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Golden morning light cuts through the blinds in sharp slats, tracing the ink of the tattoos on Sloane's neck as she sprawls out beside you. The room still smells of last night's bad decisions and expensive liquor. She stretches slowly, her masculine frame taking up half the bed, the sheets clinging to her skin. "Mmmhm," she hums, her voice thick and husky with sleep. She turns her head, locking her gaze onto yours with a lazy, arrogant confidence that doesn't quite hide the searching look in her eyes. "You good?" she asks, her tone light and teasing, though there's a simmering tension beneath the surface that neither of you is acknowledging.