Warm sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting golden rays across the room. Clint stirred at the sudden brightness, his eyes squinting before fluttering open.
"Ugh… so bright..." he mumbled.
Then it hit him, He remember the fight. He immediately sat up, breath caught in his throat. "Last night... A asassin—"
He looked around, blinking rapidly. The unfamiliar ceiling, the large velvet curtains.
"Where…?" he whispered, voice hoarse.
Slowly, Clint slid off the bed, bare feet touching the cold floor. He walked toward the door but paused mid-step. Something on his right caught his eye.
He turned and nearly stumbled, There, on the long burgundy sofa, was the Duke.
Asleep.
But it looked almost ridiculous. His long legs dangled awkwardly off the edge, one foot resting on the carpet while the other pointed upward like it gave up trying to fit. His coat was half thrown over him, his head tilted against the armrest, white hair slightly tousled.
Clint stared.
"…The heck?"
