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I wake up to a warm weight on me, the urgency in my bladder forcing my eyes to open.
The room is dark. For a few moments, there’s disorientation that often accompanies waking in a new place.
“W-what?” My voice is incredibly hoarse, and my body hurts in a way that is delicious and satisfying. Still sleepy and satiated, I glance down at the man who has me in his arms. The events of last night come back in the most horrifying of ways.
“Oh, fuck,” I moan, collapsing into Oliver’s arms. “Oh, fuck me!”
“I think I already did,” comes the amused response.
Oliver’s eyes are open, and he seems tired. I see the dark circles under his eyes, the ones I’ve been seeing for weeks now.
“We fucked up,” I say bluntly.
He doesn’t let go of me. “Did we?”
“Yes.”
Burying his face in my shoulder, he mumbles, “Go back to sleep. We’ll deal with the consequences in the morning.”
I sigh, honestly wanting to listen to his advice. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
He releases me. I clamber over him, then run to the bathroom, wincing at the pungent smell of vomit. It also reminds me to call Lucas to find out what happened.
When I return, Oliver has pulled on his pants. He’s on the phone. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Was that Lucas?” I ask, reaching for my dress. I ignore the way my abdomen tightens at the appreciative glance he sends my way. “How’s Elise?”
Oliver gives me an inscrutable look before replying. “Turns out there was no stomach bug. Elise is pregnant. Three weeks.”
I freeze at the news, my mouth drying, “What?”
“She didn’t want anyone to know. She’s quite distraught.” Oliver’s features are strained, and I recall him telling me about his unborn child. He hadn’t even been given the chance to celebrate before he’d had to grieve.
“I should go see her,” I murmur.
“It’s late.” Oliver doesn’t bother putting on a shirt, his expression haunted. “It’s four in the morning.”
“Why is Lucas—”
“He didn’t want to leave her alone.”
Sighing, I run my fingers through my hair, my mind shifting to the events that had just taken place on the couch. My mind still isn’t altogether, and I feel slightly off kilter.
“This shouldn’t have happened,” I say again. Oliver doesn’t correct me.
“I didn’t—”
I cut him off with a frustrated look, “I was there, Oliver. I know what happened. I’m not blaming you. I know how to take responsibility for my actions.”
He frowns. “We were both a little drunk. You don’t have any right to play the martyr, despite it being your favorite role.”
“Oh, shut up,” I say lightly. His grin is unexpected, and it makes him boyishly charming.
“This was a one-time thing,” I declare, sinking onto the coffee table. “This can’t happen again.”
He doesn’t seem pleased by that. “What’s wrong with—”
