when the sun came up

xviii.

The first thing Emma became aware of were the beams of light – bright, yet strangely muted. They played haphazardly on the inside of her eyelids, causing her to mumble and retreat under the blankets.

The second thing she became aware of was the weight and texture of those blankets. They felt different to her own bedding: heavier and a little less luxurious (with sleep being as precious to her as it was, Emma was a thousand thread count kind of girl), and suffused with a familiar scent that teased at her senses. Warm, rich, tantalising... distinctly male.

Emma stilled completely as the third thing became suddenly, alarmingly apparent.

She was lying in Ethan's bed.

Memories of the previous night came rushing back in a flash flood, as if she'd pressed a button to release them. Her hands, his mouth, her dress, the kitchen counter. Waking up still half-drunk and asking him stupidly sentimental questions. Oh, fuck.

She squeaked, squeezing her eyes shut even more tightly in an attempt to ward off the play-by-play now gratuitously screening in her mind.

Okay, so you had sex with your housemate. Your hot, snarky, infuriating serial-hook-up-artist housemate. This is fine, right? It's fine. Totally, completely, 100% fine.

Emma took a deep breath, reminded herself that she was a strong and independent woman who had nothing to be ashamed of, and moved to open her eyes, slowly and cautiously.

If she'd been freaking out about coming face to face with the aforementioned hot, snarky, infuriating serial-hook-up-artist housemate in the cold sober light of day, she had nothing to worry about. The room was, as she discovered by sneakily scanning what little she could see of the room from her vantage point lying down, noticeably Ethan-less. Once Emma had determined this, she dared to sit up and properly look around her.

The bed, and room in general, looked as rumpled as you'd expect after a night of furious sex. Emma blushed, forgetting there was no-one around to see her, as she surveyed the swirling maelstrom of sheets and blankets heaped around her, the bra and lace panties Ethan had practically ripped off of her the night before, the hastily shucked sweatpants he'd been wearing lying haphazardly tangled around them.

Her gaze moved to the other side of the bed, where to her surprise, there was a note waiting for her on Ethan's pillow.

Em,

Had to get to the bar early and didn't want to wake you up. I'll see you later tonight.

E.

Emma frowned as she finished reading. The bar? Surely Ethan's shift wasn't starting so early in the day? But then she remembered – he'd vaguely mentioned a few days ago that there was some big function on this weekend that he'd need to help the rest of the staff prep for.

She paused to study the scrawl of words on the piece of paper, tilting her head as she tried to gauge his state of mind from the brief missive. Was he feeling pleased about last night's turn of events? Or regretful? Would things just be weird now? In classic Ethan Dolan style, the note revealed very little.

In any case, it sounded like he was going to be out all day. Emma bit her lip. On one hand, this was probably ideal. She needed some time to process everything that had happened and figure out what the hell she was going to do when she saw him next. (Pouncing on him and re-enacting last's night activities – seriously, where did he learn to do that thing with his tongue? – was a tempting option, but possibly not a very sensible one.)

On the other hand, just the thought of staying alone in the loft all day, vibrating with restless energy and surrounded by Ethan's clothes and smell, conjured up an odd furore of jumbled up feelings (desire edged with panic, to be specific) that made her want to hyperventilate.

Emma took a would-be calming breath and swung her legs off the bed. Staying put right now wasn't an option.

She needed to get out, stat.

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