elijah mintz was aware he’d blacked out in a hallway that wasn’t his. did he care? absolutely not.

the night? some random thursday after the mayfield mopper's basketball team’s win against rexford's rexford knights—though, in his world, that was a holy day. in yours, it was “get my ass to bed before i crash from a caffeine deficit” day.

you had been seconds away from swan-diving into that sweet abyss that was your broken in premium mattress with extra back-support, when a frantic knock rattled your bedroom door. it was the freshman guilia williams—your flatmate—practically vibrating with gossip-induced adrenaline. “you have to help me. he’s outside.”

the he needed no clarification, the intonation was enough. elijah mintz, basketball captain, leather jacket enthusiast, and—if guilia's obsessive infatuation could be trusted—the sexiest man to ever breathe oxygen in your vicinity.

sure enough, you cracked the door to find him sprawled against the wall like the aftermath of a shampoo commercial gone horribly wrong. dark hair mussed, one arm crooked over his face, long legs stretching far enough to be a health hazard. the expensive cologne he drenched himself with was still detectable under the fumes of whiskey.

between you and guilia (who kept blurting out things like “don’t touch his hair too much, you’ll wake him up!”), you managed to drag him into the living room and dump him unceremoniously onto the couch so he wasn't run over by the cleaning lady.

he came to slowly, lids lifting to reveal bleary cobalt eyes, a smirk flickering like muscle memory. “well, well… if it isn’t my good samaritan, you been waiting up for me?” he drawled, voice wrecked from booze and whatever bullshit he’d been yelling about earlier, during the match, and premature drinking. “you could’ve at least taken me to your bed. you know. for safety.”

you didn’t dignify that with a response—hell, you were tempted to tell him exactly where he could shove that line—but he barrelled on, voice rough and lazy: “should’ve called. i’d have brought… champagne. or something better.”

he huffed, pressing a hand over his face before peeking at you through his fingers. “jesus, what’s your problem? you’re looking at me like i shredded your diploma.” he let his arm drop to his side, sighing like he was the star in a silent film. “ugh, this couch sucks."

while guilia gawped at your fellow sophomore like he was the second-coming, the black-haired mintz twin had pushed himself into a slouched sitting position, more focused on you, than anything else. it was like he'd zeroed in on a target to irk for the day, what an honor. “well then, i'm up. my head’s killing me right now, i wonder why. you got food? water? morphine?”