Invisible String | Lovertation

January 19

I wake up to the kind of headache that makes me want to die.

The sun is a bitch. My mouth is dry. My head is pounding like someone's taken a fucking jackhammer to it.

I groan, rolling onto my side and burying my face in the pillow.

Then I freeze.

The pillow isn't mine.

Neither are the sheets. Or the mattress. Or the faint smell of cologne in the air, something rich and woodsy with a hint of last night.

Shit.

I open my eyes, wincing at the bright light seeping in through the curtains. The room is unfamiliar—sleek but lived-in, with a dresser against the wall, a chair in the corner draped with a hoodie, a pair of boots near the door.

And beside me, the bed shifts.

Double shit.

Memories start piecing themselves together, little flashes in my mind.

The bar. The flirting. His hands on my waist. My back against the wall. The heat between us.

And then—

I swallow.

It hits me like a fucking freight train.

The way he touched me. The weight of him against me. His mouth on my skin, his voice in my ear, the way he pulled me closer like he couldn't get enough.

I blink up at the ceiling, my stomach twisting. Not in a bad way. Just... in a way.

Because the thing is—

It was good.

No. Fuck that. It was awesome.

And that shouldn't surprise me as much as it does. But it does.

The bed shifts again, and I don't have time to dwell on it before a voice, rough with sleep, murmurs, "Morning, trouble."

I snort before I can stop myself. "Shut the fuck up."

Beside me, he laughs, low and easy. I glance over, and there he is—hair a mess, eyes still half-lidded with sleep, shirtless and annoyingly comfortable, stretching his arms over his head.

Jake.

That's his name. I remember that much.

"How you feeling?" he asks, voice deep and scratchy in a way that makes my stomach do a dumb little flip.

I groan, rubbing my temples. "Like I got hit by a truck."

"Yeah, well," he says, leaning back against the pillows, smirking. "That's what happens when you drink like you've got a death wish."

"Good to know," I mutter, not in the mood for his smug bullshit.

He just grins. Then, after a beat, he says, "Before you leave, gimme your number."

I blink at him. "What?"

"Your number," he repeats, as if I misheard. "Unless you're planning on doing that whole 'never talk about this again' thing."

I hesitate.

Last night was supposed to be just that—last night. No attachments, no expectations, no strings.

But then I think about how it felt.

And maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't mind hearing from him again.

I sigh, reaching for my phone on the nightstand. "Fine."