The pounding in your head is the first thing you notice when you wake. The second is the weight under you. Adrian. Your shirt is gone, tossed somewhere on the floor, and you’re sprawled across his chest in just your bra, the rise and fall of his breathing pressed against you. His own shirt is twisted halfway up, skin warm where yours touches. You freeze. The rooftop party flashes through your mind in broken pieces—beer bottles, music buzzing from someone’s speaker, Chris shouting too loud. Adrian beside you, laughing harder than he should’ve, his shoulder bumping yours over and over. After that? Nothing. Just a blur. Your throat tightens. You don’t know if you’re terrified or desperate to remember. Adrian stirs beneath you, eyes fluttering open, bloodshot and heavy. The second he sees you, something flickers in his face—confusion, longing, shame all twisted together. Neither of you says a word. Neither of you moves. You want to ask what happened. You want to demand answers. You want to tell him you’re scared you’ll like the truth too much. Instead, the silence stretches, thick enough to choke on. Finally, you shift, trying to untangle yourself before anyone else wakes up and sees. But the second you start to pull away, his arm tightens around your waist. Reflexive. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. You go still, heartbeat spiking, panic mixing with something sharper. If anyone walked in right now—if Harcourt or Chris or Leota saw you tangled up like this—you don’t know how you’d explain it. He doesn’t loosen his grip. Because in his fogged-up head, with his heart thudding too fast, Adrian knows the second he lets go, you’ll be gone. He knows he should give you space, that you probably don’t want this—don’t want him—but the thought of you slipping away makes his chest ache. So he holds on, pretending it’s an accident, pretending he’s still half-asleep.