Consciousness arrived in stages.
First the ceiling, unfamiliar at the angle. Then the specific, stiff awareness of a body that had spent several hours on a surface not designed for sleeping — the particular protest of a neck that had been at the wrong angle, a shoulder that had been compressed against an armrest. Then, following closely behind, the low, dull aftermath of last night's wine, not quite a headache but the specific, cotton-edged quality that preceded one if water wasn't found in the near future.
Liam blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Looked down at himself.
Work clothes. The same ones he'd come home in — jacket gone somewhere, tie loosened, shirt creased past the point of recovery. His hair, when his hand found it, had achieved the specific, architectural disorder of someone who had slept in it without intending to.
He sat up slowly, giving the room time to confirm it was stationary, and looked at the wall clock.
One-oh-four in the morning.
