Alora Jones; a shy, 20-year-old who has spent all of her life struggling with her weight. It doesn't help that the main cause of that is because of her parents. Growing up with constant negativity and hurtful words being thrown at her by the two tha...
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Something was wrong.
Before I even opened my eyes, my body knew it. The bed was too soft. The air smelled different—clean linen, something vaguely like cedar. Not my detergent. Not my apartment.
My stomach twisted as I blinked awake, staring at a ceiling I didn't recognize. A slow, creeping panic climbed up my spine. Where the hell was I?
I turned my head, my pulse spiking when I saw the empty space beside me. The sheets were rumpled, the pillow still slightly indented. Someone had been there. He had been there.
That's when I noticed the shirt I was wearing. Not mine. His.
I sat up too fast, the world tilting for a second as I yanked the covers back, my breath catching in my throat. Was I naked under this? No. No. I still had underwear on. But that didn't mean anything.
My heart pounded as I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to remember last night. Flashes came in pieces. A bar. His laugh. The way he looked at me. Then... nothing. A void.
Oh, god.
I was in his bed. Wearing his shirt. And I didn't know if we had sex.
My pulse roared in my ears as I scanned the room, searching for him. For answers. But he was gone.
And I was alone.
All of a sudden, a commotion echoed from the other side of the door.
I froze. My pulse, already erratic, lurched into overdrive. Was he back? Had he left and come back?
I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. I needed to move. To do something.
I threw the sheets off me and swung my legs over the side of the bed, the cold floor sending a shock up my spine. That's when I realized—I wasn't wearing pants. Shit.
Panic flared in my chest as I scrambled to find them, only to remember—I wore a skirt last night.
I groaned and smacked my forehead. Of course. My first real night out in forever, and I just had to make things worse for myself. Now I was half-dressed, stranded in Harry's bedroom, with absolutely no memory of how I got here.
The noises outside the door continued—shuffling, muffled voices, something clattering against the floor. I had to see what was happening. But first, clothes.
My eyes darted around the room, searching for anything to cover my legs. My skirt was nowhere in sight—where the hell had I thrown it? After a frantic scan, my gaze landed on a pair of baggy shorts draped over the back of a chair. Harry's.
I hesitated for half a second before snatching them up. Thanking whatever power that's up there that they fit me.
Another loud thump from outside snapped me back to the moment. My breath hitched. My heart pounded.
