Chapter 5: The Morning After (Leo POV)

I wake up with my head pounding, a brutal thud like someone's smashing a hammer against my skull. The sheets are tangled around my legs, clinging tight, and they smell sharp—cologne, not my cheap detergent.

My mouth's dry, sour with last night's wine, and my eyes burn as I force them open. The room's dim, rain tapping a steady beat against a window I don't know.

This isn't my bed—too big, too soft. Then I feel it: an arm draped over my waist, warm, heavy, pinning me down. My heart stops cold.

I turn my head slow, dreading it, and see Daniel. His face is mashed into the pillow, dark hair a mess, breathing deep and even. He looks calm, like this is routine. It's not for me.

My stomach lurches, and I need out—now.

I slide from under his arm, careful, like the bed might crack if I move too fast. My feet hit the cold floor, and I stand, scanning the room.

My jeans are crumpled by the dresser, shirt tossed near a chair, one shoe half under the bed. I grab them quick, hands shaking as I yank on my jeans, zipper rasping loud in the quiet.

My shirt goes over my head—inside out, but I don't care. Last night slams back: the party, wine flowing, Daniel's smirk across the room, then his hands pulling me into that lounge, lips crashing hard.

I'd kissed back, wild, my fingers in his hair, losing myself in it. I shove my feet into my shoes, laces flapping, and snatch my jacket off the floor, bolting for the door.

The sheets rustle behind me, and I freeze, breath caught tight. Daniel's awake, propped on an elbow, gray eyes sharp, watching me.

"You're leaving?" he says, voice rough with sleep, hitting me low in the gut.

I fumble with my jacket, pulling it on. "Yeah, I gotta go."

He sits up, sheets sliding to his hips, bare chest catching the dim light. "You don't have to run," he says, a half-smile tugging his lips. "Stay—coffee, talk, whatever."

I shake my head fast, grabbing my other shoe. "No, I can't—this was a mistake."

He tilts his head, calm, testing me. "Didn't feel like a mistake last night."

My face burns, and I snap, "I was drunk—doesn't mean anything."

He doesn't reply, just climbs out of bed, floor creaking as he grabs jeans from a chair. I don't look—can't—and yank the door open, slamming it behind me.

I stumble through his place—big, open, fancy furniture blurring past—shoving my other shoe on as I hit the front door.

The stairwell's cold, my boots banging down the steps, and the rain slaps me hard when I shove outside. It's soaking my hair, my jacket, but I walk fast, not caring where, just away.

My head's a mess—Daniel's hands, his mouth, the way I didn't pull back. I stop under a bus stop shelter, rain hammering the roof, and shove my hands in my pockets, leaning against the glass.

My phone buzzes, loud against my leg, and I yank it out—Mia. I hesitate, thumb hovering, then answer, voice rough. "Hey."

"Leo, where the hell are you?" she snaps, sharp but shaky, like she's been up all night. "You didn't come home—I called ten times!"

I wince, rubbing my face. "Crashed at a friend's—sorry."

She's quiet, then, "Which friend? You've been dodging me since that fight—what's going on?"

I grip the phone tighter, rain drumming louder. "Nothing's going on—just tired, Mia."

Her voice hardens, cutting through. "Don't lie to me! You're acting like I'm the enemy—talk to me!"

I snap back, "I don't need this right now—back off!"

She gasps, soft, hurt, and I hang up fast, shoving the phone away, guilt twisting sharp in my chest.

I start walking again, rain soaking through my shoes, my apartment only blocks away. The streets are gray, cars splashing past, horns blaring in the wet mess.

I hit my building—brick chipped, graffiti bleeding down the walls—and climb the stairs, the stink of stale beer hitting me hard.

My door's unlocked, creaking as I push in, and the place is a wreck—canvases stacked, paint tubes scattered, that damn eviction notice glaring red from the counter.

My phone buzzes again as I kick the door shut—Max this time. I answer, leaning against the wall, voice flat. "Yeah?"

"Leo, exhibition update," he says, quick, no bullshit. "Pushed your name, but they're stalling—still might need cash to lock it in."

My stomach drops, heavy. "How much?"

He sighs, loud through the line. "Couple hundred, maybe—I'm digging, but it's tight. You got anything?"

I laugh, bitter, glancing at the empty table. "Not a dime—landlord's giving me seven days. Six left now."

He's quiet, then, "Shit, man, that's rough. I'll keep at it—party do anything for you?"

I freeze, Daniel's face flashing—his smirk, his hands. "Not yet," I lie, throat tight. "Keep pushing."

I hang up, dropping the phone on the counter with a clatter, and slump into a chair, springs groaning.

The rain's louder now, pounding the window, matching the thud in my head. I grab a half-finished canvas—San Francisco skyline, dark and jagged—and stare at it, hands itching for a brush.

Seven days to pay or I'm out, Max dangling a spot I can't afford, Mia pissed and hurt, and Daniel—his voice, "You can't run from this," sticking like glue.

I snag a brush, dip it in black paint, and slash it across the canvas, fast, messy, anger spilling out. The party was supposed to save me—art, sales, a lifeline—not leave me tangled in this.

I add more paint, lines carving deep, my head spinning, stomach hollow, but my hands keep moving, fighting back the mess I've made.