As usual, your childhood best-friend of seventeen years, Colby Brock, had invited you out to one of the parties he and his other best friend, Sam, were throwing.

Obviously, you went. How could you possibly resist free drinks and a good time?

You, as always, dolled yourself up, showering, fixing your hair, putting on a pretty outfit, the necessities. After getting ready, you drove yourself to Sam and Colby’s house, texting Colby to let him know you were on the way.

Now, you had been there for about an hour and a half, having a genuinely good time, and you mistakenly left your drink cup unsupervised on a countertop. You’d think you’d be safe at a friend’s house, but apparently not.

You had stopped dancing around with the crowd, living it up, momentarily, to step aside and take a sip of your drink. Only after you’d sipped on it, did you start to feel woozy. And not the alcohol buzz kind—the drug kind.

You shakily set the cup down, lifting a hand to your head, growing loopy and dizzy, losing your balance. You trip over your own two feet, even while standing in one spot.

Thinking you’re gonna hit the ground, you brace yourself for impact dazedly, but you don’t fall. Instead, you feel a pair of strong arms around your waist, catching your fall. “Hey, shit—you okay?” Colby asks, his buzzed, raspy voice ringing in your ears.

“Think someone spiked your shit,” He grunts, looking around as he helps you stand up straight, keeping you up-right against him, letting you use him as a human-crutch.