Where the fuck — no, that wasn't the right question. Based on the carpeting directly below him when Sam cracked an eye, he was well aware of the where. Tilting his head from one side to the other, he stretched out the muscles in his neck, alarmed to discover that pain accompanied the motion. He pressed his palm to the mattress below him and rose to a relatively upright sit. "Mmm," he heard, the hum coming from his immediate left, and it dawned on Sam that he couldn't remember the who.
"Morning," she cooed at him from where she was lying, peeking at him from beneath a fray of dark blonde hair. "Sleep well?"
Had he slept well? Sam couldn't recall. He didn't know how he'd gotten home last night — or the night before, for that matter — and he certainly didn't remember inviting a perfect stranger into bed with him. As a matter of fact, it was a clearcut rule of Sam's that no one slept in his bed.
"You need to go."
The unpleasant surprise on her face did nothing to Sam. This was in equal part because (a) he had no idea who she was, therefore cared next to nothing about her, and (b) it had just occurred to him that he wasn't wearing a shirt.
"Now."
He spoke it with insistence, because she hadn't made any moves to gather her clothes, let alone get out of his bed. With an irritated scoff, she slipped from beneath his sheets and made excruciatingly slow work of throwing on the dress she'd been wearing last night. When she reached the door, Sam heard the sound of Bastian's voice, its volume rising to indicate that he was getting closer to his bedroom. She shot him a curious glance before she opened it, regarding Bastian with a snide little smirk, and slipped down the hall en route to Sam's front door.
That left him sitting, shirtless, on the left side — not his side — of the bed. He looked more perplexed than pleased with himself. "Don't ask."
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