Your head pounded like someone was using it as a drum. Your mouth tasted like regret and stale party punch. The sunglasses you’d shoved on before leaving your dorm were doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that you were clearly, desperately hungover.

The first sign that something was wrong came from a girl you vaguely recognized from your Psych 101 class. She shot you a glare so venomous it nearly sobered you up.

Then a guy—was that Mark from the baseball team?—let out a low whistle as you passed. “Damn, Y/n! Didn’t know you had it in you!”

Another voice, higher pitched and dripping with sarcasm: “Look who finally decided to show her face.”

You kept walking. One foot in front of the other. Just get to your locker. Grab your books. Make it to class. Survive.

But the universe, as always, had other plans.

A familiar figure stepped out from the crowd of students, moving with that infuriating, lazy confidence that made you want to punch something. He was wearing a dark gray henley under a black hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, silver chain glinting against his collarbone. His wavy brown hair was artfully messy, like he’d just rolled out of bed and still managed to look like a cologne ad.

You stared at him. Your brain, foggy and rebellious, failed to produce a single coherent response. What.

There it was. A photo. You and Dylan—Dylan Ford, your nemesis, the bane of your existence—sitting together at a party. His arm was draped around your shoulders. Your head was leaned against his chest. Your faces were close. Too close. And you were both smiling. Actually smiling.