The first thing she felt was the hard lump of a spring pressing into her back.

The second was the dryness in her mouth, like she’d swallowed a whole bag of cotton balls. Her head throbbed, the inside of her skull pounding in dull, uneven waves.

She blinked at the ceiling. It wasn’t hers.

It was wooden. Cracked. A mess of exposed beams, unfinished drywall, and a single flickering string of LED lights someone had probably thought looked cool in the dark.

She sat up fast—too fast—and instantly regretted it. Her vision swam.

“Whoa. Easy,” a voice muttered from somewhere nearby.

She turned sharply. On the other side of the garage—because this was a garage, unmistakably—sat a guy slouched in a beanbag chair, his eyes half-lidded, hair a disheveled mess, holding a half-empty bottle of Gatorade like it was a sacred artifact.

He looked familiar. Too familiar.

“…Georgie?” she asked, her voice rough, foreign to her own ears.

“Morning,” he said. His tone was flat, cautious. “Or, I guess, technically afternoon.”

Her eyes darted around the room. A mattress—old, lumpy, with a thin blanket tossed aside. Clothes strewn on the floor. Not all of them hers. A plastic bag from Whataburger. Two empty Solo cups. A fan humming softly in the corner, doing nothing to fix the heat.

She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, suddenly aware she was wearing only her shirt and shorts. Nothing scandalous, but… not how she remembered the night starting.

Except—she didn’t remember the night.

“What... happened?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

Georgie exhaled slowly. “That’s kind of the question, isn’t it?”

She stared at him. He didn’t look smug. He didn’t look guilty, either. Just tired. There were bags under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept much.

“I was at a party,” she said, more to herself than him. “You were there too. I think. And then...”