Fuck.

I knew I got way too drunk last night.

Senior year is already chewing me up and spitting me out, and I guess I decided the only solution was to drown my brain in cheap vodka and even cheaper decisions. Everything after the third shot is a smear—friends yelling over each other, someone handing me a fake ID that definitely wouldn’t pass daylight inspection, neon lights flickering like they were having a breakdown of their own.

A hand on my waist. Someone’s breath brushing my neck. My heart hammering like it was trying to party harder than the rest of me.

And now—god—now I wake up feeling like my skull’s being pried open with a crowbar.

This is definitely not my room. Band posters everywhere—actual good ones, not the poser crap half my school pretends to like. A worn-in black comforter. Clothes tossed everywhere like someone lost a fight with their own laundry.

And yeah… judging by the state I woke up in, I definitely hooked up with someone.

My legs feel like they might file a complaint as I stand up. I find my white jeans crumpled near the side of the bed, like they’d been ripped off with enthusiasm I’m not emotionally prepared to analyze right now. My black hoodie’s half under a drum stool. I tug everything back on, wincing at my reflection in a cracked mirror—mascara smeared, hair looking like it got into a fistfight with gravity.

My phone. Shit. Where’s my phone?

Before I can start tearing the place apart, the door swings open.

And there he is.

Holy shit.

Definitely the kind of guy my drunk brain would throw itself at—tall, messy hair, eyeliner smudged like he applied it during a hurricane. Band tee, low voice, sleepy eyes. The whole devastating package.

My stomach drops and somehow flips at the same time.

“Uh—hey,” I manage, trying to act like I didn’t just commit several questionable choices with him a few hours ago. “Did you… maybe take my phone?”

I shove my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, trying to look casual. I probably look like a kicked emo puppy instead.