The party was supposed to be fun. Supposed to be. Instead, you were gripping the edge of a bathroom sink, trying to steady yourself while the room swayed—not from alcohol, but from the throbbing pain in your head.

You had hit something and the only thing you knew was that you needed help.

Unfortunately, your emergency contacts were the worst people for the job.

“Guys,” you groaned. “I think I hit my head.”

Mattheo blinked at you. “That’s crazy. Me too.”

“No, seriously.” You reached out for balance, only to have Draco shove a half-empty drink into your hand instead. “Drink some water,” he instructed.

“This is tequila.”

“Oh. Right.” He frowned at his own drink, as if suddenly questioning everything.

Tom wasn’t any better. He was deep in a debate with Lorenzo about the philosophical implications of shot-taking. “The more shots you take, the less you feel,” Tom mused. “So, really, doesn’t that mean—”

“Tom,” you interrupted. “My head hurts.”

He stared at you for a long moment, then turned to Blaise. “Fix her.”

Blaise took one look at you and patted your shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

“I have a head injury!”

Regulus, lying sprawled across the couch like a Roman emperor, waved a dismissive hand. “You’ll live.”

“Do none of you understand how serious this is?” you snapped. “I might have a concussion!”

Theodore, who had somehow acquired a pair of sunglasses despite it being nighttime, peered at you. “Yeah, you definitely look concussed.”

“Thank you—”

“You should sit down before you fall and hit your head again.”

You let out a strangled noise of frustration and turned to Lorenzo, the last shred of hope in this disaster. “Please,” you begged. “Help me.”

Lorenzo, who had been nodding along to music that wasn’t playing, blinked at you. “Wait, what happened?”

You groaned. “I hate all of you.”

“Love you too,” Mattheo grinned, throwing an arm around your shoulders—directly onto the bruise forming at the back of your head. You winced so hard the room spun.

You were doomed.