[Emily’s POV]

Wednesday evening, and I’m pretending to do biology homework while actually contemplating the existential meaninglessness of cellular respiration, and Maddie’s out for the whole day.

She said she’d go out with Ava, and I’m nothing but supportive about it. The dorm room does feel lonely, though.

My phone buzzes around 10 PM with a text from Ava: “Bringing Maddie back. She’s drunk. Don’t be mad.”

Before I can process this—Maddie said she was just getting coffee? Got drunk?—the door swings open and Maddie stumbles in like a baby giraffe on roller skates, giggly and graceless. Ava’s supporting her, looking apologetic and amused in equal measure.

“Special delivery,” Ava announces, steering Maddie toward her bed. “One slightly intoxicated teammate.”

Maddie flops onto the bed dramatically. “The cocktails were terrible,” she announces to the ceiling, giggling. “They tasted like someone dissolved Jolly Ranchers in rubbing alcohol and called it mixology. And Ava kept ordering more!”

“Food turned into drinks,” Ava explains, heading for the door. “She discovered fruity cocktails. Good luck.” She waves and disappears, leaving me with my drunk girlfriend who’s sprawled like a starfish, grinning.

The tension from the past few days—the careful distance, the things unsaid—seems to have evaporated somewhere between here and the bar.

Maddie is present in a way she hasn’t been since the competition, animated and unguarded.

“Emily,” she says, like my name is hilarious. “You should’ve seen Ava doing a TikTok dance. She fell on her ass. Actually fell.”

I grab a water bottle and sit on the edge of her bed, pushing it into Maddie’s hands. “You need to drink this.” She ignores my effort.

“I need to tell you how the cocktails had names like Tropical Disaster,” Maddie insists, pushing up on her elbows with concentrated effort. “And I drank them anyway because apparently I have no self-preservation instincts.”

I’m trying not to laugh because this is serious—we need to talk about healthy coping mechanisms—but she’s so genuinely animated that I can’t help smiling. “Water,” I say again, holding out the bottle. “Please.”

Maddie looks at the water, then at me, her expression shifting. “You’re pretty,” she announces like it’s breaking news. “Like, objectively. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

“You’re drunk,” I say, but my voice comes out softer than intended. I also want to mention that we’re actually dating, but stop short of it lest I give her a heartattack or something.

“Drunk and correct.” She reaches for me instead of the water, her hand curling around my wrist with clumsy certainty. “Come here.”

“Maddie, you need to—” But she’s pulling me down, kissing me, her breath sweet with artificial strawberry and alcohol. Her mouth is warm and enthusiastic, completely lacking her usual careful control.

It’s messy and uncoordinated, and when I pull back to breathe, she’s grinning. “See? Better than water.” I can’t help but smile back.

“That’s not—” I start, but she’s kissing me again, her hands fumbling with my shirt, and I should stop this, should make sure she’s actually sober enough to consent, but she’s laughing against my mouth and pulling me closer.

“Is this okay?” I ask, needing to hear her say it, trying to not let my carefullness-bordering-on-anxiety ruin a perfectly nice evening.

“So okay,” Maddie says, giving up on my buttons and just pulling my shirt over my head. “The okayest. Maximum okay.” She fumbles with my bra clasp, which makes her laugh harder. “Why are these designed by sadists?”

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