The blinding sunlight was what woke me up the next morning. It wasn't the pounding headache or the fact that my throat was as dry as dust, but rather the fact that the vicious rays were finding gaps in between my curtains and polluting my room with the light that prevented me from sleeping in a little longer.
After a half hour of burying my face into the pillow and covering myself with my blanket, I gave in. I didn't have to be ready for class for another three hours but I couldn't take it anymore - and by that point I was wide awake anyway - so I fell out of bed and crawled over to my window, savagely tugging at the curtains to cover the gaps.
It was then that I realized just how severe my hangover was - which made no sense, considering I wasn't that drunk... Or perhaps I was? But I still remembered the entire night, and that to me was a signifier that I definitely was not drunk enough last night to be experiencing this level of pain.
I stumbled to my feet and travelled to the bathroom, running the cold water and splashing my face with it like I had the night before. Then I brought handfuls of water to my lips and drank, trying to hydrate my cotton mouth. But no matter how much water I drank I still felt as if I'd ate the Sahara. But that was all I could do to try and rid myself of that dry ache; drink and drink and drink.
So I drank until I couldn't anymore. Then I leaned over to turn the shower on and let the water gather warmth. I kicked off my boxers and stepped under the water, closing the glass door behind me. The water was almost scolding, but that's how I always had it; borderline boiling. Liam always commented that I left the bathroom looking like a beat-up beetroot, but he wasn't the one feeling as fresh as I did. Not to mention it made me feel like a Targaryen, so there was that.
I pressed my head to the steamed tile and let the heat spill down my body. The warmth soothed my aching limbs and made me forget about my headache for a while. It also allowed me to wallow in thought and process what had happened last night now that I had a completely sober mind.
"Harry." I said out loud, my voice so weak that it barely carried over the sound of the water crashing against the tiled floor. A grin found it's way to my mouth and before long my lips met my eyes. Why the hell was I smiling? From what I could recall he was just a guy who bought me a drink, felt me up a little, was embarrassingly forward and... Well, crazy hot. But anyone looks attractive under minimal lighting and the influence of booze. But I still couldn't shake my smile.
I kept thinking about his hair... His sweaty, curly brown hair that bounced with every movement. And I kept thinking about his touch and I how I could still feel it the morning after. His soft and delicate grasp that he used when holding my hip - which was a big thing since the encounter was nothing more than two guys hitting on each other at a club. And then I thought about his delicious eyes... Those vibrant emeralds that I kept getting lost in.
All this thinking made me want to see him again. I wanted to see him just so I could be sure all these stupid feelings that I had weren't being exaggerated in my mind. Perhaps he is the nice - but forward - guy that I think he is. But I wouldn't know unless I talked to him...
"Fuck it." I said to myself out loud. I finished up in the shower and turned off the water, grabbing the nearby towel and wrapping it around my soaking self. My feet squelched across the carpet as I made my way over to the bed, sticking my hand under the pillow and fishing out my phone and the card.
I quickly dried my hands on the towel around my waste and tapped the number onto the screen from the card. I let the phone ring into my ear while I sat down on the bed, staring at the handwritten number on it and wondering when he had the time to write it. Had he written it before he came over to talk to me?
