Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!

The faint glow of dawn crept through the blinds, casting streaks of light over an apartment that could only be described as a war zone. Red solo cups perched precariously on windowsills, confetti tangled itself in the shaggy rug, and an ominous stain bloomed on the corner of the beige couch—origin unknown. Amidst the chaos, on a mattress that had been hastily pulled into the living room, lay Samantha and Alex, the weary hosts of last night’s epic house party.

Samantha groaned first, squinting at the ceiling as though it held answers to the existential dread rising within her. Alex stirred next, his hair tousled and evidence of marker art faintly visible on his forearm—an inevitable casualty of a party well thrown.

“Do we have to get up?” Alex mumbled, voice thick with sleep and regret.

Samantha sighed, her gaze drifting to the scattered pizza boxes and a lone, deflated balloon. “Technically, no. But if we don’t, it’ll only get worse.”

Armed with nothing but determination, mismatched socks, and a half-hearted playlist crooning from a Bluetooth speaker, they embarked on their monumental quest. They began with the easy victories—collecting the cups, stacking plates, and gathering rogue utensils as if they were evidence in an unsolved mystery. Laughter bubbled between them as they uncovered forgotten party favors and half-eaten snacks abandoned in absurd places.

But their energy waned quickly, collapsing into the couch—or what was left of it—amidst their progress. “Maybe we could just leave it like this,” Alex proposed, gesturing dramatically to the mess as if it were modern art.

Samantha chuckled, tossing an empty chip bag at him. “Sure. We’ll call it ‘Post-Party Chic.’”

After a brief, guilt-ridden nap, they rallied once more, driven by the lure of a clean space and the promise of takeout as a reward. Their teamwork grew more efficient, turning into a rhythmic dance of sweeping, scrubbing, and occasional playful distractions—like the impromptu mop sword fight that left them breathless with laughter.

By late afternoon, the apartment was almost unrecognizable—floors gleamed, counters sparkled, and the mysterious stain was vanquished through sheer willpower and an alarming amount of baking soda.

They collapsed together on their reclaimed couch, sore and exhausted, yet undeniably satisfied.

“Next time,” Samantha murmured, resting her head on Alex’s shoulder, “we hire a cleaning crew.”

Alex smiled, threading his fingers through hers. “Next time, we don’t throw a party.”

But they both knew that was a lie.