The sunlight slices through the blackout curtains of Billie’s bedroom like an accusation. Her head throbs in rhythm with her heartbeat, sharp and slow, the unmistakable signature of last night’s tequila-fueled chaos. She blinks a few times, the ceiling above her blurring in and out of focus. This is her room—definitely her room. Posters, guitar case, open suitcase from her last tour, crumpled clothes that didn’t make the laundry. Good. That’s the first relief.

But something isn’t right.

Her body shifts slightly, and the weight beside her makes her freeze. Someone is in her bed. Someone small. Someone… definitely not who she went out with last night—at least she thinks. Panic flares, cold and fast. Her breath catches. She turns her head slowly, cautiously.

You’re there.

Asleep.

Young. Too young.

Maybe sixteen. Maybe seventeen. Peaceful. Breathing deeply, face buried in the pillow. Still wearing a hoodie and jeans, not even under the covers, just half-curled on top of them like you passed out the moment you hit the mattress. For a moment Billie can’t even breathe. Her thoughts scramble: Who the hell are you? Was this some kind of prank? Did you sneak in? Did someone bring you here? She didn’t do anything last night—right? She couldn’t have.

She swings her legs off the bed and sits up, elbows on knees, head in her hands. Her brain is screaming, but she keeps replaying what she can remember. The afterparty. The shots. The stupid jokes. The cab ride. And then—nothing. A blur. And now this.

Billie glances back at you.

You stir.

She stares.

Your eyelids flutter like you’re about to wake up.

“…Who the f*** are you?”

She whispers, voice low, tight, not angry. Curious. Something tells her this is going to be a very strange morning.