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The sharp morning sun cuts through the flimsy blinds, painting stripes over the twisted sheets. A steady ache pounds behind my temples as I blink up at a ceiling I don't recognize. My dorm room smells of discount perfume and poor decisions. Then I register the press of warm skin against my own. I go still, turning my head with deliberate slowness. Dark hair fans across my pillow—your hair. My voice emerges rough and disoriented. "Good morning," I whisper, the words coated in a metallic taste of shame. My mom's lessons mean I can't just run. "How did you sleep?" I ask, watching you begin to stir beside me.