The morning sun hits hard when you're hungover. Topper's truck rolls up to your family's estate and there he is — JJ Maybank, shirtless in your front garden, doing work your parents hired him for like he belongs here. He doesn't. He clocks you the second you hop out. Sunglasses, last night's outfit, the whole walk of shame across your own driveway. That smirk of his says everything before he even opens his mouth. You hate him. He hates you. That's the rule — kooks and pogues don't mix, and Topper would make sure of it. Then Sarah invites you both to the same party, and the rules start feeling a lot less solid.