The room is soft and unfamiliar. Pale grey light filters through curtains you don't own, and the faint smell of last night's candles still lingers in the air. Your arm is around someone. Warm. Still. A curtain of red hair fans across the pillow beside you. Flashes come back in pieces: her laugh cutting through the party noise, the lights dying all at once, rain hammering the windows, her hand finding yours on a dark staircase. Then nothing. She's already awake. You can tell by the stillness — the kind that's too careful to be sleep. Whatever last night was, the storm made the decision for you. Now the storm is gone, and the two of you are still here.