### Chapter 3: The Morning After Someone is hammering a massive mallet against my skull. Not just any mallet, but one of those cartoonishly oversized ones that sends characters into comical spirals of chaos. The noise is relentless, like a marching band playing a funeral dirge, and with every thump, a wave of nausea crashes over me. Oh God, I am so hung-over. Even the feeble groan that escapes my lips feels like a drill boring into my temples. Shifting my body in bed awakens an inner hurricane, making my throat tighten as the room spins. I focus on my breathing: Inhale. Exhale. I just need to muster enough control to reach the bathroom and avoid ruining Garrett Graham’s immaculate sheets. Except—I’m not in Garrett’s bed. The realization strikes me like a bolt of lightning, coinciding with the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing beside me. Not the shallow breaths of someone who had one too many tequila shots, but the steady, deep breaths of the man sprawled next to me. This time, my groan rolls out from the depths of my soul. Memories flood back in vivid splashes. The awful movie, the tequila shots, and then… everything else. I am in Dean’s room. I slept with Dean last night—twice. My heart races as I stare at the ceiling, processing the empty condom wrapper sitting nonchalantly on the end table. And, oh yeah, I’m completely naked. Was it all a bad dream? A desperate voice in my head tries to reassure me. A shaky breath escapes my lips as I courageously turn my head, only to find a sight that sends a rush of heat through me. Dean, utterly naked, is lying on his stomach, his perfect bare backside mocking my morose thoughts. And those red scrapes—my own handiwork—once again remind me of what transpired. I raise a trembling hand and notice the jagged edge of a broken nail on my index finger. I broke a nail while clawing at Dean’s flawless ass. The memory comes rushing back—a night of reckless abandon on the couch, and definitely not a one-size-fits-all oversight. “I want to see this mysterious bedroom of yours. I want to be the first one to christen it,” I had panted. Turns out, I’m not the first girl to have scaled the heights of his inviting bed. Dean had revealed as much, shattering my inner monologue with unwanted knowledge I had longed to stay ignorant of. Now, not only do I know the secrets of his bedroom, but I’ve also tasted the forbidden fruit of his sexual prowess. The sounds he makes, the way he feels inside me—part of me revels in the memory while the other part screams for mercy. What have I done? I’ve never dabbled in casual sex before. My limited sex history consists of three serious boyfriends—two from high school, one from college. This whirlwind with Dean feels like jumping into a raging storm without a life raft. Why did I let this happen? I remember being perfectly sober, confidently making the first move, planting that kiss on his lips that ignited everything. Okay. Deep breaths. I navigate the turmoil swirling in my mind while massaging my tortured temples. It’s fine. It was just a one-night stand. Nobody died, and while I might regret it—desperately regret it—my father’s words surface: “Learn from your mistakes and move on.” That’s the plan. Move on. Just move. Sneak out of this bed, take a thousand-year shower, and pretend last night never happened. As if the universe is conspiring against me, the mattress creaks ominously as I slowly slide out from beneath the wayward sheet. I freeze, trembling, my panicked eyes darting toward Dean. Thankfully, he remains blissfully unaware, lost in the embrace of sleep—until my foot meets the floor. In an instant, his body shifts. He lets out a half-moan, half-groan before twisting over, exposing himself fully. My cheeks ignite as I inadvertently investigate his impressive package. Even relaxed, it’s a sight to behold. My memory flashes with echoes of the praise I showered upon him last night, and embarrassment floods me at the revelation. No. More reminiscence. Escape must be my only mantra right now. Where are my clothes? Frantically, I scan the room until my eyes land on Dean’s sweatpants—thank goodness, my phone is in his pocket. My own clothes have vanished, last spotted in a crudely decorated heap in the living room. Panic bubbles up within me; Tucker might have seen them! And heard us—Oh sweet Jesus. With determination, I shove my hand into the pocket and retrieve my phone, a sigh of relief escaping my lips, but it’s short-lived as unread messages from Sean loom before me. If he only knew what kind of chaos I just invited into my life while he was at home, hopelessly trying to win me back. “Hand it over, baby doll.” Dean’s voice cuts into my thoughts, the suddenness of it nearly making me drop the phone. My head spins to see him leaning against the headboard, his tousled hair falling over his eyes. Those green orbs glint mischievously, completely awake—not a hint of grogginess in sight. “I need my phone,” I stammer, trying to mask my rising embarrassment. “That’s not what you said last night…” He chuckles, undeterred by my discomfort. “Can we please not discuss last night? Ever,” I plead, the words spilling out with urgency. “Relax, it was just sex,” he replies lightly, a grin stretching across his face as he flexes his muscles, momentarily distracting me from my desire to escape. Then my gaze lapses over to his wrists, and I remember: I tied him to the bed last night. Mortification swells anew. “Granted, it was a lot kinkier than I thought it would be,” Dean adds with a playful wink. “But I ain’t complaining.” Kill me now. Just put me out of my misery. In a rush of humiliation, I seize a black V-neck T-shirt from the floor and pull it over my head, the familiar scent enveloping me—a mix of spice and masculinity that sends shivers down my spine. Dean’s amusement is palpable, and the past few hours of recklessness invade my thoughts, intensifying my embarrassment. “We’re not discussing it,” I reiterate tersely. “It happened, it was fine, and it will never be mentioned again.” He leans forward, his smirk growing, “It was more than fine, and you know it.” “Would you please cover yourself?” “Can’t—you're wearing my shirt.” He raises an eyebrow, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Why don’t you take it off and toss it this way?” I can’t bear to think about it, let alone strip off the shirt. In an attempt to wrangle back control, I turn my back on him and scroll through my phone. Ignoring Sean’s messages is a must; I quickly text Meg about brunch and confirm that I need a ride. Before I can breathe a sigh of relief, Dean’s swift motion snatches my phone away, and I whirl around in disbelief. “Hey!” I protest, caught off guard by his speed. “This is mine!” “As your relationship sponsor, I advise you to disregard those nine texts from your ex.” He glances at the screen, rolling his eyes like a superior sage. “Nothing good will come from reading them.” “He's right about that,” I mumble, knowing he has a point, but there’s no way I’m letting Dean be my um… relationship guru. “It’s fine,” I insist. “I don’t need your help.” “Not what you said last night. Remember, your phone stays with me this weekend, Allie-Cat. No arguments.” “Allie-Cat? Really?” I groan inwardly, a mix of irritation and exasperation flooding me. “I’m meeting a friend,” I firmness in my tone. “So, I need my phone. Your sponsor duties are over. I’m going back to the dorms after brunch.” His displeasure curls like smoke in the air. “No, you’re staying the weekend.” “Not anymore.” I surge forward, attempting to retrieve my phone, but he sidesteps me, gaze sharp as a knife. “Is this because we… you know…?” “Stop. Please. Do not mention it again,” I almost shout, the words catching in my throat. A flicker of understanding washes over his face, but the moment is ephemeral. “This is bullshit,” he declares, frustration flaring to life. “You can’t just bail because we drank too much and hooked up.” “I can and I will,” I snap. “Relax,” he urges, a softer urgency replacing the earlier fire in his tone. “I’d rather not deal with this morning-after nonsense either. We had fun, alright? If you want to pretend this never happened, I won’t bring it up again.” I exhale slowly, “Thank you.” After a moment, he studies me carefully. “Are we cool?” I give a hesitant nod, my heart pounding not just from the hangover, but the reality of my chaotic choices. “We’re cool, Dean.” My phone buzzes again, signifying Meg's arrival, and reality grips me tightly. “I need to get dressed,” I say, urgency kicking in as I think of the misadventures that could arise if I see Hannah without clothing. “Wait,” he calls, his voice laced with concern. “What are you going to tell Hannah?” Damn it, he’s right. My mind whirrs, finding something to pacify his curiosity. “I’ll say I needed to face my breakup… alone.” “Mid-weekend?” he probes, doubt heavy in his voice as I reach for the door. “Please don’t,” I say, exasperation clawing at my composure. “Just… Allie.” I turn to face him once more. “I’m fine.” But those words feel hollow as I step beyond the threshold, each footfall a reminder of the reckless choices I made. As far as walks of shame go, this one isn’t so terrible, primarily because no one remains awake to bear witness to the aftermath of drunken choices and whispered desires.