Morning.
The blinds did little to block the sunlight spilling across the room. Golden lines sliced the space between the beds, crawling across crumpled sheets and a body still half-asleep.
Noel stood in front of the mirror, buttoning his shirt with calm precision. His collar was crisp, hair already brushed, backpack leaning by the door like it had been waiting all night. He glanced once in the reflection—toward the bed across the room.
Luca hadn't moved.
But then—
A low groan escaped from the heap of blankets.
Noel turned slightly. "Morning."
Luca's voice came out rough, like sand scraping the back of his throat. "What time is it?"
"7:52."
"Kill me."
Noel raised a brow, pulling his tie tight. "You said the same thing last time you partied."
Luca squinted, arm flung over his eyes. "I said a lot of things last night."
"That's true," Noel said, lips twitching. He opened the drawer and tossed a small packet on the side table. "Paracetamol. Take it before your head falls off."
