Consciousness returned slowly, dragging Galathea up through a thick, unnatural fog. The body pressed against her was solid, radiating a heavy heat. A muscular arm rested heavily across her waist, pinning her beneath a light blanket.
For a fraction of a second, her body accepted the weight blindly. It was routine. It was morning.
Then, the micro-details began to misalign.
The air conditioning didn't carry that sharp, sterile bite of corporate luxury she had grown so accustomed to.
And the scent-- her nose twitched against the warm skin of the chest she was currently using as a pillow.
It was wrong.
No cedar. No citrus. No sharp, expensive cologne clinging stubbornly to the thread-count sheets.
'No. Fuck,' she swore in her head, a cold spike of adrenaline piercing straight through the grogginess, shredding the last remnants of sleep.
This was not her Alex.
