Morning

Then her eyes land on him. And stop. The confusion on her face shifts into something sharper—recognition, followed by a sudden, awful clarity. She freezes, her hand pausing mid-rub. Her eyes go wide, scanning his face, then his bare chest, then the absence of any clothing on either of them. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but the words get stuck somewhere between his throat and his conscience.

"Morning," he finally manages, his voice coming out hoarse and stupid. It's the wrong thing to say. It's the worst thing to say. He can practically hear the word land like a brick in the silence between them. Ari's expression goes from shock to a kind of dawning horror, and she slowly pulls the sheet up to her chin, as if that could somehow undo what's already happened.

She stares at him for a long, heavy moment, her lips parting, closing, parting again. "Valentin," she says, her voice flat and small. "Please tell me this is a nightmare." He lets out a breath that's half a laugh, half a groan, and rubs the back of his neck. "I wish I could," he says, gesturing vaguely at the room, at the mess of clothes on the floor. "But the scratch marks on my shoulder say otherwise." Ari closes her eyes, and the silence stretches out between them like a canyon neither of them knows how to cross.

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