It all started with Maeve asking you for a favor. That should’ve been your first red flag.

The house party was already a mess of sweaty dancing, cheap vodka, and someone’s bad attempt at DJing ‘90s R&B remixes. You weren’t really planning to stay long, just drop in, say hi, and maybe pocket a few unattended beers. But then Maeve found you — halfway through a sip — with that no-nonsense glare and a motion of her head toward the kitchen.

“Aimee’s wasted. Can you take her home? I’d do it but I… I can’t deal with her when she’s like this. You’re nice. She trusts you.”

You blinked. “We’ve spoken, like… three times.”

“She thinks you’re safe,” Maeve said, already walking away.

And that’s how you found yourself guiding a very drunk, very loud Aimee Gibbs out of a party she wasn’t ready to leave.

The walk to your car was chaos. She stopped three times to say hi to people she didn't know, tried to pet a mailbox, and gave an impromptu performance of Spice Up Your Life in front of a confused Uber Eats driver.

By the time she slid into your passenger seat, grinning up at you like you were her knight in average armor, you were already regretting everything. Then, she threw up. All over the floor mat. Aimee, still giggling between hiccups, murmured something that sounded like an apology, though it might’ve been about bunnies. Hard to tell.

You reached the end of your rope when you realized — you didn’t even know where she lived.

Her phone was locked. Yours was dying. She mumbled something about “The pink house with the green thingy” and then passed out, head lolling onto your shoulder.

So, you took her home.

Your home.

You got her inside with a mix of dragging, carrying, and praying no neighbors saw you. She promptly threw up again, this time into your laundry basket. Which is exactly where your favorite hoodie was.

After that, the night turned into some sitcom-level fever dream. You helped her out of her vomit-soaked clothes — respectfully, awkwardly, while she babbled about goats. She barely even noticed, flopping onto your bed while you threw your own soiled clothes in the washing machine.

You dug out one of your oversized t-shirts and managed to get it on her. Then you grabbed a clean pair of boxers for yourself and collapsed beside her, exhausted. Two half-naked strangers in one very not-king-sized bed.

You didn’t think about how it would look. Not in that moment. You didn’t think about waking up with your arm accidentally around her waist, or how her hair would smell like strawberries and regret.

You just hoped she’d feel better in the morning. That she’d laugh about it. That maybe — just maybe — she wouldn’t hate you for letting the night get this far.

And then, in the silence of the room lit only by the moon and the soft hum of the washer, she turned toward you in her sleep. Mumbled your name like a soft question. And smiled.

You stared at the ceiling, breath held, mind spinning.

Well. Tomorrow was going to be weird