The first thing I notice is the pounding.
Not the music from last night or someone knocking, no, this pounding is inside my skull. It's sharp and rhythmic, like a tiny construction crew is jackhammering the inside of my brain. I groan, low and pitiful, dragging a hand over my face before squinting against the light.
"Fuuuck," I croak out, voice dry and cracked like sandpaper. My throat burns. I sit up slowly, every movement pulling at sore muscles and threatening to make my stomach rebel.
My fingers rake through my hair, trying to massage some life back into my scalp as I look around, blinking through the blinding haze of a hangover. That's when the realization hits me like a brick to the chest.
This isn't my room.
The walls are unfamiliar, minimalist, kind of dark, definitely too clean to be mine. There's a faint scent of cologne in the air. The sheets are way softer than my scratchy thrift-store set, and the view from the window is… definitely not the dingy alley behind my apartment.
Panic rushes in before I'm even fully awake.
I glance down at myself and nearly choke.
Jeans? Gone. Shirt? Nowhere to be found. All I'm left with are my boxers and a sick feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with the alcohol. "Oh no. No, no, no, no," I mutter, the words rushing out in a flurry of dread.
A grumble comes from the other side of the bed.
"Will you be quiet, Blueie?" says a voice that's too familiar for comfort.
I whip my head to the side, wincing as the sudden motion sends a fresh spike of pain through my skull.
And there he is.
Mateo.
He's lying on his stomach, one arm tucked beneath the pillow and the other flopped lazily to the side. His face is half-buried in the fabric, voice muffled but unmistakably annoyed.
My heart does an awkward stutter-step, and a wave of heat rises to my face as blurry fragments of last night begin to resurface.
The kiss. My hands on his waist. Him pulling me into a bedroom. Then… darkness.
A pit opens in my stomach.
"I, I…" I stammer, already dying inside. "D-did we…? Did we do anything?"
My voice comes out broken, desperate for reassurance.
Mateo doesn't move his face from the pillow. "You wish," he mumbles.
I exhale sharply, flopping back onto the bed like I've just survived a plane crash. "No, I don't," I say quickly, though it doesn't sound particularly convincing, even to me.
"Oh, really?" he says, lifting his face just enough to turn toward me, one eye barely open and filled with smug amusement.
"Because I seem to remember someone getting pretty handsy last night."
My face goes up in flames. "We, we just kissed, right?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. I'm half hoping he says yes, half hoping he tells me it was all a dream.
He nods lazily. "Yeah. That's all. You were so wasted after getting your ass handed to you in beer pong, I wouldn't have touched you even if you begged. It would've been, like, legally questionable."
I blink at him, relieved and vaguely horrified all at once. "Good to know you're not a rapist," I mutter, not sure whether to laugh or apologize.
Mateo just snorts.
I sit up again, rubbing my temples. "So… where are my clothes?"
He stretches, arms flexing slightly as he rolls onto his side. "You said you were hot," he says, tone mocking but light. "Then you stripped down to your boxers like it was a strip show, flopped face-first onto my bed, and passed out like a dead fish."
I groan into my hands. "Of course I did."
"You're lucky I didn't throw you off the balcony," he adds, yawning. "Or take pictures."
I glance over at him again, trying not to make it obvious that I'm staring. His back is turned slightly now, giving me a clear view of his tattoos, detailed and clean, inked like a patchwork of stories I'll never get to hear. The butterflies on his neck are soft, almost delicate, contrasting the bold cuff inked around his arm.
Wait, cuff. Not sleeve. I squint, realizing what I thought was a full tattoo sleeve last night is actually more of a concentrated band, a collection of intricate designs woven into a single tight space.
It's gorgeous.
I feel an uninvited stab of envy. Not just because he has the kind of body tattoos were made for, but because I'll probably never be able to afford something like that. Not with two jobs and overdue bills and a $6 thrift-store toaster that barely works.
I shift back under the covers, trying to pretend I'm not still half-naked in Mateo's bed. "You really let me just pass out here?"
"Would you have preferred the floor?" he says with a raised brow. "You seemed determined to stay."
I stare up at the ceiling.
What was last night?
And why do I already know it's going to change everything?
"I like your tattoos," I blurt out before I can stop myself. The words come out fast and awkward, like they've been waiting on the tip of my tongue for too long.
Mateo looks momentarily startled. A soft flush creeps onto his cheeks, so faint it's barely visible, but I notice. For someone who walks around like he's allergic to emotion, it's kind of… surprising.
"Thanks," he mumbles, eyes flicking away as he rubs the back of his neck. There's a sheepishness to it, almost like he's not used to compliments being genuine. And for a brief second, I see past the cocky smirks and the teasing, and catch a glimpse of something real. Something human. Something that says maybe, just maybe, he's not entirely the asshole I thought he was.
But the moment doesn't last.
My chest tightens as a different kind of panic hits me. I bolt upright. "Wait, what time is it?"
Mateo glances over at the nightstand, where his phone is charging. "Almost eleven," he says casually, like we're talking about the weather.
My stomach drops. "Shit," I hiss, throwing off the blanket and scrambling to get out of bed. I'm already halfway to the floor before Mateo even processes what's happening.
He sits up, rubbing his eyes like I've just woken him from the most peaceful nap of his life. "What's wrong?"