nyctophilia
[ nĭk′tə-fĭl′ē-ə ]
n.
a preference for the night or darkness
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"Oh we're definitely killing them then, I need to pad my stats anyway."
"You sound like a serial killer."
"I know, I still wonder why...
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The next morning, I woke up groggily, every cell in my body screaming in protest. My back and hips ached like I’d been wrestling with 10 grizzly bears all night. I groaned, rubbing my eyes before stretching, a chorus of cracks echoing through my stiff bones.
When I finally opened my eyes properly, I froze.
I was sitting on the floor. Why was I on the floor?
“What the fuck?” I muttered, blinking in confusion. My mind felt like it was still wading through a fog as I scanned my surroundings. This wasn’t my room.
The walls were an earthy gray, adorned with minimalist decor—definitely not my aesthetic. A faint scent of cologne lingered in the air, and as my gaze drifted toward the bed, I saw a figure cocooned in blankets. That’s when the events of last night came rushing back to me. ____________________________
“You’re sleeping with me, duh.” Choi had said, his voice slurred yet oddly certain, like it was a perfectly logical statement.
I stared at him as if he’d grown ten heads, “Wha—”
Before I could form a coherent protest, he grabbed my hand, his grip surprisingly soft but firm, and dragged me to his room.
It wasn’t my first time stepping inside- I’d been here briefly for meetings and such- but this was the first time I actually noticed it. The space was somewhat neat and clean, with a sleek black-and-white color scheme and barely any clutter, save for the few balls of crumpled paper near the bin. Failed attempts at throwing them into the basket, I suppose. A desk in the corner housed a gaming setup, and a neatly folded blanket sat on the armrest of a leather chair.
Choi plopped onto his bed unceremoniously, still shirtless, his disheveled hair falling over his forehead.
Rolling my eyes, I turned to leave, “Nope. Not happening.” I said firmly, heading for the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” His deep, slightly raspy voice made me stop in my tracks. I turned slowly, meeting his dark, glassy eyes, “Didn’t I say you’re sleeping with me?” he added, a creepy edge to his drunken tone that sent a chill up my spine.
Okay, I take it back. Drunk Choi isn’t cute. He’s downright unsettling.
I crossed my arms, “And where exactly am I supposed to sleep?”
He shuffled over to one side of the bed, patting the empty space beside him.
I let out a long sigh. The rational part of my brain told me to walk away and to drag my feet to my own room but my body—exhausted and slightly tipsy—betrayed me. Before I knew it, I was sitting on the edge of the bed, glaring at him.
