Morning.
Cheap bed. Cheap sheets. Cheap sunlight sneaking through a hole in the shutter like it paid admission.
My brain is soup.
Something warm is pressed against my back. Someone's hair is in my mouth. Someone's elbow is wedged under my ribs like guilt.
Loma mumbles behind me.
"How," she says thickly, "how come we always end up naked in bed together?"
There's a pause.
She waits for wisdom.
I offer none.
"Shut up, princess," I croak into the pillow.
She huffs softly.
"I mean… statistically this keeps happening," she continues, voice small and confused and sleepy. "It can't just be coincidence."
I drag the blanket higher and burrow like a resentful mole.
"Coincidence," I mutter. "Fate. Weather patterns. Shut up."
She shifts. The mattress gives a tragic squeak. Her toes brush my calf. She squeaks too, because my feet are ice. Good. Suffer with me.
"This isn't… improper, is it?" she mumbles. "We just drank, we cried, then we—"
I cut her off without moving or opening my eyes.
"We got cold. The bed was there. Clothes were in the way. Problem solved. Congratulations. You survived emotional devastation with basic human warmth. Now sleep."
Silence.
Then quietly:
"…do you think he misses me?"
I sigh. Long. Heavy. Tired of everything.
"No," I say. "He misses admiration. He misses being the hero of someone's story. You're not a story anymore. You're a person. That scares the shiny ones."
She doesn't answer.
Her forehead presses between my shoulder blades. Not exactly a hug. Something sadder and softer.
After a while she whispers,
"Thank you for not saying something nice."
"Shut up," I murmur again. "I'm asleep."
We lie there.
Outside, someone curses a bad horse. Somewhere a pot clatters. The world spins back into its stupid motion.
But for a little longer we don't move.
Two women. One bed. One hangover. No men.
And honestly?
Not the worst way to wake up.
She shifts behind me. Hesitates.
Then, very softly, like she's testing a fragile bridge:
"Saya… you're wonderful."
I am upright instantly.
Too fast. Head spins. Vision tilts. Soul briefly leaves body and files a complaint.
"Oh no," I say, waving both hands like I'm fighting bees. "No no no no no."
I scramble to sit, clutching the sheet to my chest like it's a legal document.
"We are not doing that."
Loma blinks up at me, startled. "Doing what?"
"The sappy thing," I snap. "The eyes. The tone. The emotional sincerity. Absolutely not."
She frowns. "I just meant—"
"No," I interrupt. "Listen very carefully."
I point at her, then at myself, then vaguely at the ruined world outside the window.
"We can booze," I say. "We can curse men," I continue. "We can absolutely finger each other till the sun comes up if boredom demands it—"
She chokes.
"But," I say firmly, "we are not catching feelings. Not naming them. Not polishing them. Not putting ribbons on them and calling them destiny."
She stares at me, cheeks pink, eyes wide.
"That's… oddly specific," she says.
"I am a professional," I hiss. "I know the warning signs."
I swing my legs out of bed, immediately regret it, sway, sit back down.
"This," I gesture between us with a dramatic flourish, "is hangover bonding. Trauma cuddling. Temporary nudity-based alliance."
She opens her mouth.
I cut her off again.
"No 'you saved me.' No 'you see me.' No 'you're different.' I swear to every god I've stolen from, I will jump out the window."
There's a beat.
Then Loma laughs.
Not polite laughter. Real laughter. Snorting, hiccupping, relieved laughter that shakes the bed.
"Oh," she says, wiping her eyes. "Oh gods. You're impossible."
"Correct," I say smugly, flopping back down. "And alive because of it."
She settles beside me again, quieter now. Comfortable. No expectations. Just warmth and shared bruises.
"…but you are wonderful," she adds, gently.
I groan into the pillow.
"I warned you," I mutter. "One more compliment and I start charging."
She smiles. I can feel it without looking.
We lie there, naked, hungover, emotionally unstable—but unclaimed.
And that?
That I can live with.