The smell of lavender was the first thing that greeted Ming Ye as he drifted toward consciousness. He realized quickly that the mattress beneath him was softer than his own, the duvet lighter. This was Zi Han's room.
He propped himself up on one elbow, his head throbbing with a dull hangover, and saw her. She was slumped in the armchair by the window, still dressed in her silk strawberry-print pajamas. She looked small and vulnerable, her head tilted at an awkward angle.
A faint memory flickered through his mind, it was fragmented and blurred by alcohol, but enough for him to piece together what had happened the night before. The apology, the way he had leaned on her, the warmth of her arms when she had finally hugged him… and something in his chest softened.
For a moment, Ming Ye simply watched her.
