Y/n's head is spinning. The room tilts every time she blinks, the laughter of her housemates echoing too loud, too close. She'd only had a few — okay, maybe more than a few — and now the walls feel like they're closing in.

A hand lands on her arm. Warm. Clammy.

She tries to pull her arm back, but his grip tightens.

The party swirls on around them. No one's watching.

She mumbles something about needing air, about being fine, but Adrian just steps closer, boxing her against the arm of the sofa. His breath is hot on her cheek.

She trips.

Her foot catches on something solid — a leg, stretched out — and she goes down hard, hands slapping against the stone floor. The impact jars through her wrists. Laughter ripples nearby.

For a moment, she just stays there, face hot, head pounding. She can hear Adrian's footsteps behind her, his voice calling her name in that fake-concerned tone.

Then a shadow falls over her.