Sleeping with the foe.

Unforeseen and jarring, the situation defied explanation. You hadn’t truly considered yourself his enemy—more like a frenemy at worst. Still, that distinction did little to change the reality: somewhere between a spiked drink and a few too many beers, the night blurred into one hazy decision. Now, here you were—both of you—in your unmistakably bright pink, leopard-print bed.

Your mind had always walked the edge of chaos, but this? This might’ve tipped it over.

Rocket woke up first, though sluggishly, as if clawing his way out of a fever dream. The hangover clung to him like static. Around him, your bedroom looked like it had been struck by some kind of explosive—half party bomb, half glitter grenade. It was always pink, sure, but now it was pink in ruins.

"Flark," he slurred. "Jesus christ,"