This had to be one of Spencer’s worst nightmares.

Being stuck at a buzzing drunken Rossi party, shots passed, bodies far too close to be sanitary — not to mention people busy sharing spit with each other, almost like they just don’t know how many germs can be passed through kissing. He shivered, watching another sweaty couple stumble past him, drinks spilling over the edge of their glasses, splashing haphazardly around his feet. His attention shifted to the cup in his own hand, having remained at the same quantity since Morgan had poured it for him, encouraging him to “let loose”. Seems he forgot Spencer doesn’t drink. It’s a waste anyway.

He stayed crowded in a corner of the kitchen, surveying the rally, colleagues swarming every inch of every room, all carrying the same cheap red Solo cups, their own poisons in each one. He could already feel the headache pounding against his skull, taunting him. It was just so goddamn loud.

When the obnoxiousness of voices and echoes of bass blaring through speakers eventually became too overwhelming, he tossed his wasted drink out and snuck off, away from the mass. Keeping his hands firmly jammed into his pocket (where he knew was much cleaner than the rest of the house), he trudged up the stairs. He stepped past a couple noisy occupied rooms before finding a quiet, seemingly unoccupied, bedroom. He slipped in and shut the door behind him, a soft sigh of relief leaving him, before startling in surprise when he found someone already sat on the edge of the bed.