From Frost to Flame

Part 62:Between Sleep and Sunrise

The morning sunlight slipped lazily through the curtains, casting a soft golden haze across the room. A quiet breeze stirred the fabric gently, like the world was trying not to wake anyone too suddenly.

Pete stirred beneath the blankets, letting out a small sigh. His head throbbed faintly — not quite a hangover, but close. That fuzzy, heavy-headed feeling that came with drinking just enough to lose track of time.

His eyes fluttered open—

—and landed on a shoulder.

Not a pillow.

A real, warm, human shoulder.

And attached to that shoulder was an arm.
And attached to that arm...

Pete sat up too fast. Far too fast.

His heart rocketed into his throat as he turned and saw Vegas still lying next to him — on his side now, one arm loosely curled under the pillow, dark hair tousled, lips parted in the soft rhythm of sleep.

Pete stared.

Then blinked.

Then slowly — very slowly — peeled the blanket off himself like it might be rigged with explosives.

What the actual hell—

He was in Vegas's bed.

Wearing Vegas's shirt.

Next to Vegas's actual, sleeping body.

His mind began to short-circuit.

Did we—? No, we didn't. I'd know. Right? Surely I'd know?!

Wait, no, he changed me—OH GOD, HE CHANGED ME?!

Did I scream? Did I cry?

Did I confess something???

And then — like someone slowly pouring cold water over his brain — the memories started creeping in.

The rooftop.
City lights flickering far below.
His chest is tight.
Wind against his skin.

Then—

Footsteps.

Vegas is calling his name. That familiar voice. Low. Steady. Just a little bit scared.

Pete had turned.

"I love you, Vegas."

A kiss.
A real kiss.

Oh. My. God.

Pete covered his entire face with both hands and groaned softly into them.

You didn't. You didn't do that. You didn't say that like some tragic, intoxicated poet on a rooftop—

But he did.

He kissed Vegas.

Like he meant it.

Because he did.

"Oh my god," Pete whispered out loud. "I KISSED VEGAS..."

He carefully swung his legs off the bed, glancing once more at Vegas — still peacefully asleep.

Great. Just perfect. He's sleeping. He's out like a light, and my brain's stuck on replay, running through every word I barely remember saying.

Still stunned, still slightly horrified, Pete slid out of the bed as quietly as he could. His body moved on autopilot, grabbing the first hoodie within reach... he wasn't even sure if it was his — and tiptoeing to the bathroom like someone avoiding landmines.