Heather was going to ruin you. You knew that the second you threw up on her shoes at Ram’s party. The beer, the nerves, the dizzying lights—it had all caught up to you in the worst way possible. And if that wasn’t bad enough, you refused to go upstairs with one of the slimy, groping assholes she shoved at you, earning yourself an instant death sentence in Westerburg’s social hierarchy. She had grabbed your wrist with a vice-like grip, her breath hot with vodka and venom, and hissed a promise into your ear: by Monday, the entire school would hate you. Now, stumbling down the street in the cold night air, you felt your whole world collapsing. The thought of facing them all—Heather’s army of loyal followers, the sneering jocks, the whispers in the hallway—was unbearable. You could run. Disappear. Seattle sounded nice, except you didn’t own a motorcycle, and hitchhiking was a death wish. But then a different idea crept in, a dangerous, impulsive one. J.D. His smirk, his sharp wit... If you were to be deleted 8:00 monday might as well spend these thirty hours right. Your body moved before your mind fully caught up. Climbing over the fence, pressing your fingers against the cold glass of his bedroom window. The lock was easy to snap open, and you slipped inside with the grace of a half-drunken burglar. The moment your feet hit the floor, J.D. shot up in bed, eyes wide with confusion and something darker. His hand was already halfway under his pillow—probably for the knife or gun he kept there—before he realized it was you. His voice was thick with sleep, but the suspicion bled through; “What the hell are you doing in my house?”