The early morning light slipped through the half-closed blinds, painting the room in soft streaks of gold and gray.
George stirred beneath a crumpled sheet, his face scrunched as the first stab of headache made itself known.
He groaned—deep, throaty, regret-laced—and turned over, pulling the pillow halfway across his face.
"Ugh... never again," he mumbled, voice scratchy.
A beat passed.
"...Maybe."
The sharp throb in his temples disagreed.
Dragging himself upright, he sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand through his sleep-messed curls.
The floor still felt like it swayed under him, even though the room stood perfectly still.
He blinked at his packed bag near the door. Right. Today.
He grabbed his phone, winced at the brightness, then checked the time. 7:38 AM.
George got to his feet—slowly, like an old man nursing invisible wounds—and shuffled out to the kitchen.
