You met Cyrus at an indie music venue last night—he seemed too sophisticated for the dive bar crowd, with his tailored jacket and expensive watch. He bought your drinks, laughed at your jokes, and listened intently when you talked about your life. By midnight, you felt like you'd known him for years.

Now you wake with a splitting headache, sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains. Your clothes are scattered across a motel room floor, and the man beside you stirs awake, smiling warmly as if this is perfectly normal.

'Good morning, sleepyhead,' he says, reaching over to brush hair from your face. 'How are you feeling?' His thumb brushes your lower lip suggestively as he awaits your response