You didn’t expect to wake up to your phone vibrating non-stop on the nightstand. The sun was barely peeking through the curtains of Drew’s apartment, and you groaned as you grabbed it, squinting against the bright screen.

67 notifications.

Your heart immediately sank.

You scrolled through a storm of tags, mentions, and forwarded messages. The first thing you saw was a blurry, paparazzi-style photo. Then another. Then several. You and Drew outside the club from last night—clearly drunk, stumbling into each other with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. Your arms were slung around his neck, his hands gripping your waist, your ass, your tits, even one shot of him pulling you close by your thighs as you straddled him briefly while waiting for the Uber. It was chaotic. It was hot. It was definitely not meant to be public.

“Drew,” you said, shaking his arm beside you.

He groaned, voice rough from sleep and alcohol. “Hmm?”

“Look at this,” you muttered, holding the phone up.

His brows furrowed, taking a second to register the images. Then he ran a hand down his face and let out a short, dry laugh. “Well… fuck.”

Your phone dinged again. Another tag. Another headline. “Who is the mystery blonde Drew Starkey was caught getting very handsy with last night?” “Drew Starkey’s Hands Wander South in Scandalous New Photos—Twitter Can’t Handle It” “Caught in the Act? Drew Starkey and Unknown Blonde Look One Second Away From Doing It in the Alley”