Well.

she expects to have a pretty bad hangover given that everything from last night is hazy after the few drinks she'd had back at her friend's house; she's never had a good tolerance for alcohol so she kind of remembers the walk to the beach, something about a bonfire, but after that...nothing.

normally, getting blackout means that she's due to suffer for most of the next day with a headache like someone has wrung her brain out like a wet rag, squeezing everything out, including memories.

so it's a pleasant—if weird—surprise to wake up slowly and gently with only a mild headache. like. brain still a wet rag...but a wet rag dropped in a bucket. super manageable.

it's much less of a surprise to wake up in a bed that is not her own. this has happened enough times that only her exact location is a surprise.

actually. the fact that she's alone (and dressed) is kind of surprising; mira is as rich as she is hot (extremely) so it's pretty fucking rare to wake up alone these days.

(her heart gives this weird, borderline painful kick at the thought; mira pays it no mind, deeply uninterested in figuring out whether the feeling is good or bad.)

trying not to make it obvious that she's awake, mira listens for a few seconds to try and hear if maybe she'd been woken up by someone getting out of bed and walking to the bathroom or climbing out the window. there's no stumbling, swearing, or pissing, so probably not. it maybe sounds like someone is breathing? but mira can't quite tell over the rush of her heart in her ears.

when she pushes a careful hand across the bed, she doesn't touch anyone. and she would, because the bed is much narrower than she's expecting it to be. narrow and—okay, even in the privacy of her mind this sounds kind of entitled but—the sheets are rough.

cheap, mira figures out, blinking sleep out of gritty eyes to see that first of all—no, no one was currently in bed with her and, second of all—yes, the sheets were cheap. mira doesn't consider herself, like, wildly talented at knowing the quality of sheets but assumptions can be made when they are lurid green and covered with weird cartoon faces staring back at her.

oh good.

another round of "what genre of fuck boy took me home last night" (and with her very favourite sub-category of: what did we do while i was blackout?)

fun.

for as fun, or not, as the situation can be, mira does kind of enjoy figuring out who she went home with from their bedroom alone. not their name, usually (besides that one guy who had a huge portrait of himself, plaque included, and fourteen mirrors of varying sizes, placements, and frames) but she's become adept at picking apart their general vibe.

mirror guy, for example? self-obsessed, flip-flopping between love and loathing; mommy's boy; aspirations to own a dozen shiny watches and a fleet of yachts. all about aesthetics. what he wore, what he had, was more important than what he thought. and what he wore was dogshit anyway. his only redeeming feature—the thing that had drawn mira in—was that he had pink hair too. and a million abs. otherwise, total yawn. mira had stolen a mirrored comb from his collection, a set of sweats, and a few bills from the wad of cash on his dresser. just enough to get somewhere else.

this room, on the other hand, is far from boring.

there's a very clearly handmade vase on the dresser; wilted flowers nod sleepily, stirring in the breeze of the overhead fan, which clicks with every rotation.

a duvet clings desperately to the side of the bed. mira would bet all her parents money that it had been on her at one point but had kicked it off. drinking makes her way too hot. she’s chilly now so she drags it up and over her shoulders, which drop by about three inches when she feels it settle, decently heavy, decently warm. the duvet is cheerfully striped, white-and-sandy yellow. it’s a sweet but mature choice, which messes with mira’s head because what the fuck is up with the cartoon bedsheets then?

and it’s not just the bed!

everywhere mira looks, personality spills out: literally, clothes spilling out of the wardrobe, the doors of which have not only been removed but screwed onto the wall, covered in stickers and hooks to hold hats and bags and a thousand cutesy and weird keychains; a bookcase shoved full of battered notebooks, a much-stickered keyboard and guitar; the wall decor is mostly skateboards—or, like, the board part of them? whatever that’s called—and it looks like some of them are decorated by this person, spray painted and scrawled all over, which looks fucking sick; another wall is literally plastered with music posters and photos. mira can’t make out the details—she has no clue where her glasses are—but it looks mostly like the same person leaning against a car, roadtrip vibes.

‘if i knew you were this nosy,’ a sleep-rough voice muses sweetly, ‘i wouldn’t’ve brought you home.’

mira rolls to the edge of the bed and finds a part-girl, part-lion in a bright green sleeping bag, scrunched up like a caterpillar. her mane of black hair is frizzy and messy, strewn across the gigantic plush turtle she’s using as a pillow. a huge yawn flashes white teeth and the glint of piercings—septum and tongue (sick)—and mira can’t bring herself to stop staring.

‘i’m totally kidding, by the way,’ the girl continues, wriggling her way out of the sleeping bag to reveal that she’s fully dressed and wearing pyjamas covered in…shapes? like. literally squares and triangles. like, what? ‘you were pretty drunk last night. didn’t feel right to let you wander off.’

this isn’t how this part usually goes but this is far from mira’s first american rodeo. "last night." "didn't feel right." past tense. she's sure she's being gently, nicely hinted that it's time to go.

ditching the duvet, mira slides out of the bed and gets carefully to her feet. happily, the hangover doesn't take her out at the knees.

‘let me get my shit together.' she sounds like shit. and the headache isn't that bad but every word makes it worse. 'and…' she eyes the girl thoughtfully before shrugging. whatever. she seems cool enough. 'sorry you had to look after me, or whatever. and for being an asshole.’

the girl pauses in her stretching and scrambles to her feet. she laughs kind of awkwardly, brows pinching together.

'you weren’t an asshole. you were actually really sweet.’

‘sweet?’ mira grimaces. damn. is she going to have to get lawyers involved? ‘okay, here's the deal. if i proposed, it’s not legally binding since i wasn’t in my right mind. if i said i'd give you something over twenty thousand, i'm not going to do that. if i gave you a card, i want it back, but you can keep any cash—'

'whoa! no, nothing like that. you did want to get my name tattooed—'

'shit.'

'—but you passed out like three minutes after that. no body mods occurred!' she insists. then grins, blindingly. 'and could you stop, like, drifting vaguely towards the window? i'd really prefer if you left via the door like a normal human and not a freak. don't get offended, i already figured out it's not your fault, babe. you're richer than god or something, right? yeah, i figured.'

mira tries not to pout because being good at reading people is her thing, thanks.

'yeah, well, you're a hot girl with all the taste of a twelve-year-old skater boy. you live in a beach house so it's not like whatever parent you live with is broke. but you have a billion hand-made things and cheap-ass furniture. plus, a single bed when you would have outgrown that years ago.' mira looks the chick up and down. barefoot, she can't be much over five foot. 'well. maybe you didn't outgrow it. but still. lingering in the past, much? i'm thinking, kid of divorce. eldest daughter, or only daughter? younger step-siblings? you probably had to give stuff up all the time or figure out how to look after them and entertain them.'

it occurs to her when the girl's smile starts to fade that she's being kind of a horrendous bitch to someone who let her sleep in their bed overnight and didn't creep on her.

mira swallows the rest of her assumptions—that her parent hadn't bothered to do their fucking job as a parent, for this chick or her step-sibling/s—and mutters a quiet apology. she inches further toward the window, which is only a second-storey window, not a big deal, and freezes when the girl points near-violently at her, wagging her finger like mira is a disbehaving puppy.

'nuh! uh! you are not climbing out the window. you can either leave through the door now or you can have a shower, get dressed, and come to brunch with me and my girlfriend.'

of course she's taken.

mira squashes the immediate thought that, whatever, she could be more impressive than some random chick who couldn't possibly be hotter or richer than her and scoffs.

'i'm good.'

'i'll pay.'

'i don't need anyone to pay for me,' mira snaps. 'i could buy this whole fucking house with my monthly allowance.'

'yeah, well, it's almost the end of the month,' the girl shoots back (what?), 'and if you've been bribing all the hot girls you run into here you must be nearly out of money, so i'm sorry but i'm going to have to insist. we're buying you brunch. and you will drink a gross green smoothie that will cure you of your hangover. and then, if you're good,' she says, in a sweet voice that makes mira's skin prickle deliciously, 'i'll buy you boba. okay?'

mira blinks. of course she's not going to just go along with this stranger. even if her hangover does feel a little worse suddenly and she can feel sand in weird places and she would like a shower.