The Morning After
The sun cut through the curtains in sharp slants, too bright, too early. Sky groaned, dragging a hand over his face. His head pounded like a war drum.
But it wasn't just the hangover that made his stomach twist.
He turned slowly—and saw the empty space beside him.
Muse was gone.
The bedsheets still held the heat of a body. The scent of expensive cologne lingered in the air—sharp, dark, unforgettable.
Sky sat up, and that's when he noticed two things:
1. A faint bruise—a bite mark—on his neck, just below his jaw.
2. A folded note on the nightstand.
His pulse stuttered as he reached for it.
The handwriting was elegant, slanted. Almost old-fashioned.
> Sky,
You're a beautiful mess. That's not an insult—it's an invitation.
I know who you are. I know who she is. I even know who your brother really is beneath that perfect suit.
Call it coincidence if you want. But we both know fate doesn't stumble.
—M
Sky read the note twice, jaw tightening.
He remembered flashes from the night before—Muse's hands, his mouth, the low murmur of secrets and laughter. The kiss in the elevator. The bite, playful then suddenly intense. The way Muse had looked at him—like he knew him.
Sky ran a hand through his hair and looked at his reflection in the mirror.
Bruised. Hungover. And not just from alcohol.
Something was shifting.
Something big.
And now Muse wasn't just a stranger in the dark.
He was a variable. A player.
And Sky had no idea which side he was really on.