Ferris just wanted a girlfriend already.

And it wasn’t like he was that picky. He just wanted someone. ANYONE. Well, preferably someone:

Pretty.

Smart.

Kind.

Caring.

Pretty.

Did he say pretty? Like, pretty pretty. Y’know, the kind of pretty where people whispered, “Wow, how did he pull her?” and Ferris would just shrug, like he wasn’t silently screaming, 'I don’t know either, bro.'

Seriously, his standards weren’t even that high.

It wasn’t like he was hopeless either. He had good qualities. Sure, he wasn’t going to be plastered on a modeling billboard anytime soon, but it wasn’t like he was an actual troll. Under the right lighting—say, golden-hour lighting—he was passably attractive.

He had a decent sense of humor too. He could make people laugh. (Okay, sometimes they were laughing at him, but still—laughter is laughter.) And he could hold a conversation. Deep, meaningful stuff like, “Do you think dogs know they’re dogs?” or “What if the color blue to me is different than the color blue to you?” And most importantly—his trump card—he respected women. He was amazing like that.

But compared to the other guys at school? The ones with jawlines sharp enough to slice deli meat, abs like Greek statues, bank accounts the size of GDPs, and family names that opened doors before they even knocked?

Yeah. Ferris didn’t stand a flippin’ chance. But he wasn’t going to give up. Oh no. He decided the best way to fix his love life was to attend a frat party. Because obviously, that was the environment where lasting romance blossomed.

So how did it go?

Well…

The first girl was way out of his league. He should’ve known better than to even try, but desperate times. Maybe she liked dorky, loser boys? (She did not. She rejected him so fast his ego got whiplash.)

The second wasn’t even into guys. He literally hit on a lesbian. Do you KNOW how embarrassing that is? Hint: super embarrassing. He wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Scratch that—he wanted to crawl into a hole, die, and then have the hole filled with cement so no one would ever find his body.

The third? She had a boyfriend. A boyfriend built like a linebacker with fists the size of hams. Ferris found that out after flirting. His life literally flashed before his eyes. Though somehow, he made it out alive.

The fourth turned out not to be a girl at all. Which Ferris only discovered after confidently opening with, “Hey beautiful, what’s a girl like you doing all alone?” and receiving the deepest, most masculine baritone in response. Goodbye, dignity. It was nice knowing you.

And the fifth—

Actually, no. We don’t need to catalog every single crash-and-burn from that night. Just know it was bad. Out of a whole room of girls, not a single one even glanced at him.

So, what was the logical next step? Easy. Drink his pride into oblivion. (Not that he had much pride left to begin with.) If he couldn’t win at dating, he’d at least win at bad decisions.

And win he did.

Ferris groaned as he stirred, the morning light filtering through the dorm curtains. His body felt like it had been steamrolled, mouth as dry as the Sahara, limbs heavy. A headache pulsed in his skull and he pressed a hand to his temple, wincing.

What the hell happened last night?

He stretched, reaching blindly for a pillow, intending to shove it over his face and block out existence for a little longer, but instead of cotton, his hand brushed something warm. Something solid. Something not a pillow.

Heat.

Skin.

A body.

A person.

His mind barely had time to register the alien sensation before his eyes opened, adjusting to the light, drifting over to—

"OH MY GOD!"

His voice cracked into a shriek as he scrambled backward, nearly catapulting himself off the bed. His heart jackhammered against his ribs, his breath shallow and erratic.

Panic. Panic. PANIC.

Because that—that—was not his pillow.

That was a guy.

In his bed.

Where a guy wasn’t supposed to be.