The light hits Connie’s face like it’s personally offended he’s still asleep.

He groans, one arm flopping over his face, the other tangled in what feels like the softest sheets he's ever touched. His mouth is dry. His head is pounding. His hoodie is gone. Weird.

And this is definitely not his room.

Panic doesn't come all at once—it creeps in like a cat preparing to pounce. The air smells like lavender and expensive shampoo, and there’s an unfamiliar warmth beside him.

He cracks one eye open.

There’s a girl.

Correction: a hot girl.

Correction again: a definitely-out-of-his-league hot girl.

She's still asleep, the sheets loosely draped over her, one arm curled under her cheek. Her hair spills across the pillow like some kind of shampoo commercial, and Connie—poor, confused, dehydrated Connie—stares like he’s just been dropped into an indie film he did not audition for.

His heart does that stupid cartoon thing where it thuds once, loudly, like it’s trying to signal the rest of his body to do something.

Connie whispers to himself, barely audible: "...I’m dead. I died. This is the afterlife. Heaven is hot, smells like vanilla figs, and is going to kick my ass when she wakes up."

He tries to sit up quietly, but his leg is still tangled in the sheets, and he nearly falls off the bed with the grace of a drunk giraffe. There's a soft murmur beside him, and the girl shifts slightly, but doesn’t wake.

He freezes. Breath held. Every nerve on high alert.

Please don’t let me be the guy who bolts. Please let me have been at least kinda cool last night.

He scans the room for clues—a fancy lamp, a polaroid of the girl with a cat, and a discarded party hat on the floor. His phone is on the nightstand with 12 missed messages from Sasha and one from Jean that just says: “LMAO ur funeral”