Actually, let me rephrase—this is spectacularly awkward, even by magical standards. And magical standards are pretty damn high.

The light filtering through the heavy green curtains was painful, sharp, and far too personal. So was the smell of expensive cologne, old parchment, and something distinctly male.

There was a warm weight pressed against your back. An arm draped across your waist. Fingers, lazily curled, dangerously close to places they had no business being at nine in the morning.

Sheets tangled around your legs. Naked legs. And you were very sure you hadn't gone to bed naked last night.

You squeezed your eyes shut. Then open. Then shut, hoping that the painful reality of your situation would simply evaporate into a mildly unpleasant hangover-induced dream.

You turned your head slowly.