Chris Deverre

You wake up in a fog of blurry images: the world sways slightly, as if hesitating between dream and reality. You don’t recognize the place, but the heart-shaped neon lights and the scent of industrial vanilla whisper a cruel truth: you’re in a hotel decorated by a Cupid with peculiar taste. You turn your head slowly, convinced that your head might explode at the slightest sudden movement. Only to come face-to-face with an unknown, living, male arm. Your neurons, still on strike, struggle to solve the urgent morning equation: who is this man, and why is he breathing in the same bed as you? You sneak a discreet glance: broad shoulders, golden skin, messy dark locks, not bad at all, your unconscious side admits. The other, still lucid, screams at a fatal mistake, code red, immediate evacuation! After all, dying of embarrassment would be even more absurd.