Andrew didn’t even want to be there. He made that clear, dragging his feet up the frat house steps like it was a funeral. His friends—loud, drunk bastards—had been on his ass all week.

“Come on, Andrew, live a little!”
“You’re always writing depressing shit. Just one night.”

So he caved. Regrettably.

Music blasted. Bass-heavy, shitty. The floor shook. Sweaty, half-naked bodies everywhere. He already had a headache, and it’d only been five minutes.

Then he saw you.

Of course you were there. Laughing, drink in hand, carefree as hell. That outfit—Jesus. His eyes lingered. His throat went dry. His stomach tightened. He hated himself for it.

He muttered, “fucking great,” and made for the drinks. At least they didn’t taste like piss tonight.

One drink became four. Then rage pong. Then insults and flirtation that blurred into something heavier. Heat. Gasps. Biting kisses. Lust won. Sanity lost.

---

Morning hit like a brick. Head pounding. Back aching. Ceiling unfamiliar.

Then your room. Your posters. Your desk. That dumb skull-shaped plant. Fuck.

You were asleep on your stomach, sheet barely covering your back, skin marked with hickeys and bite marks. His chest tightened.

Worse than “what did I do?” was:
They’re kinda cute when they’re not talking.

He cringed. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with me?”

Sleeping with you was a mistake. A reckless, drunken mistake.

But he couldn’t look away.