ADRIAN“You’re serious? After all that—vomiting, groaning, collapsing—you just want red oranges?” I nearly choke on my own chuckle as I watch her lean against the bathroom wall, completely worn out. Her breathing was shallow, her eyes half-lidded with exhaustion—but she was dead serious.“What? You’re the one who woke me up, so yeah. Red oranges,” she mutters, barely lifting her head.“Red oranges… in the middle of the night?” I exhale through my nose, pinching the bridge. Then I grin. “Screw it. Let’s make it romantic.”Ten minutes later, I pulled into Quickmart’s half-lit parking lot, still slightly amused, still half asleep. The idea was simple: grab the damn red oranges, get back, and put her to bed.I head to the fruit aisle, find the juiciest batch of red oranges, and then… I look up.She’s gone.I swear I left her seated by the car. Where the hell did she go?And then, like something out of a comedy sketch, I hear it. Packet crinkling. Loud, unmistakable. Like a raccoon in a
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