Robin
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The sun is way too fucking bright.

Like, personally-offended-by-my-existence bright.

Like, let’s-punish-you-for-every-bad-choice-you-made-last-night bright.

I groan, burying my face in my pillow, but it does absolutely nothing to stop the pounding in my skull. My mouth tastes like bad decisions and tequila, my tongue feels like I tried to swallow a wool sweater, and the mere thought of movement makes my stomach do a full gymnastics routine.

“Rise and shine, sluts!”

Melanie’s voice slices through the room like a knife, sharp and way too cheerful for a person who was definitely taking body shots off a stranger last night.

“Shut up,” I croak, peeling my eyes open just enough to glare at her.

She’s standing at the foot of the bed, already dressed, already packed, looking like she just walked out of a self-care retreat instead of the same tequila-soaked hell the rest of us endured.

"How are you alive?" I mumble, voice hoarse like I spent the night screaming my own bad choices into the void.

"Because I’m built different," she says, tossing a travel-sized bottle of mouthwash onto the bed. "Unlike you, I actually hydrated and took ibuprofen before passing out."

I blink at her. "Traitor."

"Survivor," she corrects, yanking the blanket off me with zero remorse. The sudden chill hits me like an existential crisis.

I groan dramatically, curling into myself like a dying shrimp.

Melanie sighs. "You have ten minutes before I start pouring water on you."

"Joke’s on you, I might actually need that."

She shakes her head, muttering something about "absolute disasters" and "why do I even hang out with you people" as she disappears into the bathroom.

I let my head flop back against the pillow, debating whether I actually need to function today or if I can just dissolve into the mattress and become part of the furniture.

“Why are we up so early?” I complain.

Melanie grins. “We gotta leave in an hour. Folks left two hours ago because y'all couldn't wake up.”

I close my eyes again. “No.”

“Yes.”

Ali groans from somewhere beside me in the bed. “I second that. Noooooo.”

But Melanie is relentless, throwing a pillow at me before yanking the covers off Ali. “Let’s go. We’re on a schedule.”

Ali curses under her breath, stretching her arms above her head. I try not to look, but she catches me and smirks. Besides, I've seen more of that already even though I couldn't get myself to do anything past kissing.

Heather had me rattled last night, I had to try and quench all my thirst on Ali.

“What? Not into morning-after pillow talk?”

I snort. “I think we covered everything last night.”

Ali winks. “Mm, we did.”

My fingers did make her scream so that's a win for her I guess.

Still, it should probably feel weirder than it does, but she made it clear from the beginning-—this was a weekend thing for her. No strings, no expectations. And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

We exchange numbers anyway, promising to call even though we both know we won’t. That's just how it goes with these things. It's like well written down guidelines to flings.

Ali pulls me in for a quick kiss before heading out, and that’s that. No messy goodbyes, no awkward tension. Just one last look and a playful salute before she disappears out the door.

I envy how easy she makes it look.

Because I know it won’t be that easy with Heather.

Not after last night.

I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. I don’t know what she was thinking. Maybe we weren’t thinking at all.

Which is why, when I finally drag myself downstairs, packed and ready, I act like it never happened.

And knowing her, she probably will do the same.

Heather is already outside, leaning against the car, sunglasses hiding her eyes, her expression unreadable. She's wearing baggy cargo pants and a tee, she looks so sexy I can't even tear my eyes away.

She’s talking to Javis, nodding along to whatever he’s saying, like she didn't have my lipstick smudged in the corners of her mouth last night. Like she wasn’t moaning my name in a club bathroom twelve fucking hours ago.

I should be relieved.

Instead, I feel fucking sick.

But it doesn’t matter, because we’re leaving. The pre-wedding retreat is over and in exactly fourteen days, Heather is going to marry Javis.

Fourteen fucking days.

The thought hits me like a punch to the gut as I slide into the backseat, Melanie beside me, Javis behind the wheel. Heather takes shotgun, and just like that, we’re on the road.

Silence settles between us, thick and heavy.

But not Javis, no. He hums along to the radio, completely unaware, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel like this is just another road trip and not the slow, torturous descent into my personal hell.

Heather stares out the window, fingers tapping against her thigh in a rhythm.

Melanie is scrolling on her phone, smirking at whatever scandalous drama she’s consuming like it’s a high-protein breakfast.

But me?

I’m stuck in my head.

Trapped in a never-ending loop of last night, replaying it like some sick fucking highlight reel I can’t escape. The way Heather looked at me in that dimly lit hallway.

The way she kissed me-—like she needed it. Like I was oxygen and she was drowning. The way she clung to me, desperate, reckless, hers.

And now we’re back to pretending it never happened. Back to square one. Like the universe hit the reset button just to watch me suffer.

Melanie nudges me with her elbow, yanking me out of my spiral. “You look like you wanna die.”

“Because I do,” I mutter, slumping deeper into the seat.

She laughs. "You did this to yourself."

I turn my head just enough to glare at her. "You walked in on us." My voice is low.

She shrugs, unbothered. "And yet, I'm the one getting choked by the guilt. You’re welcome, by the way. Even though I don't approve."

I groan, letting my head fall back against the seat. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Fine,” she says, going back to scrolling. “But you should probably figure out what you do wanna do before it’s too late and leave that woman alone.”

Oh, yeah. Like that thought hasn’t been haunting me this entire drive.

Because in two weeks, Heather is going to walk down that aisle in a dress that probably costs more than my entire net worth, and I will sit in that crowd, watching her marry my brother.

And I have no idea how the fuck I’m supposed to be okay with that.

Actually, scratch that. I do have an idea.

Step one: continue spiraling.

Step two: drink excessively at the wedding and give an unhinged toast that may or may not get me kicked out.

Step three: change my name and move to another country.

Step four: therapy. Probably.

All this is doable, but for now, I settle for step one.

Spiraling it is.