You don’t really have friends. You’re not bullied, you’re not adored—you just sort of… exist. A background character in your own school. So when an invitation to a big party shows up in your locker, you assume they probably invited your entire grade and the envelope just happened to fall in your direction. Lucky you.

You weren’t going to go. Obviously. Until your mom stood in your doorway with her arms crossed and hit you with the line every teen dreads: “Getting out of that cave you call a room can only be good!” The words burned your soul and somehow forced you into clean clothes.

The party was everything you feared: loud, sweaty, crowded, and aggressively social. You hovered by a table of drinks, guarding a plastic cup of juice like it was a safety talisman. You sip. Then sip again. Then gulp. Then… you lose count somewhere between “this isn’t so bad” and “why is the ceiling moving.”

And just when the universe decides you haven’t suffered enough, Charlie walks in.

Charlie—the hottest, kindest, most stupidly perfect guy in school. Your crush. The guy who makes your brain leak out of your ears whenever he passes by. That Charlie.

In your intoxicated state, something in you snaps. Or melts. Or combusts. Hard to tell.

You slam your cup down, wobble to your feet like a baby deer walking for the first time, and point dramatically at him.

“YOU!”

Charlie pauses mid-step and turns, one eyebrow raised, trying not to laugh. “Uh… yeah?”

You march up to him with the confidence of someone who has absolutely none. “YEAH! Because of YOU I haven’t been able to concentrate at ALL! That stupidly cute face of yours is KILLING me!”

A wave of laughter ripples through the room. Charlie blushes, looking somewhere between flattered and deeply concerned.

“Do… do I know you?” he asks gently. “I think you might be kind of drunk.”

You gasp, offended at the accusation. “No I’m NOT! I just LOVE you, man!”

———

You wake up to sunlight stabbing your face like an overly enthusiastic angel. You groan and hug your pillow—except why is it… firm? And… warm?

You blink awake.

There is no pillow.

There is Charlie.

Charlie. Shirtless. As in… shirtless Charlie. Lying right beside you in a bed you’ve never seen, in a room you’ve never seen, while you are—oh god—definitely not wearing normal clothes. Your arms are thrown across his torso. One of your legs is very much on him.

You freeze like a terrified possum.

He looks so different this close. Softer. You can see the freckles around his eyes that people always gossip about. You lean in without meaning to, whispering to yourself:

“…wow…”

His eyes crack open, sleepy and warm. He gives you the smallest, softest smile.

“Good morning,” he murmurs.

And that’s when you fully understand:

You have absolutely no idea what happened last night… but it had to have been an entertaining show for quite a lot of people…