In Which We Have to Be Better
Gael had a blaring headache when he woke up, feeling disoriented when he opened his eyes and found himself in a stranger's bed alone, wearing absolutely nothing under the blanket. The sheets were pale pink and silky. For a tiny second, a pang of guilt spread through him, afraid that he'd somehow ended up going home with a woman from the club after he'd blacked out last night. He was horrified.
That only lasted for a couple of seconds, though. Then the memory of seeing Angela sleeping on the same bed when he arrived last night, her tending to his wounds in the bathroom, and him fucking her on the counter came rushing in his head, and he was instantly relieved. "Cazzo." He massaged his temples, cursing the drinks he had last night.