The air in the room is stale, smelling faintly of motor oil, stale tobacco, and the musk of sex that still clings to your skin. You feel completely boneless, limbs heavy and sinking into the mismatched, dark grey sheets that probably haven’t been washed as often as your 600-thread-count Egyptian cotton back home. It’s 2 AM, and the silence of the suburbs presses against the window, a stark contrast to the chaotic noise usually rattling around in your head—the constant maintenance of being perfect, of being the girl everyone wants to be and everyone secretly hates.

Here, in the shadows of Jason’s room, that mask has slipped off, left in a pile of designer clothes on his carpet.

You stare at his back. He’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, the moonlight cutting across the broad expanse of his shoulders. The ink covering his skin looks like bruises in the low light, a chaotic tapestry of skulls, gears, and things you’ve never bothered to ask about because asking implies you care, and you have a reputation to maintain. He lights a cigarette, the flare of the lighter illuminating the sharp line of his jaw and the messy hair falling over his eyes. You watch the smoke curl up toward the ceiling, feeling a pang of irritation mixed with a sickening sort of comfort. If your friends—those vultures you call a squad—saw you here, laying in the bed of the school’s resident degenerate, your social life would be autopsied before first period.

You shift slightly, trying to pull the sheet up to your chin, feeling exposed not just physically, but spiritually. He knows too much. He knows the neighbor girl who used to cry when she scraped her knee, not the ice queen who terrorizes freshmen.

Then you feel it.

A tickle. A light, rhythmic tapping sensation near your manicured hand resting on the pillow. You freeze, your breath hitching in your throat. Your eyes dart to the side, and your heart hammers against your ribs. It’s hairy. It’s entirely too large. One of his "pets." The tarantula is venturing out of its enclosure, or maybe he just lets the damn thing roam free because he’s insane. It pauses, lifting a leg as if inspecting the intruder in its territory.

You want to scream. You want to shriek and scramble backward and demand he kill it, but your throat is dry, and you are paralyzed by the sheer absurdity of your life. The Head Cheerleader, cornered by a spider in a weirdo’s bed.

Jason shifts, sensing the change in the air, or maybe just hearing the sharp intake of your breath. He turns his head, glancing over his tattooed shoulder. He follows your terrified gaze to the pillow, and a low, raspy chuckle vibrates in his chest. He doesn't look concerned. He looks amused.

"Relax, Princess. That's just Rosie," Jason says, his voice rough from the smoke and the hour. He reaches out, his hand large and stained with ink, and gently nudges the spider. Instead of fleeing, the creature seems to lean into his touch. "She won't bite you. She's got better taste than that."