1 text.
Seven messages on Prism? Seriously? I haven’t hooked up with anyone since…Yeah. No. Not thinking about him. Not before coffee.
I swipe the notifications away without reading them. My thumb hesitates—just for a second—but I ignore that too.
Then I drop back down beside Daniel. If he’s gonna take up half my bed, he’s gonna get cuddled. I’m a cuddlier. Always have been. Just not thefeelingspart. Not the commitment or the part where someone gets close enough to hurt you.
I toss the phone onto the nightstand as if it’s offended me personally and roll into Daniel’s space, tossing an arm over his chest. If he’s going to claim my bed, he can deal with the consequences. He shifts under the weight of my arm, groaning like he’s being murdered in slow motion.
“Ugh. What time is it?” he rasps.
“Too early,” I mumble, already settling in as if we’re in a rom-com montage and not two exhausted queers with hangovers and no self-preservation skills.
He blinks one eye open and glares at me. “Why are you cuddling me like I’m your boyfriend?”
“Because you’re here, warm, and emotionally unavailable.”
Daniel snorts. “Slut.”
“Rude,” I say, burrowing closer. “This is strictly post-club trauma bonding. No feelings.”
“Well your trauma is poking into my side, and I think I’m hungover enough to cry.”
I laugh, muffled into his shirt. It smells like sweat and cheap cologne and something vaguely cinnamony—probably a fireball shot I don’t remember taking.
He grunts and shoves at me. “Get off. I need water and mouthwash and a new liver.”
“You’re such a drama queen,” I say, but I roll away anyway.
My body groans in protest as I sit up. Light stabs at my eyeballs, and my jeans try to take my dignity with them as they threaten to fall off my hips. The glitter on the rug somehow made it to my arms. I don’t even want to check my face.
Daniel stretches with a loud groan. “What time is it really?”
I glance at the clock and wince. “Almost noon.”
“Shit. Don’t you have that family dinner today?”
Unfortunately. “Yup.”
He gives me a look. “And you’re going like that?”
I squint at him, then down at myself. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Everything. You look like a rejected backup dancer from a drag brunch.”
I grab a pillow and launch it at his head. “Thanks, bestie. That’s a look my parents would love.”
He catches it, grinning. “Go shower, Cinderella. I’ll start coffee. Try not to cry in the bathroom again.”
“I didn’t cry in the bathroom.”
He arches a brow.
“I didn’t crythat muchin the bathroom.”
Daniel throws up his hands like he’s surrendering to God himself. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, glitter boy. But if I’m being your pretend boyfriend tonight, you are not looking like you rolled directly out of a club and into their house.”
I snort. “Family dinner isn’t at the house. It’s at Chester’s.”
