I sit up and stare.
Okay. Vegas hotel room. That part checks out. But something’s wrong.
Everything looks… mirrored. Familiar, but backwards. The bed is on the wrong side. The desk is flipped. Even the stupid abstract art on the wall is facing the opposite direction.
What thefuck?
Did I get drunk and wander into someone else’s room? No. Absolutely not. My key barely works on my door on a good day. There is no universe where it lets me into a random room by accident.
The knocking starts again, harder this time, and my skull throbs in perfect rhythm. I groan, dragging myself to the door like a condemned man.
On the other side stands a hotel employee with a rolling tray stacked with food and coffee. At my clearly vacant expression, he straightens and launches into a rehearsed explanation.
“Someone namedEricacalled the front desk,” he says, accent vaguely French, patience already worn thin, “and requested sustenance for three people be delivered to this room at precisely noon.”
He pauses. Smiles. Holds out his hand. “No tip has yet been provided.”
I blink at him. Sway slightly. Erica.
Right. Eric.
So, this is Eric’s room.
I glance down and spot a wallet half-hidden beneath a crumpled pair of jeans. I grab it, flip it open, and pull out the twenty practically begging to be used. The man lights up as if I’m a billionaire, handing him the keys to his very own yacht.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
He wheels away happily, leaving me alone with my confusionand the smell of coffee.
Istandthereforamoment,lettingthesilencepress in.
What happened last night? Where is Eric?
Why am I not in my room?
Igrabacoffeeandtakealong,desperategulp.It
tastes like burnt dirt, but the caffeine has my brain flickering faintly back to life.
I toss the wallet onto the desk—and freeze. That isnotEric.
Blond hair. Teal eyes.
Akselfucking Winther staresbackatmefromthe grainy ID photo.
“I don’t understand what’s happening,” I whisper to the empty room.
The bed shifts.
A blanket mound wriggles, followed by a groan and a string of deep curses.
Aksel’s head pops out, hair wrecked, eyes squinting against the light. His face mirrors my own stunned horror.
Normally, this would be hilarious.
Unfortunately, my head feels like it’s actively trying to kill me.
Fragments of last night drift back, slow and uneven. Trivia night. Vodka. Eric being Eric. Talking. Like actual conversation. With Aksel. Like we weren’t sworn enemies. Then laughing. Then…
