To the bathroom

Noah step back into the living room—already rehearsing what he’d say when he came back into the bedroom, how he’d toss the box of condoms on the bed all smooth-like, flash her a smile, then kiss her slow and low and—

“Noah!”

A group of voices called out to him in near-unison.

He barely turned before five guys had surrounded him, arms slung over each other’s shoulders like a rugby team, reeking of tequila.

“My guy!” someone shouted. It was Jeremy, or maybe Jared, Noah barely remembered. “You can’t just leave without taking a graduation shot, come onnnn!”

Before he could protest, a red Solo cup was shoved in his hand.

“I really shouldn’t—”

“Come dude, have ONE drink with us.”

The group cheered. Someone put an arm around his shoulder. Another guy was filming. It was too much, too fast. He raised the cup.

“Alright. To... uh, jobs with benefits?” he tried.

“TO ADULT MONEY!” they screamed back, already downing their shots.

Noah winced and knocked his back. Cheap tequila. Hot garbage. It scorched his throat and sat angry in his stomach.

He should’ve left. Right then. Just peeled away, made some lame excuse and bee-lined back upstairs.

But someone clapped him on the back, dragging him into a half-circle where they were reliving stories from undergrad—late-nights at the Waffle House, the time someone named Cody got blackout drunk spring break in Florida, and the time someone nearly set the dorms on fire.

He nodded. Smiled. Laughed in the right places. Said “oh my god, right?” when someone brought up finals week.

But he wasn’t there.

His body was standing between the threshold of the back patio, and the living room with five other people doing shots, but his head was upstairs, in that room, on that bed, with Jillian's thighs tightening around his hips and her voice low in his ear. He could still feel the lingering warmth of her palms on his chest.

He stole a glance at his phone. It had been at least thirty minutes.

Fuck.

She was probably wondering where he was. She was probably pissed. Maybe dressed by now, scrolling through her phone, pulling her hair up, cooling off.

Noah rubbed the back of his neck.

This is what you do, his brain whispered. You hesitate. You overthink. And then you lose.

Finally, someone said they were going for another round and he used it as his exit. Nodded. Said he’d catch up, and then slipped away.

He moved fast now, dodging bodies, skipping steps on the staircase two at a time.

Just as he rounded the corner at the top of the stairs—

He stopped.

There was a line.

At least eight guys.

All crowded outside the guest bedroom door.

The same door he’d left Jillian behind.

Noah’s stomach dropped straight through the floor.