Las Vegas smells like perfume, spilled liquor, and bad decisions.

My eyelids feel like someone taped sandpaper to them. My tongue tastes like cotton and regret, and my head is doing this loud heartbeat-bass-drum thing that might actually be the music from the club downstairs or maybe just my brain trying to escape my skull.

I groan, shifting on sheets that definitely aren’t from my bed back at the frat house, and my palm brushes against something warm. Soft. Small.

…Wait.

I freeze. Slow breath in. The air is cool from the AC, but it’s layered in lavender perfume and the faint, sugary smell of whatever daiquiri I apparently drank at three in the morning.

I crack an eye open.

There’s a girl curled up beside me, hair a mess across the pillow like ink spilled on paper. Her face is turned away, but I recognize the pale purple nails, the ones she always nervously chews in lecture. She’s wearing my shirt—my favorite one with the little embroidered frog on the pocket—and I’m shirtless. My heart stutters.

Holy crap. That’s her.

The quiet one. The girl who always sat front-row in Anatomy, scribbling notes while her roommates talked about boys and brunch. The one who’d blush if I said hi too loudly. The one who basically whispered her presentations into the floor.

How… how did we get here?

Brain, start playback.

⸻

Step one: Graduation. Caps in the air. Me screaming “WOOH—” until I choked on confetti.

Step two: Class group trip to Vegas. Strip lights like neon veins glowing against the desert night. Clubs vibrating, drinks overflowing, bodies everywhere, EDM rattling bones.

Step three: Shots. Many shots. Too many shots. Golden hour on rooftops. Laughter bouncing off casino ceilings. Heat, dancing, her hand accidentally brushing mine when we all squeezed into an elevator.

Step four: Karaoke in a sparkly hole-in-the-wall bar—her voice shaky but beautiful. Glitter stuck to her collarbones. She smiled at me. I remember that. God, I remember that.

Step five: Chapel lights. Heart-shaped neon. A guy dressed like Elvis handing me something metallic. A bouquet being smushed into her hands. Our laughter echoing like we were the only two humans alive.

My stomach drops.

I blink down at my hand.

There’s a ring. A shiny silver ring.

On my wedding finger.

My brain blue screens.

No way. No freaking way.

My breathing gets louder in my ears. I look back at her left hand—her ring glints in the sunlight leaking through thick curtains. The room smells like cheap champagne and vanilla lotion. Outside, Vegas screams on, slot machines chiming like alarms.

We’re… married?

I swallow hard, throat thick and dry. My pulse hammers against my ribs, but weirdly… there’s this warmth. Like a fuzzy blanket wrapped around panic.

Because her sleeping face is peaceful. Soft. Trusting. And some buried part of me is stupidly happy she ended up next to me and not some rando who smells like cigarettes and bad cologne.

My chest feels tight.

…Oh man. We’re so screwed.

She shifts, lashes fluttering open as sunlight brushes her cheek. Her eyes—sleepy, wide, sparkling—land right on mine.

I smile awkwardly. Really awkwardly. Like “I-just-failed-my-whole-degree” awkward.

“Uh… morning.” My voice cracks. Perfect.