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Jean can't quite remember how it happened. All he knows, is that he had gone out for drinks with Connie and Sasha, and that they had ran into Hitch at the bar.
Now, she lays next to him, covered in nothing but sunshine and bed-sheets. And all he can hope for, is that none of the boys comes in to find out.
He lets out a sigh and rubs at his temples. Scraps of the night before flash through his memory, light as the morning air. The flirtatious smile playing at her lips. The sweet taste of her kisses melting on his tongue, soon as they closed the doors. The way his body had tensed up inside of hers.
Dang, his head hurts.
He turns around to stare over at her. Her hair falls messy over her forehead, flicks to an almost-gold under the early sunlight. She's still sleeping; her mouth slightly parted as she breathes, safe and sound under the blankets.
He thinks, sure enough, he had always found Hitch a beautiful woman. But now, merely inches away, he can drink in every detail, savor each corner that there is to her. The tiny moles that speckle her back. The faint heat that washes over the bridge of her nose.
She's not at all his type, he has to admit. Still, there's a tinge of him that burns at the sight of her. How she tenderly tugs at his pillow, curled up on her side of the mattress. The silly sounds that escape her lungs when she snores.
He's more than certain, he's not the only man that's witnessed this part of her. Yet, he can't help but feel that there's something raw about seeing her bare, body and soul. That there's poetic intimacy in showing someone you don't know much, how you look like in the mornings.
He huffs, and stretches out an arm to awaken the muscles. His limbs pound and constrict, beaten over by the after-effects of alcohol. And he tells himself, though rather quickly, that he's never drinking this much again.
Much less, if he messes things up this bad.
"Huh?". Hitch mumbles next to him. It appears, she's just as confused as he is. "My head is killinggg me..."
Jean shakes her up a little bit.
"Um, hi.", he mutters. His voice is a low rasp; a hushed grumble that's heavy with sleep, still. He has no idea when or how has he become so awkward, but he sure as hell doesn't like it much. "G'morning, I guess..."
Hitch props herself up on one elbow and squints in the light rays. Her cheek rests upon her open palm; eyes making out the contours of his figure.
"You?!", she exclaims. And Jean notices, there's a sudden change in her expression. As if she's torn somewhere between amused and unimpressed. "What the hell happened?"
He scratches his head. He doesn’t really know which one of the two is the worse.
"Well, I have just as much information as you."
Hitch grunts, then stares up at him once more. His hair has grown since the last time they'd seen each other around Sina. His beard, now a slight whisp scratching up his jawline, has sprung, too.
She has to admit, he'd been kind of a douchebag the night before. But even at that, she still finds him cute, as much as she hates to say.
She bites her lip. The smell of beer mingles within the sweaty sheets, floats away with the breeze from early spring. Next to her, Jean lays back against the headboard, lost into his own inner-monologue. And she thinks to herself, sure enough, that there are much deeper shades to him. That, after all, maybe she's glad to know that he's more than just the sweet talks and the cocky smirks.
"Ugh.", she pouts. She recalls, though very vaguely, how he'd then made her his between the covers. It had been tender, really. The way he'd held her hands above her head. The drunken words he'd whispered as she came undone for him. "You don't remember anything, don't you?"
Jean looks at her for a moment. There's a spark that flickers inside her big, big eyes. Yet, he can't quite figure out what it is. Why is she even asking him this? Does she want him to remember? His mind's all over the place and it's too early for things to be this complicated.
He exhales.
"Nope."
Hitch leans in closer, reaches out to stroke his cheek. She's so near, he can see figments of sun paint her irises of golden summer. So achingly proximate, his heart is raising and he can't seem to make it stop.
What is she doing to him?
"Well...", she starts; a smile of mischief creeping up her lips. "If you ever want me to refresh your memory, just hit me up."