I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour

But heaven knows I'm miserable now

— "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now" by The Smiths

Sylvie wakes slowly the next morning, floating somewhere in that hazy middle in between sleep and wakefulness. The pull to sleep a little longer is strong, but the sun's far too bright in the room even through closed eyes. Weird. She must have forgotten to close the blackout curtains last night before crawling into bed. There's a part of her that considers getting up and closing them now, but her head throbs like someone's leading a parade of bass drums inside her skull. The inside of her mouth feels like a cotton ball factory, though it's coupled with that strange watery sensation in her jaw that happens when she's close to throwing up. As hangovers go, this one's a doozy. She stays put, opting instead for pulling the covers over her head and sending up a prayer for the pulsing in her head and the roiling in her stomach to take a hike.

Something doesn't feel quite right, but she can't put her finger on it. Maybe she's dreaming. She focuses on her breathing to quell the nauseated feeling. Inhaling slowly through her nose she detects the faint scent of men's cologne and laundry detergent that's somehow familiar, but definitely isn't her normal brand. The unease intensifies when she runs her hand over the sheets, feeling soft flannel against her skin. She doesn't own flannel sheets. That can only mean one thing—she slept in someone else's bed last night.

Holy shit!

She racks her brain for memories of the night before. Girls night. Stella. Emily. Vodka sodas. Tequila. Dancing. Molly's? The rest is a blur, which is no surprise when tequila shots were involved. She hears rustling movement across the room and what sounds like the opening of a dresser drawer. Her pulse spikes, providing the jolt of adrenaline she needs to finally pry her eyes open. What the hell happened last night? Where is she? Who's in the room? When did she get so careless? Why, why, why?

This isn't her home. She simply can't hide under the covers all day and hope that the owner of this bed will forget she's there, allowing her to sneak out with the last shred of her remaining dignity. Dammit. Time to face the music and get some answers.

You can do this, Sylvie Brett.

On three.

She counts to three—twice—before finally working up enough guts to poke her head out from under the covers. The sunlight streaming through the room assaults her eyeballs the moment her safety blanket is peeled away and exacerbates the pounding in her head. Hissing in protest, she struggles to push up on her elbows to see who's in the room with her.

It's a good thing she's already in a prone position, because seeing a freshly-showered Matt Casey across the room in nothing but a white towel wrapped precariously around his hips and applying deodorant to his armpits is enough to make a girl faint.

What. The. Fuck?

"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you," Matt says, voice low and deep, like the first spoken words of the day. His first words of the day and he gave them to her. "I've got a job to work on today and needed to grab some clothes."

All she can do is blink and nod stupidly at him while her brain tries not to short circuit. She spent the night in Matt Casey's bed and she remembers nothing. Nothing! Not one inkling of a clue as to how she got there or what happened after.

Sylvie has a brief flash of Foster telling her last night that she should just sit on Casey's face to let him know she's interested. She'll scold herself momentarily for thinking it, but—if she and Matt had sex last night and she can't remember any of it, this will go down singlehandedly as the greatest disappointment of her adult life.

"No problem," she manages, wincing at the gritty sound that comes out of her mouth. She pushes herself to a fully upright position and her stomach churns.

"How're you feeling?" he asks, concern etched across his ridiculously handsome face. A face that she may or may not have ridden last night. Embarrassed, she lowers her gaze away from his face only to find herself staring at his bare, well-muscled chest, which makes her whole body flush. Her hangover is the 7th circle of hell levels of terrible, yet it doesn't stop her from getting turned on by the kind, sexy man in front of her. The Matt Casey Effect, ladies and gentleman.

"Terrible," she answers truthfully. For multiple reasons. She closes her eyes, breathes through a wave of nausea that escapes her throat as a pathetic whimpering sound. All she wants is to curl up into a fetal position and sleep until this hangover releases her from its evil clutches. But she can't do that. Not here in his bed. In Matt Casey's bed! Where she spent the night doing god knows what.

Stretching her arms out in front of her, she finally dawns on her that she's wearing different clothes than the night before. Looking down she sees a navy Chicago Bears t-shirt on her body, which means her clothes did come off. The discovery only leads to more questions. How did her clothes come off? Did she undress herself? God, did Matt peel away the bodysuit and leather pants? She swallows the lump in her throat. In all the scenarios she'd imagined in her head getting naked with Matt (and there have been more than a few, okay?) not one of them ended like this.

This is a travesty!

She knows what has to be done. It's the right thing, the adult thing to do. I don't wanna! No, she doesn't want to open her mouth and ask him the question that's forefront in her brain. But how else is she going to learn the truth? The embarrassment factor here carries a high degree of difficulty. For goodness sake, she had to avoid him all day after he saw her changing shirts in the locker room and she fell down. This embarrassment has the potential to send her to an early grave.

Cocooned in his sheets doesn't feel like the best location to ask such a question. Plus, if everything goes sideways and this ends up being the most painfully awkward conversation to ever exist, she'll at least have both feet already on the floor in order to make a speedy exit. Reluctantly, she tosses the covers back, sending up a quick thanks that her legs are covered in sweatpants, and slowly swings them over the side of the bed. There's an unopened red Gatorade and a bottle of ibuprofen on the nightstand. Matt must have put them out for her. Now's not the time to be completely charmed by his thoughtfulness, but seeing as this day is already insane, it's honestly whatever at this point. She reaches for the ibuprofen out of necessity to her aching head, but also to stall a few seconds longer.

Time to face the music, or in her case, the half naked hunk in a white towel. Tomato, tomahto. Ugh. Just start talking, Sylvie.

"I'm confused," she says, turning slightly so her face is pointed at him.

A huff of laughter rumbles out of his mouth. "I don't doubt that," he says wryly, lips ticking up into a half smile. His eyes are kind and soft, focused in that way of his that make whoever he's talking to feel important. That look that simultaneously makes her want to tell him all her secrets and run like hell to protect herself from her already too big feelings.

"Last night is—foggy to say the least. I don't remember much." Her stomach churns. "Did, um—did we—" she trails off. Just ask already! She tips her head up, eyes cast towards the ceiling in a silent prayer. "Matt, did we have sex last night?"

As soon as the words pass lips she wants to throw up. And not in the metaphorical sense that comes from having a difficult conversation. Her roiling stomach sours further and her jaw goes watery again. No, this time she's about two seconds from retching, and the last thing she wants or needs is to vomit all over Casey's bedroom floor. "Oh no!" she cries, clamping a hand over her mouth. She bolts for his adjoining bathroom, kicking the door closed behind her, and pukes her brains out in the toilet.

Tequila Shots: 1,000,000

Sylvie: 0

She throws up again, and then once more for good measure. Death can come for her at any time. She's ready. Matt knocks lightly against the door, and Sylvie tenses, hoping he doesn't come in. This day is already awful; the last thing she needs is for him to see her on her knees hugging the toilet. Tears prickle the corners of her eyes, but she blinks them back. No matter how much she wants to cry right now, she flat out refuses to do it. "I'm fine," she lies. "Gimme a minute."

The nausea has thankfully subsided for now, so she drags herself up off the bathroom floor and flushes the toilet. She turns on the sink to wash her hands, and looks in the mirror, wincing at her reflection. Last night's makeup has smudged so far down she resembles a damn racoon. Her hair is a rat's nest, eyes bloodshot, and her skin is pale and clammy. She's a dumpster fire inside and out.

She takes a couple of minutes to clean herself up the best she can with the resources available in plain sight. Hand soap and water go a long way, and she takes a swig from the bottle of mouthwash on the counter. The strong peppermint flavor almost makes her gag, but she fights through. The tangles in her hair are not budging, so that's a battle she won't be winning. This time, when she glances at her reflection again, she doesn't recoil. It's a marked improvement, and that's good enough.

Opening the bathroom door, she sees Matt sitting at the foot of the bed, now fully dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, putting on his socks and work boots. She vaguely recalls him telling her he has a job to work on today. Not only is she embarrassed, but now a wave of guilt crashes over her having delayed him.

Matt lifts his head, his face blankly inscrutable while he finishes tying his boots. "So," he starts slowly, "I'm trying hard not to be offended that you threw up a second after asking if we had sex. Really gives a guy a complex, you know?" Amusement dances into his eyes and his lips twitch into a playful smirk. He's teasing her. That smartass. "Sylvie, nothing happened last night."

Relief floods through her body, the huge weight lifting off her shoulders. "Oh, thank god!" she says, resting a hand to her heart. Matt lifts his eyebrows and presses his lips together in a thin line like he's half offended by her words. Which is silly. Why would he be offended? "It's not a dig on you, Matt! That would have been extremely out of character for me, so I'm just—relieved, you know?"

He nods. "Yeah, of course. I get it," he tells her, rubbing a hand along his jaw, brows pinching together and making that line of frustration pop.

Leaning back against the door jamb for support, she folds her hands in front of her. It feels like she's missing something here, but that's probably the hangover anxiety she's experiencing. As if the physical effects of a hangover weren't bad enough on their own, she gets to suffer through the myriad possibilities of things she may have said and done. It's unnerving, to say the least.

"How did I end up here?" she asks.

He shrugs, staring down at his hands. "I gave you a ride home from Molly's last night, but when we got there your keys weren't in your purse. So, I brought you back here." Looking up, he gestures towards the living room. "I slept on the couch," he insists.

Maybe it's just the combination of everything she's experienced so far today weighing on her, but she gets the impression that he's upset with her now. What if she said or did something to him last night that she can't remember? Anything is possible at this point. She needs to ask him. Apologize for whatever it is she may have done. Her eyes sting again, but crying in front of Matt Casey today is not on her list. Not after every other embarrassing thing she's done in front of him already.

"Thank you, Matt," she replies finally. "For being a good friend and looking out for me."

Sylvie thinks she catches a glimpse of sadness in his eyes, but it passes so quickly it's hard to be sure. He's got walls up now. Whatever emotions he's feeling won't be shared with her. A long, awkward beat passes between them before he answers, "You're welcome, Brett."

Brett. Not Sylvie. He hardly ever calls her Brett off-shift anymore. Ugh, she hates this. Hates whatever she inevitably did or said that pulled the thread that suddenly feels like the start of their unraveling friendship.

The front door opens and closes, and she hears the sound of Severide's footsteps approaching Matt's room. He knocks on the open door before poking his head inside. "Glad you're here, Brett," he says with a friendly smile. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulls out her set of keys. "Stella had them in her purse. She was drunk and forgot about them."

Another wave of relief washes over her. Now she seriously has to get out of Dodge before the dam breaks on the tears she's narrowly holding back. "Thank you so much, Severide!" she says, crossing the room to grab her keys. "You're a lifesaver!"

"No sweat. How're you feeling today?" he asks, lips twitching into a half grin.

"Awful," she answers. "Worst hangover of my life, I think."

He chuckles. "I'll bet. You were quite the party girl last night. Stella's struggling today, too."

Sylvie forces a half smile on her face that surely looks as strained as it feels. Severide's eyes dart over towards Matt, then back to her. Sure, he's perceptive by nature, but you'd have to be dead not to notice tension in the room so thick you could cut it with a knife. There's no way she's sticking around for one of their silent conversations that could only be about one subject—her. "I'm gonna go," she announces. "I'll grab an Uber and let you both get on with your day."

"No." Matt's clipped response catches her off guard. With the way things have suddenly soured between them, she figured he'd be glad to get her out of his hair. She dares a quick glance back over her shoulder to get a better read on him, but it's pointless. His face is unreadable when he stands and says, "I'm going that way for today's job anyway. I'll drop you off."

Great. That shouldn't be awkward and uncomfortable in the least.

Severide gives her another friendly smile and says, "See you next shift, Brett. Later, Casey."

Nervously clearing her throat, her eyes search the room for her clothes. "I need to get changed. It will only take—"

"Don't worry about it," he cuts her off, handing her a plastic grocery bag with her neatly folded clothes and high heels inside.

The mixed messages she's getting from him leave her head spinning. On one hand, it's a nice gesture. So characteristic of him, her friend, the man she's been falling for. But he's closed off now, eyes flat, rudely interrupting her mid-sentence. Hurrying her out the door as though he can't wait to be rid of her.

She doesn't want to appear ungrateful, but she can't very well walk out of here in bare feet in the middle of winter. Before she can reach for her shoes, he hands her a pair of moccasin slippers. They look new, which doesn't surprise her. Matt doesn't particularly strike her as the slipper-wearing kind of guy. If she had to guess, these were probably a Christmas gift at one point. Why she's standing here pondering his stupid slippers is beyond her.

"They'll be too big on you, but surely more comfortable than those," Matt says, motioning towards her heels.

The confusion grows. What is happening? She can't make her mouth say the words. Her throat clogs with an onslaught of tears, so she merely nods her agreement before sliding her feet into the borrowed slippers. They are definitely too big on her feet, but not unmanageable, and definitely more comfortable. Just like he said. She picks her coat up off the chair in the corner, snags the bottle of Gatorade from the nightstand, and follows him to the living room.

Matt shrugs into his coat, plucking a set of keys off the table by the door. He spares a glance in her direction—just barely—before asking, "Ready?"

As she'll ever be.

Sylvie turns and lifts a hand goodbye to Severide, who appears just as confused by this behavior as she is, if his narrowed brows are any indication. His parting smile seems to tell her what she needs to hear right now.

Good luck.

If someone had told her yesterday that today she'd be praying for alone time with Matt Casey to hurry up and end, she'd have said they'd lost all of their damn marbles. Yet here she is, barely halfway through the 20 minute drive to her place, drowning in the gulf of stony silence between them. Turning the radio on might help a little, she thinks, but she can't drum up the nerve to ask. Asking means talking and that's evidently not a thing that's happening between them right now.

They've gotten pretty good at talking to each other lately, too, which is why this sucks even worse. She knows she needs to rip off the bandaid and ask him what's wrong, but it's like she's paralyzed and physically cannot bring herself to do it. Not helping the situation is how sick she's still feeling from this godforsaken hangover. No matter how much she doesn't really believe it, Sylvie swears she's never drinking again. She blows out a quiet sigh, not wanting to draw any kind of attention from the driver's side of the truck, and stares out her window for the rest of the drive to her place.

The remaining 10 minutes pass at a glacial pace, but Matt finally, mercifully pulls to a stop outside her building. She unbuckles her seatbelt and grabs the plastic bag containing her party clothes from the middle seat. Her parents raised her to be polite, so she can't very well get out of his truck without at least thanking him. The last thing she needs is one more thing to feel crappy about. Though she can't make herself meet his eyes, she turns her head in his direction and mutters, "Thanks, Casey. I'll see you around." It feels wholly inadequate for the friendship they've built these last couple months, and, frankly, rude. And she's never rude. But it meets the bare minimum standards of politeness, which is the best she's capable of right now.

She opens the door and climbs down, her slippered feet finding purchase on the curb. Just as she's about to close it and run away, Matt opens his mouth and bites out, "Just so we're clear, Brett—I don't go around taking women to bed who are too drunk to know what's going on. That's not who I am."

Sylvie's eyes snap to his face, her eyebrows knitting together in utter confusion. Well, of course that's not who he is. Who would ever think that? Who could ever? His jaw is clenched so tight it's a wonder to her that his teeth don't break under the pressure. If the jaw twitch didn't clue her in, then the storm clouds rolling in his eyes definitely would. She knows when he's angry and right now he's pissed!

"I know you're not," she replies as though it were that simple.

It should be.

It isn't.

Matt snorts derisively. "Do you really?" he asks bitterly. "Is that why you made me feel a goddamn inch tall earlier acting so relieved that we didn't have sex?"

His tone rankles, leaving her feeling gobsmacked, and she takes a beat to process what he's just lobbed at her. Where is this coming from? Sylvie tries to recall everything she said to him this morning, and nothing stands out. Nothing that adds up to his reaction. Lake effect wind chooses that exact moment to kick up, blowing her hair all around and chilling her to the bones. But she'll be damned if she climbs back into his truck to ward off the cold in order to finish this—whatever it is. It's colder inside now at any rate.

"My reaction had nothing to do with you, Casey," Sylvie replies, struggling to keep her voice calm. It's not untrue, but it sure as hell isn't the whole truth either. Foolish fantasies and crushes aside, she'd never want to risk their friendship for a drunken one night stand that she wouldn't have been able to remember.

A sneer curls unpleasantly across his lips. It's a look she's never seen before, and it's not one she cares for very much. Particularly when Matt opens his mouth and follows it up with,, "Could've fooled me."

Sylvie bites the inside of her cheek and counts to three to hold back her temper. Lashing back isn't going to help the situation. "I'm really having trouble understanding where this is coming from. Can you please just tell me why you're upset? Or are you purposely trying to pick a fight and push me away?"

Matt opens his mouth to say something, but stops short. His eyes shutter closed and he pinches the bridge of his nose, shoulders sagging as a big, tired sigh heaves past his lips. It's as though the fight has been completely drained out of him. When his eyes open again, the anger is long gone, but something worse has moved in to take its place. He's hurt.

Understanding begins to dawn on her, the moment things shifted in his room this morning when she'd noticed that he looked hurt by her enthusiastic admission of relief. At least she thinks that could be it, anyway. "Matt, I didn't know where I was when I first woke up this morning. Do you have any idea how disorienting that was for me? I couldn't remember a good portion of last night—and I still can't. I didn't know who I'd gone home with. It's my own fault for drinking too much, I get that. But did you ever stop and think for a minute about how I saw you standing in your towel smiling at me first thing this morning? It's not a huge leap that I might wonder if something happened between us."

He chews on that for a second, swallowing hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the motion. Talking about feelings isn't his strong suit; she's known him long enough to understand that. But he'll never get better if he doesn't try. Finally he meets her gaze head on, blue eyes earnest and sad. "Do you really think I would ever take advantage of you like that, Sylvie?"

There it is—the why—the truth she was after. She hurt his feelings; and she hates that she did. Though Sylvie suspects that there's something a little deeper at play here, too. Things from the past that left bruises on his heart that haven't healed fully. Bruises that show themselves when someone presses the wrong way, like she evidently did. Bruises left by a person they never talk about.

Her own heart lurches in her chest, a flurry of complicated emotions coursing through her veins. She wants to help heal those old wounds of his, but she doesn't know that he'll ever let her. And that makes her immeasurably sad. For them both. The tears she's managed to keep at bay all morning fight their way through, stinging her eyes at the corners. For once she's grateful for the Chicago wind to blame should he ask. But first she has to answer his question, the one that came with a half brokenhearted look.

"No," she insists. "I know you would never do that to me. To anyone." He seems placated by her answer and heading towards relief. "You're a good man, Matt Casey. The very best there is."

The very best there is, who will likely never be hers.

Matt blinks slowly as one corner of his mouth ticks up almost imperceptibly. She's not sure what that look means, but he no longer appears to be upset with her. She'll take it. He keeps his eyes on hers and says, "Thanks, Sylvie." He glances at the clock and winces at the time. "I gotta go."

Sylvie nods, feeling guilty for making him late. "Yep. See you next shift," she manages then closes the door. She turns on her heel in her too-big, borrowed slippers, and shuffles towards the entrance as hot tears roll down her cheeks.