He’s out cold

The living room has transformed while I was gone. The dim lighting still casts long shadows across the walls, but now there are bodies sprawled across every surface. I count them as I step through the doorway — three of your friends have stripped down to their boxers, the dark-haired one leaning back on the sectional with his arms spread along the cushions. The muscular guy is standing near the window, his chest bare, watching me with that same hungry grin.

And then I see you.

You're on the floor, flat on your back, one arm thrown over your face. Someone must have moved you off the couch to make room. Your shirt is rucked up around your chest, and you're snoring — actually snoring, soft little sounds that make my stomach do a complicated flip.

I walk past the quiet guy before I step over your legs carefully, my boots clicking against the hardwood, and I kneel down beside you. The pasties catch the lamplight, the fringe brushing against my skin with every breath.

"Joe." I say your name softly, then louder. "Joe, wake up. You're missing the show."

You don't move. One of your friends lets out a low laugh from the sectional.

"Told you he was out cold," the dark-haired one says. "Drank a whole bottle by himself before you even came out the second time."

I look at you — really look at you — sprawled out on the floor, vulnerable and drunk and completely unaware of what's happening around you. The warm, fuzzy feeling from the drinks is still humming in my system, but something else is creeping in underneath it.

AUTHORS NOTE: I know Joe’s head is facing one way and his body’s facing the other but the image generator was just not having it and this is the best I could get before I ran out of money

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