It's very quiet. The light is muted. I am comfortable and warm, in this bed. Hmm... I open my eyes, and for a moment, I'm tranquil and serene, enjoying the strange unfamiliar surroundings. I have no idea where I am. The headboard behind me is in the shape of a massive sun. It's oddly familiar. The room is large and airy and plushly furnished in browns and golds and beige. I have seen it before. Where? My befuddled brain struggles through its recent visual memories. Holy crap. I'm in the Northern Lights hotel... in a suite. I have stood in a room similar to this with Yoona. This looks bigger. Oh . I'm in Jessica Jung's suite. How did I get here?

Fractured memories of the previous night come slowly back to haunt me. The drinking, oh no the drinking, the phone call, oh no the phone call, the vomiting, oh no the vomiting. Taeyeon and then Jessica. Oh no. I cringe inwardly. I don't remember coming here.

I'm wearing my t-shirt, bra, and . No socks. No jeans. Holy .

I glance at the bedside table. On it is a glass of orange juice and two tablets. Advil.

Control freak that she is, she thinks of everything. I sit up and take the tablets. Actually, I don't feel that bad, probably much better than I deserve. The orange juice tastes divine.

It's thirst quenching and refreshing. Nothing beats freshly squeezed orange juice for reviving an arid mouth.

X

There's a knock on the door. My heart leaps into my mouth, and I can't seem to find my voice. She opens the door anyway and strolls in.

Holy hell, she's been working out. She's in gray sweat pants that hang, in that way, off her hips and a gray singlet, which is dark with sweat, like her hair. Jessica Jung's sweat, the notion does odd things to me. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I feel like a two-year old, if I close my eyes then I'm not really here.

"Good morning Tiffany. How are you feeling?"

Oh no.

"Better than I deserve," I mumble.

I peek up at her. She places a large shopping bag on a chair and grasps each end of the towel that she has around her neck. She's staring at me, hazel eyes dark, and as usual, I have no idea what she's thinking. She hides her thoughts and feelings so well.

"How did I get here?" My voice is small, contrite.

She comes and sits down on the edge of the bed. She's close enough for me to touch, for me to smell. Oh my... sweat and body wash and Jessica, it's a heady cocktail - so much better than a margarita, and now I can speak from experience.

"After you passed out, I didn't want to risk the leather upholstery in my car taking you all the way to your apartment. So I brought you here," she says phlegmatically.

"Did you put me to bed?"

"Yes." Her face is impassive.

"Did I throw up again?" My voice is quieter.

"No."

"Did you undress me?" I whisper.

"Yes." She quirks an eyebrow at me as I blush furiously.

"We didn't," I whisper, my mouth drying in mortified horror as I can't complete the question. I stare at my hands.

"Tiffany, you were comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing. I like my women sentient and receptive," she says dryly.

"I'm so sorry."

lifts slightly in a wry smile.

"It was a very diverting evening. Not one that I'll forget in a while."

Me neither - oh she's laughing at me, the bastard. I didn't ask her to come and get me.

Somehow I've been made to feel like the villain of the piece.

"You didn't have to track me down with whatever James Bond stuff you're developing for the highest bidder," I snap at her. She stares at me, surprised, and if I'm not mistaken, a little wounded.

"Firstly, the technology to track cell phones is available over the Internet. Secondly, my company does not invest or manufacture any kind of surveillance devices, and thirdly, if I hadn't come to get you, you'd probably be waking up in the photographer's bed, and from what I can remember, you weren't overly enthused about her pressing her suit," she says acidly.

Pressing her suit! I glance up at Jessica, she's glaring at me, her hazel eyes blazing, aggrieved. I try to bite my lip, but I fail to repress my laughter.

"Which medieval chronicle did you escape from?" I giggle. "You sound like a courtly knight."

Her mood visibly shifts. Her eyes soften and her expression warms, and I see a trace of a smile on her beautifully chiselled lips.

"Tiffany, I don't think so. Dark knight maybe." Her smile is sardonic, and she shakes her head. "Did you eat last night?" Her tone is accusatory. I shake my head. What major transgression have I committed now? Her jaw clenches, but her face remains impassive.

"You need to eat. That's why you were so ill. Honestly Tiffany, it's drinking rule number one." She runs this hand through her hair, and I know it's because she's exasperated.

"Are you going to continue to scold me?"

"Is that what I'm doing?"

"I think so."

"You're lucky I'm just scolding you."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if you were mine, you wouldn't be able to sit down for a week after the stunt you pulled yesterday. You didn't eat, you got drunk, you put yourself at risk." She closes her eyes, dread etched on her lovely face, and she shudders slightly. When she opens her eyes, she glares at me. "I hate to think what could have happened to you."

I scowl back at her. What is her problem? What's it to her? If I was her... well I'm not. Though maybe, part of me would like to be. The thought pierces through the irritation I feel at her high-handed words. I flush at the waywardness of my subconscious - she's doing her happy dance in a bright red hula skirt at the thought of being hers.

"I would have been fine. I was with Yoona."

"And the photographer?" she snaps at me.

Hmm... young Taeyeon. I'll need to face her at some point.

"Daedae just got out of line." I shrug.

"Well the next time she gets out of line, maybe someone should teach her some manners."

"You are quite the disciplinarian," I hiss at her.

"Oh, Tiffany, you have no idea." Her eyes narrow, and then she grins wickedly. It's disarming. One minute, I'm confused and angry, the next I'm gazing at her gorgeous smile.

Wow... I am entranced, and it's because her smile is so rare. I quite forget what she's talking about.

"I'm going to have a shower. Unless you'd like to shower first?" She her head to one side, still grinning. My heartbeat has picked up, and my medulla oblongata has neglected to fire any synapses to make me breathe. Her grin widens, and she reaches over and runs her thumb down my cheek and across my lower lip.

"Breathe, Tiffany," she whispers and rises. "Breakfast will be here in fifteen minutes.

"You must be famished." She heads into the bathroom and closes the door.

I let out the breath that I've been holding. Why is she so damned attractive? Right now I want to go and join her in the shower. I have never felt this way about anyone. My hormones are racing. My skin tingles where his thumb traced over my face and lower lip.

I feel like squirming with a needy, achy... discomfort. I don't understand this reaction.

Hmm... Desire. This is desire. This is what it feels like.

I lie back on the soft feather filled pillows. 'If you were mine.' Oh my - what would I do to be hers? She's the only man who has ever set my blood racing around my body. Yet, she's so antagonizing too; she's difficult, complicated, and confusing. One minute she rebuffs me, the next she sends me fourteen-thousand-dollar books, then she tracks me like a stalker.

And for all that, I have spent the night in her hotel suite, and I feel safe. Protected. She cares enough to come and rescue me from some mistakenly perceived danger. She's not a dark knight at all, but a white knight in shining, dazzling armour - a classic romantic hero - Sir Gawain or Lancelot.