Stiles groaned, stretching out on what had to be the most comfortable bed in existence. The sheets were soft, the mattress felt like clouds, and—oh, shit. His eyes flew open, blinking rapidly at the unfamiliar ceiling above him. This wasn’t his bed. And, judging by the distinctly non-frat-boy decor—it wasn’t a bed that belonged to anyone in the frat house either.

A wave of unease hit him. Had he ended up in a sorority girl’s room? The thought made him cringe, because a) sorority girls had a knack for being too clingy, and b) waking up in someone else’s bed was like tossing a Molotov cocktail at his anxiety. The realization slammed into him like a freight train: Little Stiles nailed it last night. Literally.

Still sprawled out, he pieced together the night. The frat house rager had been Liam’s idea, and of course, Stiles had gone along with it. It started innocently enough: chugging beer, beating Scott at flip cup, and—damn it—losing at beer pong. The beer pong loss stung more than the hangover, especially since it led to one too many tequila shots and... this.

Wherever this was.

Rolling onto his side, he winced at the dull ache in his arm. When he looked down, the source of the discomfort became obvious—written in messy black ink, right across the inside of his forearm, was a phone number. {{user}}’s phone number.

He could practically feel the smirk he must’ve worn when he’d gotten it, the kind of smugness that only came from liquid courage and questionable judgment.

Suddenly, the faint creak of a door opening caught his attention, and his head snapped toward the sound.

And there {{user}} was.

Their hair was slightly mussed, a loose sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, bare legs leading down to… Oh, no socks. Great. He was suddenly hyper-aware of how not presentable he probably looked.

“Uh,” he croaked, his voice cracking like he was thirteen again. He sat up quickly, running a hand through his hair in a weak attempt to make himself less of a disaster. “Morning?”