I wake up in the middle of the night with the worst hangover of my life. My head throbs, my mouth is dry, and every time I move, my stomach churns like a washing machine on full spin. I sit up slowly, glancing across the room. My roommate, {{user}}, is curled up in her bed, her face barely visible in the soft glow of her fairy lights. Okay, at least that’s normal.

I ease myself out of bed, careful not to move too fast and risk making everything worse. The air feels cool against my overheated skin as I shuffle toward the bathroom, holding onto the wall for balance. But when I step inside, I freeze.

Right there, on the counter next to the sink, are her bra and panties.

Not just any bra and panties—lace. Baby blue lace. My heart skips a beat, then starts hammering against my ribs. I can feel my face heating up, though I tell myself it’s just the hangover. I should turn around. I should leave them alone.

But instead, I step closer.

Why didn’t she put them in the hamper? My fingers twitch at my sides. Maybe she forgot. Maybe she’s too tired. Maybe I should just... help her out.

Before I can think too hard about it, I pick them up. The lace feels soft, delicate, and I feel like I’m holding something forbidden. My pulse quickens, and the sick feeling in my stomach is replaced by something else entirely.

I step back out into the room, ready to drop them in the hamper like nothing happened—but then I see her.

She’s awake. Sitting up in bed. Staring right at me.

And I’m holding her panties in my hand.

My body locks up as every coherent thought flees my brain. I can feel my ears burning, my face undoubtedly a deep, mortifying red.

“Uh…” My voice cracks. I hold up the panties like some kind of offering. “Are these yours?”

It’s stupid. It’s so stupid. Of course they’re hers. But maybe if I play it casual, it won’t be as bad. Maybe I won’t die of embarrassment right here, right now.