage?”

“No,” Dennis answered immediately. “That’s not who we are.”

I buried my face in my hands.

This was a disaster.

A complete disaster.

Because the worst part wasn’t waking up beside Ross.

The worst part was knowing some reckless drunk part of me had wanted to kiss him.

And maybe still did.

I should have left.

That was the logical thing to do.

Go home.

Shower.

Drink enough water to recover from the alcohol-induced disaster that was apparently my life.

Instead, I spent another fifteen minutes standing in Ross's apartment pretending I wasn't mentally replaying every single thing he'd just said.

*I told you I'd been trying not to.*

The words refused to leave my head.

Trying not to what?

Like me?

Want me?

Think about me?

All three possibilities were equally capable of ruining my ability to function.

I hated that.

I hated that Ross had somehow managed to completely dismantle my emotional stability without even touching me.

Well.

Without touching me *much.*

My wrist suddenly felt suspiciously warm.

Which was ridiculous.

A hand touching my wrist should not have the power to alter my brain chemistry.

Yet here we were.

I shoved my arms into my jacket.

"You're staring into space again."

I looked up.

Mark stood near the couch watching me with mild concern.

Fantastic.

A witness.

"Am not."

"You absolutely are."

"Mind your business."

He smiled.

The annoying kind.

The knowing kind.

The kind people used when they knew something you desperately wanted them not to know.

Unfortunately, everyone in our friend group seemed to have mastered that expression.

Especially lately.

Mark sat beside me.

"How's the hangover?"

"Manageable."

"How's the emotional crisis?"

I nearly inhaled my own saliva.

"Excuse me?"

"The emotional crisis."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sarah."

"Mark."

He stared.

I stared back.

Neither of us blinked.

Finally he sighed.

"You know, denial only works when literally everyone around you isn't watching it happen."

"Oh, that's comforting."

"Just saying."

I groaned.

Mark laughed softly.

Unlike Dennis, who laughed like a deranged hyena, Mark always sounded warm.

Easy.

Safe.

He'd always been the person people talked to when things got complicated.

Which was probably why I found myself asking a question before I could stop myself.

"Do you think Ross hates me?"

Mark looked genuinely startled.

Then horrified.

Then amused.

All within three seconds.

"Sarah."

"What?"

"That might be the dumbest thing you've ever said."

I frowned.

"Wow."

"No, seriously."

"Rude."

Mark leaned back against the couch.

"I've known Ross for twelve years."

"Twelve years?"

"Unfortunately."

A voice from the kitchen yelled, "I HEARD THAT."

Mark ignored him.

"As I was saying, twelve years."

I crossed my arms.

"And?"

"And if Ross hated you, half of us would already be dead."

I blinked.

That seemed excessive.

Mark didn't appear to think so.

"Last month Dennis accidentally called you annoying."

"Dennis calls everyone annoying."

"Ross didn't speak to him for two days."

"What?"

"He claims it was unrelated."

I stared.

Mark stared back.

Neither of us said anything.

Then realization hit.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Very much yes."

My stomach did something alarming.

Because suddenly dozens of little moments started connecting.

Ross always appearing whenever someone bothered me.

Ross somehow noticing when I was upset before anyone else.

Ross remembering things I said months ago.

Ross watching.

Listening.

Paying attention.

The realization felt dangerous.

Like standing too close to the edge of something.

I wasn't sure whether I wanted to jump or run.

Before I could decide, Dennis entered the room carrying enough snacks to feed a small army.

"Good news."

"No," Mark said immediately.

Dennis looked offended.

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"If it starts with good news, I don't trust it."

Fair.

Dennis dropped onto the armchair dramatically.

"I have obtained evidence."

I immediately became suspicious.

"What evidence?"

His grin widened.

Never a good sign.

Ever.

"Photographic evidence."

Oh no.

No no no.

Absolutely not.

"Dennis."

"Oh yes."

"Dennis."

"Oh yes."

My soul attempted to leave my body.

Ross walked into the room carrying another cup of coffee.

The second he saw Dennis's expression, he looked concerned.

Which honestly said everything.

"What did you do?"

Dennis held up his phone triumphantly.

"I documented history."

Ross closed his eyes.

Mark groaned.

I considered fleeing through a window.

Dennis opened the photo gallery.

Then turned the screen around.

And my entire body froze.

It was from the party.

A picture taken sometime late at night.

The image was slightly blurry.

Crowded.

Poorly lit.

But the people were obvious.

Ross.

And me.

My stomach immediately dropped.

Because I wasn't just standing near him.

I was practically attached to him.

One hand gripping his shirt.

The other wrapped around his arm.

Looking up at him.

Smiling.

Actually smiling.

The kind of smile I didn't realize I wore around him.

The kind that made things painfully obvious.

"Oh."

The word escaped before I could stop it.

Dennis looked far too pleased.

"Interesting, right?"

Nobody answered.

Mostly because everyone was looking at the photo.

Including Ross.

I risked a glance toward him.

Big mistake.

Huge mistake.

Because he was staring at the image too.

Not embarrassed.

Not uncomfortable.

Just... looking.

Like he was seeing something he'd already known.

The room suddenly felt too warm.

Again.

This was becoming a recurring issue.

Dennis swiped.

Another photo appeared.

And another.

And another.

Every single one somehow featured the same thing.

Me.

Near Ross.

Talking to Ross.

Looking at Ross.

Touching Ross.

My humiliation evolved into a higher state of existence.

"I hate this."

Dennis cackled.

Mark looked sympathetic.

Ross looked thoughtful.

Which was somehow worse.

"Interesting pattern," Dennis said.

"Die," I replied.

"Fair."

The final picture appeared.

And this one completely destroyed me.

Because it wasn't me looking at Ross.

It was Ross looking at me.

The image had captured a random moment.

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing obvious.

I was laughing at something off-camera.

Ross was standing beside me.

And his attention was entirely on me.

Not the crowd.

Not the party.

Not the conversation.

Just me.

The expression on his face made my heart forget its job.

It wasn't intense.

Wasn't possessive.

Wasn't dramatic.

It was worse.

It was fond.

The realization hit so hard I almost looked away.

Almost.

Then I noticed something else.

Ross had gone completely still.

The room fell quiet.

For once, even Dennis seemed to realize he'd accidentally stepped into dangerous territory.

Nobody spoke.

Nobody moved.

I could hear my own heartbeat.

Ross slowly lifted his eyes from the phone.

And looked directly at me.

The same way he had in the photograph.

The same way he'd been looking at me for months.

Like I was something important.

Like I mattered.

The air disappeared from my lungs.

And suddenly I understood why pretending had become so exhausting.

Because the truth had been sitting right in front of me all along.

And for the first time, neither of us was looking away.