Y/n’s mouth tasted like a gas station receipt, and the light through the blinds was doing something genuinely homophobic to her brain.

The house was dead silent. The kind of silence that whispered, we’re all in our rooms pretending not to exist today.

All Y/n needed was toothpaste. Maybe a gallon of water. Definitely an exorcism.

She pushed open the bathroom door.

The bathtub was full. Not with water. Well—with water. And a man.

Nash Donovan. Star hockey player. Campus legend. Sole object of an obsession that belonged on a true-crime podcast.

He was fully clothed. White t-shirt soaked to transparency. Dark blue jeans. Sneakers still on, for God’s sake.

His head was tilted back against the porcelain edge, mouth slightly open, dark hair plastered to his forehead. Snoring. Peaceful. In water that had definitely gone cold hours ago.

Like a Greek statue that fell into a sensory deprivation tank.

Y/n’s hangover didn’t stand a chance against the adrenaline. This was better than coffee. This was a gift from the universe.