It's not pretty. He hits the floor with a loud yelp, the bookshelf following soon after. It misses him by a hair---he manages to roll out of the way, even if it falls on a small piece of his hoodie, pinning him for a split second before he tugs.

Heart racing, hair a mess, Quentin sits up, half-flailing and eyes wide, adrenaline spiking. This isn't a normal dream, he thinks, or his heart wouldn't be beating out of his chest.

For someone who's got a 3.9 GPA, that wasn't very smart. He clears his throat despite no one looking, picks himself up, and looks at both the mess and what it's revealed on the wall.