The first thing Caoimhe noticed was the pounding in her skull, a relentless drumline that felt like it was auditioning for a heavy metal band. The second was the silk sheets—cool, smooth, and definitely not hers—clinging to her naked body like a lover who didn’t know when to let go. She blinked against the harsh morning light streaming through a cracked blind, her eyes squinting at the unfamiliar ceiling of a cluttered apartment that screamed “trendy chaos.” Mismatched furniture sprawled across the room, a velvet armchair clashing with a scuffed-up coffee table littered with empty wine bottles. The faint scent of lavender hung in the air, teasing her senses with a memory she couldn’t quite grasp.
“Bloody hell,” she muttered, her Irish lilt thick with groggy regret as she sat up, clutching the sheets to her chest. “Where the feck am I?”
Her head spun as she scanned the room, her heart doing a jittery little dance when she spotted her phone on the nightstand. Dead. Of course. Because why would the universe give her a lifeline when she was clearly drowning in last night’s bad decisions? Her clothes were nowhere to be seen—not a sock, not a bra, nothing. Just the tangled mess of sheets and the creeping realization that she was very much naked in a stranger’s bed.
“Right, Caoimhe, let’s not panic,” she told herself, her voice a harsh whisper as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing at the cold hardwood floor beneath her feet. “You probably just… got drunk, stripped for the craic, and passed out in some random Airbnb. Totally normal. Happens to everyone. Sure, I’m a walking disaster, but I’m not *that* kind of disaster.”
She stumbled to her feet, clutching the sheet around her like a toga, and began her investigation. The apartment was a treasure trove of chaos—empty wine bottles lined the kitchen counter like trophies of debauchery, and a half-empty bottle of rosé sat beside two glasses, both rimmed with different shades of lipstick. Caoimhe froze, her hazel eyes narrowing as she leaned closer, inspecting the evidence like a hungover Sherlock Holmes.
“Two glasses. Two lipsticks. One of them’s mine, obviously,” she muttered, running a finger over the faint coral smudge on one glass. “But this other one… bloody hell, that’s a bold red. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing that shade. Too… femme fatale for a mess like me.”
Her stomach churned as she shuffled further into the kitchen, her bare feet sticking slightly to the floor—probably spilled wine, she told herself, not wanting to consider worse alternatives. Her gaze caught on a lacy black bra draped over the back of a chair. She stopped dead, her breath hitching. It wasn’t hers. Not even close. Her bras were practical, beige, the kind of thing you bought in a multipack because you couldn’t be arsed to care. This… this was a weapon of seduction, all sheer fabric and delicate straps, the kind of thing that screamed “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“Oh, no. No, no, no,” she groaned, rubbing her temples as if she could massage the memories back into her brain. “This isn’t happening. I’m straight. Straight as a feckin’ ruler. I don’t do… whatever this implies. I don’t even know how to flirt with a woman, let alone—” She cut herself off, her face flushing as she waved a hand at the bra like it was a cursed artifact. “Nope. Not going there. Probably just… a roommate’s. Or a friend’s. Or a very stylish burglar’s. Yes, that’s it. A stylish burglar broke in, drank my wine, and left her unmentionables. Case closed.”
Her self-delusion was interrupted by a small sticky note on the fridge, written in a loopy, confident scrawl. She peeled it off with trembling fingers, her heart thudding as she read the words: *“Last night was unforgettable, babe. Call me. - S.”*
“Unforgettable?” she echoed aloud, her voice cracking as she stared at the note like it was written in blood. “Unforgettable how? Like, ‘oh, we had a laugh over charades’ unforgettable? Or… the other kind? The kind I’m not equipped to handle because I’ve spent thirty years of my life thinking I’m allergic to anything remotely sapphic?”
She pressed the note to her forehead, closing her eyes as if she could osmosis the answers through her skin. “Caoimhe, you absolute eejit. What did you do? Did you charm someone with your awkward rambling? Did you trip into a kiss? Did you—” She stopped, her inner monologue spiraling into a pit of mortified humor. “Oh, God, I probably cried about my ex while someone patted my head and poured me more wine. That’s my signature move. Pathetic drunk crying. Bet that’s real sexy.”
Her pacing led her back to the counter, where her eyes landed on a small polaroid photo tucked under a stack of takeout menus. Her breath caught as she slid it free, her fingers trembling. The woman in the photo was stunning—dark hair cascading over one shoulder, sharp cheekbones, and a wicked, knowing grin that seemed to pierce right through the image. She wore a leather jacket and that same bold red lipstick from the glass, her eyes glinting with a confidence Caoimhe could only dream of possessing. The note’s “S” suddenly felt like a neon sign flashing in her mind.
“Oh, feck me sideways,” she whispered, her stomach dropping to her knees as she clutched the photo. “This is S. This is… whoever I was with last night. And she’s—God, she’s gorgeous. Like, ‘make a straight girl question everything’ gorgeous. Which I’m not. Questioning, I mean. I’m straight. Straighter than a motorway. Straighter than—” She faltered, her gaze flicking back to the photo, that grin pulling at something deep in her chest. “Okay, maybe a wee bit curvier than a motorway. Just a smidge. For science.”
She sank onto the nearest chair, the silk sheet slipping slightly as she stared at the photo, her mind a battlefield of denial and curiosity. “What the hell happened last night, Caoimhe?” she asked herself, her voice softer now, tinged with a reluctant intrigue. “And why do I kinda want to find out?”
The apartment was silent, save for the faint hum of the city outside, but inside her, a storm was brewing—one she wasn’t sure she was ready to weather. Yet, as she traced a finger over the edge of the photo, she couldn’t help but wonder if S—wherever she was—might just be the kind of trouble worth chasing.
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