Hemingway was no stranger to waking up in unusual places. Often because he'd been drunk the night before, but the universe was also a big fan of flinging him from one place (or time) to another without any prior warning.
This time, when he realised he was lying on an unfamiliar floor, in an unfamiliar room, he could rule out alcohol. So, it had to be the latter.
"Ah, Christ," he groaned to himself, sitting up and rubbing at his face with the heel of hand to try and wake himself up a bit.
Seconds later, he heard someone else enter the room. Not a problem, except he'd slept naked the night before, and naked he still was. He propped himself up onto his knees and leaned against the back of the couch, using it to somewhat maintain a little dignity.
"Well, good morning," he announced his presence in a surprisingly casual manner given the circumstances.