Chapter 4. The Morning After

For one heart-stopping moment, everything freezes. Gabrielle’s lips are warm and soft against mine, and his body is solid beneath my hands. I feel his sharp intake of breath, the way his chest rises under my palms, and then—oh God—his hands are on my waist, pulling me closer.

He kisses me back.

The world tilts, spins, and then rights itself as Gabrielle’s mouth moves against mine, hungry and demanding. His grip tightens, his fingers digging into my hips as he draws me in, pressing me flush against him. I’m drowning in his warmth, his scent, the sheer intensity of him.

My hands slide up to his shoulders, gripping tightly as he deepens the kiss. His tongue traces my bottom lip, and I open for him without hesitation, a needy sound escaping my throat. The noise seems to ignite something in him because suddenly he’s turning us, pinning me against the wall, and—God—his thigh is between my legs.

“Ray,” he breathes against my mouth, and the sound of my name in that wanting voice nearly undoes me. His lips trail down my jaw, hot and insistent, and I can’t stop the way my hips buck against his thigh. The instant I feel the friction, my arousal pressing into him, I lose all control.

My cock is so hard it’s painful, and I find myself grinding against him, desperate for more. Gabrielle’s gaze drops, his eyes glued to the way I move against his leg. For a moment, it’s like he’s caught in a trance, his mouth slightly open, his breathing uneven. The way he looks at me—at my bulging cock sliding against his leg—is so carnal, so primal, I can feel it in my bones.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I whisper in his ear, my voice shaking with need. “Please, James.”

But the words snap something in him. Gabrielle stills, his hands going slack on my hips. His eyes, so dark they’re nearly black, close for a moment as he takes a deep breath. When he opens them again, something in his expression has shifted, cooled.

“I think it might be better…if you go to sleep,” he says softly, his tone unreadable.

The words hit like a punch to the gut. I freeze, the rush of desire draining out of me in an instant. Mortification rises, hot and choking, as I replay everything in my head. Oh God. Did I just ruin everything? What if I read it all wrong—the kiss, the way he touched me, the way he looked at me? Maybe this was nothing more than a drunken experiment for him, something fleeting, meaningless. And here I am, grinding against him like a horny idiot who can’t keep it together.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer, stepping back quickly, my face burning. “God, I’m so sorry—”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Gabrielle cuts me off, his voice still quiet but firm. His gaze lingers on me, conflicted, and there’s something in his expression I can’t decipher. For a moment, I think he might say something else, but instead, he lets go of me completely and steps away.

Without another word, he turns and walks out into the snowy night.

I just stand there in the lobby, staring through the window as he disappears into the darkness. My chest feels hollow, the weight of my embarrassment crushing. What the hell was I thinking? I’m left with nothing but the ache of rejection and the bitter sting of my own stupidity.

***

The next morning, I dread waking up even while I’m still sleeping—my brain is awake, dragging me toward consciousness against my will. Somewhere deep down, I already know something bad happened. The feeling lurks, heavy and unshakable, even before I’m fully aware.

It’s my phone ringing that finally jerks me out of sleep. I squint against the winter sunlight spilling through the window, stabbing directly into my skull. My head pounds, my temples throb, and I grope blindly through the tangle of blankets, searching for the source of the noise.

When I finally find my phone, it takes a full ten seconds of fumbling and blinking to make sense of what’s happening. Cat’s name flashes on the screen. I groan and answer, pressing the phone to my ear.

“Yeah?” I rasp, my voice hoarse from sleep.

“Oh, good, you’re finally up,” Cat says, her voice far too chipper for someone who drank god knows how many questionable shots last night. That’s definitely not the voice of someone recovering from a night of heavy drinking. “Merry Christmas.”

“What time is it?” I frown, sitting upright and immediately regretting it as a fresh wave of nausea rolls over me.

“It’s one,” she replies, and I catch the faint sound of something sizzling in the background. Of course, she’s cooking—probably her favorite hangover breakfast: avocado toast with four slices of fried bacon. “What happened last night? I totally blacked out after you and Dr. Gaybrows came over. How did I get home? And where are my things?”

The moment the questions hit, there’s no avoiding it. The memories crash over me like a tidal wave. The drunken makeout session with Gabrielle in my apartment building floods back in vivid detail—his hands, his mouth, the way I practically climbed him like a tree. Oh God. My stomach churns, and for a moment, I’m genuinely afraid I’m going to be sick.

“Are you there?” Cat’s voice pulls me back, sharp with curiosity, and I realize I’ve been silent for way too long.

“Give me a moment,” I mutter, closing my eyes. My head is spinning, the hangover combining with mortification into a nauseating swirl of regret and dizziness.

“Are you that hungover?” Cat asks, genuine concern breaking through her voice.

“Yeah,” I mumble, wishing the pounding headache would ease up even slightly.

“You should take an ibuprofen,” Cat suggests, but the thought of swallowing anything right now is enough to make my stomach turn. I know I’d just throw it right back up.

“I can’t,” I mutter, breathing heavily through the nausea.

“You’re on call today, right?” Cat asks, and I hum in response, unable to muster actual words. “Okay, then. I’ll come over with hangover breakfast, and you’ll be good as new.”

I don’t even have the energy to protest or ask how she plans to get here without her coat before she hangs up. For the next fifteen minutes, I just lie there on my sofa, trying not to think about Gabrielle—or anything else, really. I focus on the colorful spots dancing behind my closed eyelids, willing the room to stop spinning.

I don’t move until I hear keys jingling in the lock and the sound of my door opening. Cat already has a spare key to my new apartment, and I’m thankful she does. I don’t think I could have dragged myself to the door if I tried.

I hear her bustling around in the hallway, kicking off her shoes and making her way into the living room—completely empty except for the sofa I’m currently sprawled on like a tragic medieval heroine dying of tuberculosis.

“Oh, baby,” Cat says, her voice dripping with concern when she sees me. “You look horrible.”

“I know,” I mumble, squinting at her with one eye open. The room is far too bright for both eyes to deal with.

“I brought you breakfast,” she announces, jingling a paper bag in front of my face. The smell of food wafts toward me—bacon and avocado—and nausea immediately rises to my throat.

“I can’t,” I croak, shaking my head weakly. But Cat never takes no for an answer when it comes to her legendary hangover cures.

She crouches in front of the sofa, pulling a Tupperware container out of the bag and popping off the lid. She’s even brought a fork, and before I can object, she’s already scooping up a piece of bacon and avocado and aiming it at my mouth.

I consider resisting for half a second, but I don’t have the strength, so I let my mouth fall open and take the food in. I chew reluctantly, praying I won’t get sick. To my surprise, the moment the food hits my stomach, the nausea ebbs just a little. Within half a minute, I feel…not great, but noticeably less like death. God, I can’t believe this actually works.

For the next ten minutes, I eat the breakfast bit by bit, each bite making me feel marginally better. Meanwhile, Cat moves around the apartment, rummaging through boxes in search of ibuprofen and a glass. Most of my stuff is still packed, so it takes her a while, but she eventually finds both. She pours me some water and hands me the pill, her face a picture of determination.

I swallow it gratefully, leaning back against the sofa cushions as I let out a deep sigh. “You’re the best,” I mutter, meaning every word.

Cat grins and plops down on the arm of the sofa, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I know. Oh, and on that note—” She digs into her bag and pulls out a can of Coke Zero Decaf—the one she knows I love so much I never start a day without it—and hands it to me.

“I love you,” I mutter, taking the cold can and pressing it against my temple. The chill feels like pure salvation.

“Now tell me what happened last night,” Cat says, still perching on the arm of the sofa. There’s a hint of impatience in her voice, the kind that tells me she already knows something happened. Cat has a sixth sense for sniffing out my secrets.

So I tell her, skipping any preamble. “I kissed Gabrielle.”

Her jaw drops so fast it’s like a coin slot in a piggy bank. “You did what?!”

I nod, opening the can of Coke and taking the first healing sip. The carbonation burns in the best way as I add, “We both got drunk and after we delivered you to your place, he came with me to mine. And I…sort of kissed him when we entered the building.”

“ You ? Kissed him ?” Cat’s eyes go so wide and round I’m immediately reminded of that old Hans Christian Andersen fairytale—the one with the toad who had eyes the size of saucers. Was it Thumbelina ?

“Yeah,” I say, and though the memory of how last night ended still stings, I can’t keep the smile off my face. Just for now, before Cat finds out about the disastrous conclusion. “Do you remember that you actually dared me to kiss him?”

“ I ? Dared you ?” Cat’s surprise is so genuine it hits me—she was absolutely hammered last night. For a split second, my sleep-deprived, hungover brain spirals into a wild theory about those mystery shots messing with her memory while also coaxing Gabrielle into exploring his secret homosexual fantasies.

“Yup,” I reply with a smirk, taking another big gulp of my Coke. God, it tastes so good it almost— almost —makes me forget how mortifying last night was.

“So what happened? What did he do?” Cat presses, her impatience growing as I don’t rush to spill the rest.

“He kissed me back,” I say, and before I can get another word in, Cat lets out a triumphant shriek.

“I TOLD YOU HE HAS GAY EYEbrOWS!” she shouts, her face lit up like she’s just won the lottery.

I snort, rolling my eyes. “First of all,” I start, giving her a mock-annoyed look, “saying you can detect a gay person just by their eyebrows is kind of homophobic.”

“It’s not!” Cat insists, her voice tinged with mild exasperation. “All it says is that straight guys are pigs, nothing else.”

I laugh out loud at that, the sound shaking off some of my lingering tension. But then I sober up, realizing I need to finish the story before her fantasy spirals completely out of control. I can’t dwell on what didn’t happen any longer.

“Actually,” I say, pausing to let the words sink in, “I don’t think he’s gay.”

Cat’s brow furrows, her face scrunching up in confusion. “Then why the fuck would he kiss you back?”

I shrug. “Who knows? But when things got a little steamy, he suddenly let me go and said he needed to leave.” I try to keep my tone neutral, but I know Cat can see the disappointment in my eyes.

“How steamy?” she asks, her voice suddenly serious, like she’s piecing together evidence for a case.

“Well…” I mutter, feeling my cheeks flush. “He, uh…looked at me…rubbing my cock against his leg.”

Cat lets out a loud pffft , and I can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.

“How did you get to that?” she asks, completely flabbergasted. Then her eyes narrow. “Wait, did you have your pants on?”

I laugh even harder, my face burning now. “Of course I did! I don’t know…we were just…in the moment with the whole making out thing.”

Cat bites her lip, her expression deadly serious, as if she’s trying to solve a complicated puzzle. “So he let you grind against him and then just… left ?”

“Yes,” I say, sighing.

She frowns even deeper, her brows knitting together. “How drunk was he?”

I shrug again. “I don’t know. He seemed fine to me. Plus, he told me he has a high tolerance for alcohol, so I assumed he was pretty sober.” I pause, debating whether to tell her my theory about the funky shots they both had, but decide against it. It feels too much like a tin-foil-hat conspiracy.

“Hmmm,” Cat drawls, clearly deep in thought. “How involved was he? In the making out.”

“Pretty involved,” I admit, my voice quiet.

“And how drunk were you?”

“Well, apparently drunk enough to completely misread the situation,” I say with a self-deprecating chuckle.

We fall into silence, both lost in thought, stealing glances at each other. The fact that Cat isn’t immediately launching into a passionate argument about how this proves Gabrielle is gay feels like a warning sign. If anything, it suggests she might think I’m being a bit delusional about the whole thing, and that thought stings.

After what feels like forever, I finally say, “He’s on call today. I don’t know how I’m supposed to look him in the eyes.” The embarrassment washes over me all over again, fresh and overwhelming, and I bury my face in my hands.

Cat stays silent, shaking her head slowly, and that’s when it hits me—I’m completely screwed.