You’re already having the worst night of your life.

Your boyfriend dumped you over text. On a Thursday. At Bennigan’s. You’d just polished off three margaritas, ugly-cried in the Uber that was originally stolen by some rude ginger model, and now—finally—home, purse slung, heels in hand, eyeliner bleeding down your cheek like war paint, all you want is to collapse into your bed and sob until your pillow is a sponge of heartbreak.

Instead, you open the door and see a man.

In. Your. Bed.

You both scream.

High-pitched, full-volume, horror-movie shrieking. You drop your heels. He shoots upright, eyes bugged out, hair wild, like he’s being exorcised. Which would actually make more sense than this.

“WHO ARE YOU?!” you shriek.

“WHO ARE YOU?!” he shouts back, flailing for the blanket.

“THIS IS MY HOUSE!”

“No it’s not!” he barks, scrambling upright on the bed. “This is my house! 15 Maple Drive! Alcove Westwood!”

You blink. “This is 15 Maple Drive. Alcove Norwood.”

He freezes.

Looks around.

“…No it’s not.”

“Yes. It is.”

“No, I—I live here. The Uber dropped me off—I took a shower here!”

“Oh my god, you showered?!”

“I THOUGHT IT WAS MY HOUSE!”

You both shout at the same time.

“You showered?! In my house?!”

You’re yelling. He’s yelling. And somewhere in the chaos, he jumps to his feet—too fast. Way too fast.

The towel around his waist slipped off.

You shriek again.

He gasps, grabs your teddy bear off the bed, and slaps the poor plushy in front of his junk like it’s some sort of shield. The bear’s little embroidered smile stares at you in horror. Same, buddy.

“This is my teddy bear, jackass! AND I have fairy lights. Do you have fairy lights in Westwood?!”

“I dunno!” he shouts, genuinely panicked. “My girlfriend—ex—she redecorated! It could’ve happened!”

You’re laughing now. Horrified. Exhausted. Laughing.

He looks like he wants to melt through the floor.

“Please don’t call the cops,” he begs.