Vanessa
If I could change one thing right now, it would definitely be the relentless hammering in my head reminding me that last night... I messed up. And the worst part? I barely remember anything. What I do know is that Dark 'n' Stormys and beer will wreck your brain. Mental note: never trust a liquor with a pretty name.
The moment I open my eyes, I start hunting for my phone among the chaos of pillows and scattered clothes. When I find it, the screen lights up with a message I sent to Olivia: "Oliviaaa all is gud don't worry I got to the boys' house safe and sound tho ein bit drunk, stayin here tonight." I read it through the fog in my brain and laugh at the absurdity of texting her mid-drunken haze—but I'm grateful for that flash of lucidity.
I turn and see Wenn beside me, tangled in sheets, hair a mess, face half-buried in the pillow. I chuckle softly. Neither of us looks ready to face daylight. When she finally opens her eyes, she squints like the sun physically hurts and mumbles:
"Did we survive? Tell me this wasn't just a weird dream."
"We survived. My head didn't," I reply, stretching like a tired cat. "Do you remember anything from last night? Because I honestly don't."
"Shawn yelling he was king of the world, Connor being ridiculous... and you telling me Dark 'n' Stormys should come with a medical warning."
We laugh. That kind of laugh that only comes when you know something was a disaster—but you shared it with someone you trust. Then, without warning, Wenn sits up, her face suddenly pale.
"You okay?" I ask, concerned.
"I don't know," she mutters, and before I can react, she bolts to the bathroom.
From the bed, I hear the unmistakable sound of retching. I sit up slowly, waiting for her to return. When she does, her eyes are wide and a little scared, but her voice is steadier than I expected.
"Vanessa, I need to tell you something," she says, sitting at the edge of the bed, nervously fiddling with the sheet. "I think... I might be pregnant."
I freeze for a moment, processing her words. The air between us turns serious, but I try not to show alarm. I remember clearly—she didn't drink a single drop last night. Suddenly, things start to make sense.
"Do you want to go get a test?" I whisper.
"Yes, please. I don't want to do this alone."
"Of course you're not doing it alone. We'll get dressed and head out as soon as you're ready."
We look at each other, and even though neither of us knows how the day will unfold, we share one of those smiles born from fear and affection. We get up slowly, searching for clothes and courage. While Wenn washes her face, I check my phone again, hoping the world outside isn't as messy as we are. But at least, for now, we have a plan: get that test and face whatever comes—together.
I decide to head to one of the other bathrooms to get ready, trying to save time. But I completely forget I'm in a house with four guys—and I'm only in my underwear. When I step out, I run straight into...
Maeson
The Morning After
When I wake up, I spend several minutes staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together the night from blurry fragments and the lingering sense that something shifted among us. I don't know if it was the depth of the drunkenness, the accidental brush of emotions, or just that moment when all the masks fell. What I do know is the uncomfortable silence and the echo of the door when Vanessa and Wenn retreated from the chaos.
I head to the kitchen, searching for water and maybe some clarity. Zane is already there, making coffee like routine might cleanse the air. He offers me a cup and asks quietly if I'm okay. I just shrug. The rest of the house wakes slowly—murmurs, dragging footsteps. Shawn stumbles in, cracking jokes to ease the tension, laughing a little too loudly. Connor peeks out from the hallway, searching for answers he clearly doesn't have, then closes his door again, deciding it's not yet time to face reality.
I realize everyone's avoiding the topic. There are sidelong glances, awkward silences, gestures full of unspoken questions. Backpacks still sit on the table—silent witnesses to a night no one knows how to end. Maybe we'll never talk about it. Maybe we will, over reheated coffee and promises to forget.
Then, the door to Wenn's room opens. I turn instinctively—and there she is. The current source of my confusion. Standing in nothing but her underwear. In front of all of us. Including Connor, who chose that exact moment to reappear. Her face turns so red I worry she's having a stroke. And just as quickly, she bolts back into the room—tripping and smacking into the doorframe on her way out. A masterpiece.
For a second, time freezes. All the guys are stunned, each reacting in their own way: Zane stops stirring his coffee, spoon suspended mid-air. Shawn's eyes go wide, trying not to burst out laughing. Connor, perhaps out of decency or guilt, pretends nothing happened and retreats to his room. And me? I just stare—caught between surprise, desire, and the nervous awe of witnessing something so absurdly normal in a shared house... yet so novel because it's her.
The moment lasts only seconds, but the embarrassment is so intense even the wall seems ready to offer Vanessa a towel. Thankfully, after the stumble and the slammed door, the tension breaks. Everyone finds a reason to joke and begin healing the emotional hangover of the night before.
As Vanessa and Wenn's footsteps approach, Shawn can't hold back and coughs—clearly to hide his laughter.
"Well, at least now we're awake," he says, raising an eyebrow at Zane.
Zane pretends to check his phone, failing to hide a grin. Connor, from his half-open door, mutters:
"Anyone want tea for the nerves? I know I do."
I try to stay serious, but a chuckle escapes. Shawn, sensing the ice is broken, jumps in:
"Vanessa, want me to grab a towel... or maybe an ice pack, just in case?"
Vanessa covers her face, red as a tomato. Shawn adds:
"Don't worry, we all have selective memory. This scene goes straight into the folder labeled 'Things never mentioned... except at every family meal.'"
Zane stands and, with mock solemnity, declares:
"As far as I'm concerned, I saw nothing. I'm not even sure I'm awake. This could've been a dream. Or a very weird indie film."
Connor finally emerges, hair messier than ever, and says:
"All I know is the universe has a twisted sense of humor. Next time, someone warn me before I walk into a live show."
I walk over to Vanessa and whisper, half teasing, half tender: "For what it's worth, you just broke the record for most epic kitchen entrance."
She lowers her gaze, cheeks still flushed—and for a moment, I feel that blush isn't just from embarrassment. I catch myself smiling like an idiot, hoping that moment might happen again.
Shawn raises his mug like a toast. "To mornings that start... like this."
Laughter ripples through the room. Just as Vanessa looks ready to hide behind the fridge, Wenn appears from the hallway, her expression somewhere between resigned and amused.
"Well, at least it wasn't me making the grand entrance in underwear," she says, arms crossed dramatically. "Though I admit—it was Oscar-worthy."
Vanessa, still red, peeks out from behind the fridge door and replies with a crooked smile: "If anyone brings this up again, I swear I'll swap the sugar for salt in your coffee."
Shawn clutches his chest, feigning horror. "Threats before breakfast? Things are getting serious."
Connor adds: "I just want to know if this was part of a performance piece. If so, I need to know where to buy tickets. I came out for tea—I didn't know it came with a show."
Vanessa crosses her arms, more relaxed now, and says: "Well, if this was a show, I hope it was at least in HD. Because with what that outfit cost me, it deserved a standing ovation."
Wenn laughs, walks over, and hands Vanessa a cup of coffee. "To epic entrances, shared secrets, and friends who won't let you face embarrassment alone."
And though no one says it out loud, we all feel it: In the middle of chaos, shared laughter is the best balm.