Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
It was bright when your eyes opened — brighter and harsher than it usually was with your slightly tinted bedroom windows — and your hand was up to shield your eyes from the blinding pain of the sun in an instant to try and shield whatever caused the sun to be so bright that morning. A moment passed until you realized it was not, in fact, a weekend, and that you were not allowed to sleep in. And though your head pounded as it left the pillow to try and catch the time on the alarm clock on your little wooden bedside table — you were caught by surprise when you realized it wasn't your alarm clock, or bedside table.
Body rigid and eyes wide, the headache was made worse when you forced yourself out of the bed in haste; you were struggling to realize where you were.
You'd fucking slept over at some random person's house.
Did your friends know about this? What if they were worried? How the fuck were you supposed to tell Katsuki about this? What were you going to do if something happened? What if you'd somehow che—
You quickly stopped that thought — it was stupid and you were getting your irrationality get to you; and it wasn't easy, but you took a breath to try and calm yourself, palms rubbing the base of your temple as you sat down on the edge of the bed trying to think about the night before.
Remember what happened first, then you can freak out.
Camie's birthday party — you were hosting at that bar a couple blocks away from your apartment because they had a good VIP section. You all got there at around nine o'clock, had a couple drinks; it was fun and you all danced.
You remembered being dizzy after a drink from a dude, and stepping outside. Said dude was following you, you got him to leave. Right? Or is that where you were?
You stared down at your dress that was still intact, and you could still feel your underwear on.
No, no. Think harder.
He followed you and was angry. You yelled at him to leave. He wouldn't take no as an answer. And then.... a guy showed up and got him to leave.
The bookstore guy.
Your eyes realized in realization, taking the small bedroom in with a new perspective. The plain white cotton sheets with very minimalist decorations, the few books that were sitting on the nightstand and dresser, even a picture of the guy with what looked to be his mother on the edge of the nightstand — perhaps when he was a teenager.
It made more sense, but you were plagued with more embarrassment. This poor, random guy you'd only met once didn't only have to step in and make sure you were safe, he also had to deal with your antics while you were drunk (you'd heard from your friends, Camie specifically, you were quite loud and obnoxious), and give up his bedroom just so you could sleep comfortably.
You didn't even know the guy's name!
Forehead cradled in your palm, you let yourself calm down — trying to ease the splitting pain in your head. How were you supposed to go about this without completely embarrassing yourself?
