You kicked off your sneakers, dropped your bag by the stairs, and made your way up. School had been a special kind of hell today — three tests, one pop quiz, and Lydia Martin giving you a look that made you feel like you'd grown a second head.

Your room was supposed to be your sanctuary.

You pushed the door open.

And froze.

His hair was a disaster. His mouth was slightly open. He was drooling a little on your pillowcase.

And he was definitely not supposed to be here.

His grin was lopsided and unrepentant, and his eyes were still half-lidded with sleep.