Shane

There’s pounding. Loud. Relentless. I can’t tell where it’s coming from. Maybe from inside my head. 

I manage to peel one eye open, but even that slight movement sends shooting pain through me like my skull’s been split wide open. The room is dark, spinning like I’m trapped on one of those Tilt-a-Whirl rides I fucking hate. My mouth’s dry—like sandpaper and regret—and my tongue sticks to the roof of it, doing nothing to mask the taste of something foul. Alcohol. Maybe something chemical. All of it fucking wrong.

Another loud bang nearly rattles the door of my room off its hinges.

“Shane!”

The voice in the hallway is muffled, angry, and way too familiar. I furrow my brow, trying to place it, but it’s like I’m underwater. Everything’s a blur, out of focus. Loud music thumps faintly from somewhere—everywhere—probably from another party raging downstairs. Other voices mix with laughter and the pounding bass from the speakers. The smell of beer, sweat, and bad decisions crawls through the vents. 

Typical frat house chaos. If I didn’t feel like shit right now, I might even laugh.

The pounding doesn’t stop. It gets worse, each slam sending jolts of pain through my skull. I try to lift my head, but the world tilts sideways, and my stomach churns. I barely manage to swallow back the bile rising in my throat.

What the hell is going on?

My limbs feel wrong. Heavy. Like they’re filled with lead. My brain’s lagging, slow and sticky, like I’m thinking through fog—like my whole body is submerged in wet cement.

I blink. Try to clear the haze. Try to remember where I am, how I got here, why I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck I don’t even remember stepping in front of.

Another slam against the door.

A voice outside, sharper this time. Full of rage. Nick?

Then—

The handle rattles hard. A second later, the door bursts open.

Light floods the room, too bright. Too harsh. 

And that’s when everything starts to unravel. As the blinding light from the hall slices through the darkness, I wince hard, turning my face away as my stomach heaves from the sudden movement. The light feels like shards of glass behind my eyes, my brain scrambling to understand what’s happening. None of this makes sense. 

Angry footsteps thunder into the room.

“Shane—what the fuck—” Nick’s voice cuts through the fog like a blade.

Before I can respond, I hear it:

The sound of shifting, the feel of the sheets moving. A breath against my shoulder that doesn’t belong. And then, to my horror, I feel it—warm, soft, bare skin pressed against me.

No.

No.

Time screeches to a halt.

The room tilts while sharpening unnaturally as the air congeals in my throat.

I’m afraid to look. Instead, I glance at Nick, standing frozen in the middle of the room. Mouth parted. Eyes wide with disgust. Only then do I dare glance down. Slow. Dreading what I already know I’ll find.

Someone’s lying half-draped over me. Pale skin. Long blonde hair. Naked. Her legs tangled with mine. Her hand splayed across my stomach. Her scent hits me instantly—heavy perfume. Designer. Artificial. 

It’s all wrong.

It’s not my pretty girl.

Everything inside me detonates.

“Get the fuck away from her!” Nick roars, crossing the room in three strides. He grabs my arm, yanks me up so fast the world spins again, then slams me hard against the wall.

The jolt clears nothing. The pain somehow muted as I stagger, desperately trying to find my balance. 

“Nick—what is this? What the hell is happening?” The voice that comes out sounds nothing like mine. It’s slurred. Weak. Frantic.

The girl gasps behind us. “Nick, stop—let him go!” Her voice is high-pitched, familiar. Shrill in a way that sends dread crawling up my spine.

I turn my head. She’s wrapped my sheet around herself, hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. Her expression is angry—not for me, but because Nick interrupted this fucking nightmare of a scene.

“Amanda?” The name barely escapes my lips. More breath than voice. More disbelief than sound.

No. No. No. No.

My knees nearly give out. Nick tightens his grip on the collar of my shirt, holding me up against the wall with a force that only adds to my growing panic. 

This isn’t real.

It can’t be.

I didn’t—I wouldn’t—

Becca.

My pretty girl. My everything. I would never do this to her. To us. Never.

But the evidence… Amanda. In my bed. Naked. Wrapped in my sheets. And I’m shirtless, dizzy, sick to my stomach, bleeding panic and confusion from every pore.

“What the fuck did you do?” Nick spits, slamming me against the wall again. “What did you do, Shane?”

“I didn’t—” My voice cracks. “I swear to God, I wouldn’t—this isn’t right—what the fuck is happening?”

Amanda flinches as Nick steps back, his lips curled in disgust like he can’t bear to look at me.

And all I can do is stand here, staring at the mess of sheets. The girl who was just in my bed. The horror on my best friend’s face. While my entire world begins to crack apart.

Nick’s face twists with fury. 

Then his fists fly. The punches land square against my jaw, my nose, the sides of my face—hard, fast, just like I deserve.

Pain cracks through my skull. But I don’t fight it. I don’t move to defend myself or fight back. I don’t even raise a hand.

Amanda screams behind us. “Nick, stop—you’re hurting him!”

But I’m not listening. Not to her pleas. Not to Nick’s insults. I just can’t.

Because I’m done. With my pulse hammering in my ears, my legs barely able to hold me upright, the weight of what I’m seeing—what this looks like—crushes me from the inside out. 

This can’t be happening.

This can’t be fucking happening!

When Amanda steps between us, Nick backs off, his breath coming in ragged gasps, like the effort to stop himself from hitting me again is breaking something inside him.

“You want to know where Becca is right now?” he growls, his voice thick with anger. “You want to know what she was doing while you were up here—fucking around with my sister?”

My chest constricts. My lungs forget how to work, and I’m so consumed by self-loathing that I almost welcome it. The suffocating weight of it, the thought of meeting my end like this. It’s no less than I deserve.

Nick steps forward, eyes blazing with fury. “She was in a fucking car wreck, Shane.”

The words slam into me like a speeding train.

Everything tilts.

“What?” The word isn’t even a whisper. My lips move, but no sound comes out.

Nick doesn’t stop. “She’s in the hospital. In surgery, Shane. Right now. And she’s not okay. She’s far from fucking okay.”

My knees buckle, and I stagger back, grabbing onto the wall just to keep myself upright. My heart stutters. My stomach lurches as dread claws up my throat.

Amanda’s screaming at him, but I don’t hear it. Nick is still shouting at me, but it doesn’t register. In this moment, all I hear, all I see, all I feel is her. 

My Becca. 

Her laugh. Her tears when I do or say something that makes her happy. The feel of her hand pressed against my chest, right over my heart—the place that always seems to soothe her. The memory of her body in my arms two weeks ago, when I snuck off campus for the weekend, just to be with her. 

She’s my fucking Andromeda. My whole damn life.

And she’s not okay. 

What the hell have I done?

“I have to…” I choke on the words. “I have to go to her.” I lurch forward, barely catching myself before I hit the floor.

“You’re a fucking bastard.” Nick spits out, his voice cold, venomous. “You better pray to God she lives. And mark my words, when she does, I’ll make sure she fucking hates you.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. I stagger, my whole body shaking, before the floor drops out beneath me completely, and everything goes black.