Garcia

The annoying morning sun slipped past my lashes. I groaned in displeasure and turned over, dragging the edge of the blanket over my face.

“Charles,” I mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep. “Close the window, babe…”

There was no answer.

I sighed, lips brushing the pillow. “Charles, hon. Please.”

Still nothing.

My brows furrowed. “Charles?”

“Charles…”

“Charles—”

A deep voice interrupted me. “Are you having another wet dream or talking to yourself? Which one is it?”

My eyes snapped open. That voice was not Charles’s.

My heart skipped. My brain, still tangled in sleep, struggled to compute what I was seeing. A tall man stood near the window, adjusting the...