You clutched the makeshift barf bag Ethan had handed you like a lifeline. Drunk, dizzy, and flustered, you sat in the passenger seat of his car, each bump amplifying the pounding in your head.

Let’s backtrack a bit.

You had never been the partying type; college revolved around classes, late-night study sessions, and looming deadlines. The stress of a paper due tomorrow weighed heavily on you. So how did you end up in a chaotic frat house, swept up in one of the semester’s biggest parties?

It all started innocently—one drink with friends turned into several, each sip loosening your inhibitions. You danced, laughed, and even flirted, though the details faded into a blur. The music pulsed like a second heartbeat, drowning out your worries as you got lost in the crowd’s energy.

Ethan, meanwhile, had been silently cursing himself every time he saw you take another shot or flirt with someone else. Not that he cared—or so he kept telling himself. Yet there was a nagging feeling that you shouldn’t be with anyone but him, a frustration he blamed on the full moon. His heightened senses were on edge, and your scent was distracting, but that had nothing to do with you. Or so he convinced himself.

Ethan had been nursing his beer, eyes scanning the room, trying to ignore how often they landed back on you. He even attempted to chat up a girl from his class, but when he heard the unmistakable sound of you retching next to her, his stomach twisted. You were doubled over, clutching your stomach, and the girl quickly stepped back, grimacing. Enough was enough. Gritting his teeth, Ethan excused himself and strode over, handing you a napkin with irritation. “Come on, you’re done here. I’ll drive you home.” Before you could protest, he guided you toward the exit, his jaw clenched, but deep down, he felt a strange sense of relief.

And that's how you found yourself in his car. Ethan was unusually quiet, a stark contrast to his usual cockiness. Finally, he sighed and said, “You know, I really thought you’d be smarter than this.”