I woke up with a head full of gravel and the sun stabbing me through my eyelids like it had a grudge.
I groaned and rolled over, straight into the crack between the couch cushions.
There were footsteps coming. Not urgent, just casual, like someone had already decided I wasn't dead. Which was optimistic.
A finger poked my shoulder.
I ignored it.
It poked again, a little firmer this time.
"Yeah?" I croaked, peeling one eye open.
The guy standing over me was tall, handsome in a hard-to-ignore way, with a relaxed stance and a quiet expression that didn't match the faint amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth.
"You're awake," he said.
"Unfortunately," I mumbled, dragging myself upright. My head throbbed like it was trying to file a complaint.
He handed me a glass of water and a tablet. I took both. Swallowed the pill, gulped the water, tried not to gag on the aftertaste of stale beer and shame.
Then there was a dog.
I heard nails clacking across tile just in time to brace myself before a giant, wolf-adjacent creature launched onto the couch and flopped directly on top of me. I grunted as all the air got shoved out of my lungs, then reached up and scratched behind his ears. He thumped a leg in response.
"That's Rosta," the guy said, setting my glass on the coffee table. "And I'm Drogo. Who are you?"
"Oh. Uh… Garret." I blinked at him. The room was big. Sleek, expensive-looking. Everything matched. Nothing had stains. Definitely not a place I remembered walking into.
"Why am I here?"
He gave a quiet laugh through his nose, like he was tired but still kind of amused. "Wish I knew."
I squinted at him. The left side of his face was covered with a bandana, and somehow, that just made him more interesting. Probably a red flag. But I was too hungover to care.
"I came home last night and found you in my backyard," he said, walking across the room like he wasn't still trying to figure out how weird this all was. "You were petting Rosta. When I asked what you were doing, you said—and I quote—'dogs are a gift from God,' and then threw up on my shoes."
"Wow." I scrubbed a hand over my face. "Sorry about that."
He shrugged, not offended.
"I brought you in and let you crash on the couch. Figured you'd answer questions in the morning."
"Well… mystery solved." I grabbed Rosta's face in both hands. "I remember drinking. And walking. Then… maybe I got lost on the way to my friend's? Or home? Or both."
"Do you want food?" Drogo asked.
My stomach lurched in warning.
"Not really."
He was already reaching for his phone. "You should eat anyway. Allergic to anything?"
"Nope. I'm basically a trash can." I offered him a weak smile. "But seriously, I don't want to be a bother—oh, shit."
I sat up too fast. Rosta barked, excited.
I checked my pockets, found my phone, and winced. Ten missed calls from Phillip. Great.
"I was supposed to open the store today," I muttered, standing up fast enough to make the world tilt.
Drogo raised an eyebrow. "Want me to call you a car?"
"Nah, I'll bus it. Just point me to one."
He tilted his head. "I have no idea where the nearest stop is. Where do you work? I can drive you."
"That's really not—"
"I don't mind."
He handed me his phone to type in the address. I did, half-aware that he was watching me the whole time. Not in a weird way. Just… watching.
"Thanks," I said, handing it back. "I owe you."
He smirked. "Maybe next time we get drunk together. I'll puke on your shoes, make it even."
I laughed. "That sounds fair."