I squinted my eyes against the glare of the sun streaming into the room through the cracks of the curtain. My skull began to throb as it, too, woke from the heavy fog of sleep. Groaning, I rolled over as if to escape the pounding in my head and pulled the sheet over me, the cool silk material sliding across my bare legs.

I froze. My sheets were cotton.

I pried my eyelids apart and blinked, attempting to adjust them to the blinding light filling the room. The room, which I could not for the life of me, recognize.

The bed I was laying on was enormous, definitely king-sized, and layered with crème silk linens. All of the furniture-the nightstand, dressers, and chairs-were antique and appeared to be part of a set. The walls were all the same soft blue, the crown molding and ceiling a matching ivory white, which unfortunately amplified the ever-increasing light flooding into the room. There were three doors, all closed and leading to God only knows where.

I attempted to swallow the rising panic as I struggled to remember how I had gotten here and where the hell here was.

I glanced down and found I was wearing a large grey T-shirt... and nothing else.

I immediately sprung from the bed, accidentally bumping into a tall armoire. I whipped around and found Trisha's clutch lying on top of it.

"What the bloody..."

I had borrowed it, I remembered suddenly. She had tossed it to me after I had finished getting dressed—getting dressed to go out for the night.

My hand slowly moved to cover my mouth as more memories from the night before flickered before my eyes.

We had gone to a bar. Tom had been there, looking dashing in a button-down shirt and neat slacks. We were all having drinks and then when I was waiting at the bar...

I inhaled sharply—and suddenly the scent of Tom's deodorant flooded my senses. My eyelids flickered shut as I nearly collapsed on the edge of the bed in relief.

Tom. Tom had been there. He'd intervened, and then afterward he'd brought me here. Here, to his place.

I let out a shaky breath and, with renewed calm, pushed myself off the bed to try the doors.

The first led to a walk-in closet that I knew Trisha would have committed murder for. The second led to a tiled bathroom that I would have killed for—two sinks and a mirror that took up the entire wall, a full platform bath, and a separate glass shower with a flat, waterfall showerhead.

I stepped in front of the mirror and cringed at the face grimacing back at me. My eye makeup had dramatically streaked down my cheeks and, in my tossing and turning, my hair had transformed into a birds nest.

Unlike Trisha, I did not carry makeup remover with me 'in case of unexpected sleepovers,' and I doubted Tom had any tucked away in one of the many drawers under the sink. Not wanting to stain his lush face towels, I plucked a few tissues from a box by the sink and dampened them before attempting to remove the stubborn remains of my makeup.

It took a lot of effort, and many tissues, but I finally managed to wash most of it off. My eyes were rimmed red from my scrubbing and my cheeks appeared slightly blotchy. While the result, unfortunately, looked like I had just spouted off a fresh set of fears, at least it wasn't as terrifying as the face I had woken up with.

I cringed as I pulled out my hair tie and raked my fingers through the knotted strands. When I untangled the worst of them, I pushed my hair to one side and sighed heavily before leaving the bathroom and marching through the third door.

I remembered the living room.

As I passed the couch, I remembered my fingers trembling so badly that Tom had to unbuckle my shoes. I remembered him holding me to him, and I remembered drifting off against his chest as his hand soothingly stroked my back.

Behind the couch, there was a marble breakfast bar I hadn't noticed before. Beyond that was the kitchen, which was much like the bathroom in that it was luxurious in design and space.

He stood in front of the fridge, staring at the contents holding the door open despite the fact that both doors were made of completely translucent glass.

"Tom?" I asked as I slid myself into one of the stools tucked into the bar.

He jumped slightly and released the door as he turned to face me. His hair was nearly as disheveled as mine with his tufts of hair sticking out at different angles. He was wearing a shirt similar in cut to the one I wore and a pair of striped boxers.

"Emma—"

"How come I didn't get pants?" I blurted before I could stop myself.

Tom's cheeks inflamed. "Y-you didn't want them. I did offer."

I clamped my eyes shut, regretting asking. "And... how did I get in your bed?"

"I put you there." He cleared his throat, and I peeked with one eye as he pushed his fingers through his hair, further ruffling it. "You were pretty out of it..."

I nodded. "Sorry about that—about all of it."

"It wasn't your fault."

His words were adamant, yet still gentle.

I merely shrugged. "Hazard of the job."

Tom's eyes widened as he turned and busied himself with pouring a cup of coffee into a large ceramic mug.

"This has happened before?" He asked as he offered me the steaming mug.

I accepted it with a grateful smile. Tom pulled creamer from the fridge and set it in front me, waiting.

"Not so violently," I admitted hesitantly as I poured the cream. "But... yeah. I've been approached by pissed off writers before. Usually, it just involves yelling, though I have had a smoothie dumped on me before."

I held out the jug of cream for him to place back in the fridge, but Tom didn't move. He was glowering at my wrist. My eyes dropped to where his were fixated and found a bruise already blooming deep purple. It twisted all the way around my wrist, meeting in the middle with lines that took the shape of thick fingers.

I nearly dropped the jug on the counter and quickly brought my wrist to my lap, covering up the marred skin with my other hand.

"Sorry—"

"Will you stop apologizing?" Tom snapped, his eyes wide as they locked on mine. "That man hurt you, Emma. Why are you not screaming?"

I couldn't tear my gaze from his intense stare, not even as I felt the sting of salt flood my eyes or my lower lip begin to quiver.

"Shit," Tom breathed, his anger immediately disapparating as he rushed around the counter. "Ems, I'm sorry."

I leaned into his chest as he folded his arms around me and took a deep, albeit shaky breath.

"I'm so sorry," he said again into my hair. "I didn't mean—"

I shook my head and gripped his shirt in my fist. He pulled me in tighter and let myself cry—not caring that he was there to witness it, not worrying that he might think me weak or pathetic.

I pressed myself further into him and closed my eyes, finally allowing all of the emotions that had bombarded me over the last 24 hours to wash over me knowing that I could weather their storm—and blindly unaware of the onslaught brewing just beyond our horizon.