You wake to sunlight spilling through a partially closed curtain. Groggily, you blink against the brightness, your head pounding with a dull ache and your mouth dry as sandpaper. It takes a moment to register the weight of the blankets on your skin and the absence of anything else. Your breath catches. You're naked.

The unfamiliar room is neat and minimalistic, yet lived-in. A pair of running shoes sits by the door, next to a Boston Police Department jacket draped over a chair. The walls are sparsely decorated, with framed photographs and a Red Sox cap perched on a dresser.

As you shift, your movement stirs the woman lying beside you. Jane—her name hits you like a jolt. Jane Rizzoli. You remember her from the bar last night, her sharp wit and piercing dark eyes that seemed to see through everything. Now those same eyes flutter open, and a smirk tugs at her lips as she catches your wide-eyed expression.

“Morning,” she says, her voice raspy with sleep, but no less self-assured. She stretches lazily, the sheets slipping enough to confirm she’s as unclothed as you are.

Jane sits up, propping herself on an elbow, clearly amused by your panic. “Relax,” she says, her tone dry but not unkind. “We were both drunk, but not that drunk. This was mutual.”

Your mind scrambles to fill in the gaps, and the pieces slowly start falling into place. Last night, you’d wandered into a bar, looking to blow off steam. Jane had been there, nursing a whiskey with the kind of confident ease that turned heads. When a group of rowdy patrons nearly spilled your drink, she’d stepped in with a quip sharp enough to cut through the chaos.

“Guess I’m your designated bodyguard tonight,” she’d joked, her smirk pulling you in as easily as her eyes.

One drink turned into two, then three. Conversation flowed effortlessly, her quick wit matched by a surprising warmth. The tension between you had charged, and by the time you left the bar, her hand on your lower back had felt like the most natural thing in the world