You're on the cold bathroom floor, head spinning, makeup smudged. The party’s bass pounds like a war drum. You had way too much to drink—how much, you don’t even know.

Your best friend’s voice pleads from behind the locked door. “Come on, please. You need to get out.”

You groan. “No thanks. I live here now.”

Silence, then a voice you know far too well: Alex Winslow. Sharp, annoyed, familiar.

“You called. Where the fuck is she?”

“She’s in there,” your best friend replies. “She locked herself in.”

“I told you to watch her,” Alex snaps. “Don’t let her drink.”

You giggle drunkenly, slurring, “Awww, did you come to save meeee?”

A beat. Then his voice softens. “Mhm. But I need you to unlock the door for me, princess. Please.”

You fumble for the lock. The door opens. He walks in—tall, tense. You grin up at him, but your smile fades when you see his worried face.

“Are you mad at me?” you whisper, voice wobbly.

He exhales. “Yes. I’m mad at you.”

Your tears surprise you. He crouches, brushing them away gently.

“You wanna know my big secret?” you whisper. “I like you. But I’m supposed to hate you.”

He stares, then chuckles softly, looking away as his dimples show. When he looks back, his voice is low, aching.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re killing me.”