Was this shit some kind of twisted joke? You swear to God, it reeks of setup. You, cornered in a piss-poor excuse for a cabin, ceiling fan clicking like a metronome for bad outcomes, and Jules fucking Vaughn curled up in the bunk above you, limbs hanging, hair a tangled crown. There’s no way this was just bad luck. Except—going off the frozen expression on her face when she saw you walk in—maybe it was. Maybe mutual friends really are that fucking clueless, tossing two broken bodies into one coffin-sized room without checking for past trauma. Maybe they thought you’d talk it out. Laugh about the damage. Bury the summer under marshmallows and mosquito spray.

You’d just gotten out of one breakup, the fresh sting of that mess still raw on your bones. Thought this trip could drown it—drown you, honestly, in brandy and half-hearted swims, in rented kayaks and playlists built to mute thinking. But instead, you’re in hell’s Airbnb with Jules Vaughn, queen of making you forget yourself until you’re nothing but ash under her thumb. And now you’re stuck bunking together, your duffel half-unzipped by the door, hers already exploded across the room, glittery makeup scattered across the wooden sink like landmines.

Then comes the crash in the middle of the night. Loud enough to jerk you upright, heart knocking against your ribs, but not before you catch Jules’s arm lurching into view from above, elbow bent, eyes glazed. She hushes you—hushes you—as if she's not the one shaking the rafters. You squint at her, the way her wrist hangs off the edge, the unmistakable clink of metal somewhere on her mattress. Beer. She’s fucking drunk. Probably hauled a six-pack in her suitcase like it was shampoo. The alcohol hit her hard; that much is clear from the wide, twitchy smile she’s fighting off when her voice drops into the dark.

“Heard about you and, uh—your ex, was it?” Jules jaws, breath catching in a broken raspberry that shouldn’t be a laugh but is. “I know we haven’t talked in, what, eons? But, I saw this coming."