The party was dying, thank God. I could feel the thump of the bass still rattling in my ribcage like some annoying ghost of house music past, even though the speakers had long since been turned off.

The house was quieter now—if you ignored the occasional thump of someone tripping over absolutely nothing down the hall and the dying groan of what used to be a beer pong table before some guy from the hockey team crashed through it.

Outside the front door, my teammates were gathering in wobbly groups, jackets thrown over shoulders, someone arguing about whether to get pizza or burritos on the way back. Most of the team was barely able to stand upright, so I had a feeling the food wasn't going to happen. Typical post-party chaos.

Marcus, a teammate, clapped me on the back. “You coming?”

I blinked blearily. I was buzzed—not drunk, just comfortably tipsy, like the room had softened at the edges and people were more tolerable than usual.

“Gonna hit the bathroom first,” I waved a hand dismissively. “I drank like... everything. All the liquids. Every last drop. I might explode.”

Marcus made a face. “Gross. Don’t explode, man.”

I gave him finger guns. “No promises.”

They left me behind, voices fading down the walkway. I watched them go, then turned back toward the staircase with the slow, heavy determination of a man on a mission.

Bathroom. That was the goal. The singular dream.

I climbed the stairs, muttering little affirmations to myself. “You’re good. Totally fine. Not so long till you get to pee. You’ve survived worse. Like finals week. Like eating gas station sushi that one time.”

The upstairs hallway was dim, lit only by the flickering bulb overhead and the glow of a lava lamp someone had duct-taped to the wall. The only bathroom I knew of was at the end of the hall. I’d been there once earlier in the night when I still had dignity.

I approached it now like a pilgrim returning to a sacred place.

The door creaked open without resistance. I stepped inside, already halfway unbuckling my belt, gaze fixed on the floor in that way people do when they’re just trying to not piss themselves in someone else’s house.

The door clicked shut behind me. I looked up. And stopped breathing.

There was someone in the bathroom.

Specifically: Shirtless.

Standing in front of the sink like some kind of hot, bruised Greek tragedy. Hair mussed. Knuckles raw. A thin line of blood trailing down from a split lip. His jaw was clenched and his chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths, like the kind you took after almost getting into—or finishing—a fight.

I blinked. Then blinked again.

I had never, in my life, so badly wished to be blind. Or at least not so into men.

Because wow, there was a lot of skin. Very real, very visible, muscle-and-sweat-and-blood skin. My brain short-circuited. My mouth went dry. And not because of dehydration.

“Did you—” I gestured vaguely, voice cracking, “—walk into a wall or beat someone’s ass?”

Smooth. Really smooth.

I didn't wait for a response. Not that they offered one. They didn't even look at me. Just leaned on the sink like it owed him something, silent and still, as if I hadn’t just intruded mid-healing arc.

God, he was so hot.

I dragged my eyes away from the collarbones. Which was hard, because they were really well-shaped collarbones. Sculpted. Architectural. Stupidly perfect. My gaze dipped down. Nope, mistake. Too much chest. Too many veins in those arms. Were those cuts or scratches? Either way, I shouldn’t be staring.

I should be leaving. Immediately. This was bad. This was so bad.

Because not only was he clearly in the middle of licking his wounds (possibly from beating someone half to death?), but I was tipsy. And tipsy me? Made bad decisions. Like once texting my ex at 2 a.m. to say I’d “always miss her laugh” (she’d blocked me). Or last month, when I’d tried to kiss a guy after exactly three and a half White Claws and zero prior warning.

God, why did I always try to kiss guys when I was a little drunk?

This had that energy. That "I might make a mistake in the next sixty seconds if I don’t leave” energy. Also, I still had to pee. Urgently.

“Okay, cool,” I said to no one in particular, already turning to go. “Gonna... head out. Didn’t mean to intrude on your whole... bleeding shirtless cryptid vibe.”

My hand hit the doorknob. Twisted..... Nothing. I tried again. Nope. A tiny furrow formed between my brows. I jiggled the knob, gave the door a shove.

Still nothing. My heart skipped. “Okay... no.”

I pressed harder. Yanked. Shoved with my shoulder. The door refused to budge. It was jammed.

I paused and listened very carefully.

The house was silent now. No voices. No footsteps. My teammates had already left. No music. No background chaos. Just the soft hum of the lightbulb and the sound of my internal panic monologue spinning into overdrive.

I looked back slowly, wide-eyed. Oh no. I was trapped. In a bathroom. With a shirtless, bruised, possibly-just-in-a-fight, objectively hot guy. While mildly drunk. While also needing to piss.

Well, damn.