She woke slowly. In pieces.
First came the throb behind her eyes. Then the dry ache in her throat. Then the slow, creeping awareness that her skin felt wrong—too hot, too alert. Even the air brushing her shoulders was too much.
The ceiling above her wasn't hers.
Neither were the sheets.
Neither, she realized a breath later, was the shirt she was wearing.
What the hell—
She sat up too fast. The room tilted like a ship in a storm, her stomach lurching. She dropped back onto the pillow with a hiss and squeezed her eyes shut.
Think.
What was the last thing she remembered?
The party. The music. The heat. Someone pressing a drink into her hand. Laughing too loud. Emery's voice—
And then… nothing.
Her mouth was dry as sandpaper. Her head full of static. Limbs heavy. Thoughts heavier. She felt stripped bare—vulnerable in a way she couldn't name. Tangled in unfamiliar sheets. No pants. Just underwear. Just Emery's shirt.
Wait.
She opened her eyes again.
And froze.
A hand rested on her stomach.
Big. Steady. Warm.
Not hers.
Emery's.
Quinn turned her head slowly, like a sudden move might shatter whatever reality she'd just woken into.
Emery was beside her. Asleep. Lips parted slightly, breath soft. Blonde hair a chaotic mess across the pillow. Her hand—still resting gently on Quinn's stomach—wasn't possessive. But it anchored something low in her chest.
A flutter. A flare of heat. Something unnameable.
And then it hit her—her body was reacting. Not just confused, not just sick. Wired. A tension humming low in her spine. Breath catching like her lungs didn't work quite right.
She stared at the ceiling.
What happened last night?
Why couldn't she remember?
Why was she here? In Emery's shirt? In her bed? With her hand on her?
And why—god, why—did it feel good?
Her pulse pounded—too fast, too loud. A flush climbed her neck, chased by a wave of nausea so strong it bent her in half.
She jerked away from Emery's hand like it burned, stumbling out of bed on unsteady legs. The room tilted. Vision tunneled. Breaths came shallow, sharp.
Bathroom. Where—
She barely made it before she collapsed to her knees, one hand braced on the wall, the other gripping the edge of the toilet.
Her stomach gave out.
Whatever she'd had—whatever it was—came up in bitter waves. It felt like she was emptying more than just her stomach. Like her body was purging something it didn't understand.
She gasped between heaves, hair sticking to her sweat-damp skin. Her throat burned. Her ribs ached. And still, the shaking didn't stop.
Panic clawed its way up her spine.
Not just from the hangover. Not just from waking up in someone else's bed.
But from the way her chest felt too tight. The way her body wanted. The way that single touch—Emery's hand on her stomach—had short-circuited something deep inside her.
She didn't know what this was. Only that her skin still burned where Emery had touched her. Like her body remembered something her brain didn't.
Her vision blurred—this time not from sickness, but from the sheer weight of it all.
The silence. The confusion. The shaking she couldn't stop.
She curled in on herself, back against the wall, arms wrapped tight around her knees.
Her body didn't feel like hers anymore.
It felt raw. Exposed. Unfamiliar.
And she didn't know why.
She just needed a second. A minute. Something.
She just needed to breathe.
But the air felt thick. Every inhale scraped like sandpaper. She pressed her forehead to her knees, willing her heartbeat to slow.
It didn't.
And then—
A soft knock at the door.
"Quinn?"
Emery's voice. Rough with sleep. Uncertain. Gentle in a way Quinn wasn't used to hearing.
"Are you okay?"
She flinched.
Emery.
The name landed differently now. Coming from the other side of a door. Drenched in concern, not sarcasm. Soft. Real.
It cracked something open.
But her throat stayed closed. No words. Just the jagged rhythm of her breathing.
The door creaked open a fraction. Just enough to let a line of light spill across the tile. Emery didn't come in. Just… waited.
"Quinn," she said again, quieter this time. "Say something."
Silence.
Then, even softer—almost like she was afraid to be heard:
"You're never this quiet…"
Quinn clenched her jaw, eyes burning.
I'm fine. I'm not fine. I don't know what I am.
She swallowed it all down with the acid still lingering in her throat.
Then, softer still—hesitant:
"What can I do?"
Just six words. Barely a whisper. But the rasp in Emery's voice, the tenderness underneath it, hit like a match to dry leaves.
Quinn lurched forward, retching again. Nothing came up, but the motion left her gasping, trembling, hollowed out.
Outside the door, she heard Emery shift.
Still there.
Still not leaving.
Still asking without asking: what do you need?
The sound must've reached her—because from the other side came a breath, sharp and worried.
"Quinn—"
"Don't," she croaked. Voice wrecked. Fragile, not angry.
A pause. Then, gently:
"…Okay."
The faint scrape of movement. Emery sliding down to sit on the other side of the door.
Not leaving.
Not pushing.
Just there.
Quinn pressed her forehead to the cool toilet lid, heart thudding like it wanted out.
She didn't know what this was—this ache, this heat, this want—but she hated that Emery's voice made it worse.
Quinn hated that Emery's voice made it worse.
And she hated that it also made it better.
A shaky breath escaped her lips, caught between panic and something else—something raw and unfamiliar that tightened her throat.
Time stretched. The silence thickened, heavy with things unspoken.
Then, softly, almost a murmur through the door:
"I'm here. Whenever you're ready."
Quinn closed her eyes, fighting the dizziness. The weight of her confusion pressed down, crushing.
She didn't want to be this vulnerable. Didn't want to admit how much that hand on her skin—Emery's skin—had unsettled her, rewired something inside.
But right now, she needed that quiet presence. That steady anchor just on the other side of the door.
Her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her palms, trying to ground herself.
"I don't know," she finally whispered, voice cracking like dry twigs.
"I don't know what this is."
And somewhere beyond the door, Emery's breath hitched—a soft sound, fragile and real.