Disclaimer: I don't own Rae or Finn or any of it. And look, I managed not to steal the title from "Mr. Brightside." Success!

Thanks to orangeisthenewblue on Tumblr again.


Her left arm was cold, but the rest of her felt strangely warm. She didn't usually feel this warm when she woke up; she also didn't usually sleep this close to the wall. On top of all that, the light was hitting her face at an odd angle.

And then there was the naked young man in the bed with her.

His legs were tangled with hers, and there was one hand splayed against her hip. Rae hadn't opened her eyes yet, but now she pressed them even more tightly closed. It was a little late to be embarrassed, but she felt that way nonetheless. Someone had seen her naked last night. Finn had seen her naked last night. She was naked in his bed right now.

She wanted to disappear. How could she ever look him in the eye again? How could she stand to be near him without erupting into a fireball of lust and shame, remembering how he'd made her feel and—oh, no—the things she'd said? (More like the noises you made, a voice in her head sniggered unhelpfully.)

Maybe she could get dressed before he saw her in the altogether in the harsh light of day. Last night the dim lamplight that made them stumble on the way to the bed also hid the scars and other less attractive features. Somehow he hadn't seemed put off by any of it at the time; but surely her luck couldn't hold, not in the bright sunlight streaming in on a clear morning, highlighting every flaw.

And she couldn't get out easily, not with her back against the wall and him between her and freedom. She'd have to climb over him if she wanted out. The idea made her face hot, and she wondered if he'd like that. But she'd never know, because there was no way in a million years that she'd ever ask him a thing like that.

She decided to risk it and opened one eye a crack. His face was turned toward her, slack in sleep. He looked gorgeous, even this close, and she was suddenly worried about spots—did she have any? And her breath would be terrible, wouldn't it? She closed her eye again, despair washing over her. It was all hopeless. Once he woke up he'd come to his senses, and her first time would be her last time for a long time. She groaned silently.

At least she'd have the memory of his hands on her, caressing her until she was all gooseflesh, and his lips against hers. All the places he'd touched her would never be the same. Suddenly she knew how dark his eyes could be, how he stuttered over her name, how his muscles tensed, how he kissed her like he needed the air from her lungs. She knew all that and a thousand other things beside that she wouldn't forget, even if she never saw him again.

What would be more awkward: having him wake up to find her staring, or pretending to be asleep until she was sure he was awake? If she feigned sleep maybe he'd get up and she'd get one last look at his arse, a final mental picture to remember it by. That thought at least was a comfort.

What if—and the idea was almost too terrible to bear—his parents were downstairs having breakfast as she tried to creep out? What if they invited her to have toast and tea? What if Finn's dad offered to drive her home?

Why hadn't she thought of these things before?

(Because her brain shut down and logic fled in the face of Finn stripping off his shirt and watching her with a hungry expression. Because it was one thing to walk through a mystical gateway of any sort on your own and another entirely to plunge through it headlong, hand in hand with your first love.)

He stretched, legs sliding against and between hers, the hand on her hip slipping toward her back. She watched in fascination as he yawned; then, before she could prepare or pretend, his eyes were open and on her. And he smiled. Sleepily but unmistakably, he smiled.

Maybe he didn't realise it was her.

"Mornin', Rae Rae," he murmured, and the hand settled on the small of her back, tracing circles on her skin.

Maybe he didn't remember what they'd done. She braced herself for the inevitable disappointment, the regret, the mortification that would come when he did. Maybe she could make it to the bathroom before she started to cry (as it was just too optimistic to think she'd be able to control herself until she left the house, especially since she'd need to find her knickers first).

Sunbeams lit him up until she could barely stand to look at him. It just wasn't fair how lovely he was, especially as he asked, "Y'alright?"

"Yeah." She managed a small smile even though here it came: the brush-off. "You?"

"Woke up next to you, didn't I?" he asked rhetorically, bringing his hand up to stroke her cheek and smiling shy and proud and adoring. "I'm bloody brilliant."