The stadium lights were still on behind them, and people were lingering like the game hadn’t ended twenty minutes ago. Groups everywhere — yelling, arguing, laughing too loud like nobody had class tomorrow.

Chris was still heated, walking fast like he was personally about to file a complaint.

“I swear to God that last call was rigged,” he said. “Dude barely touched him and suddenly it’s a foul? For what? Breathing?”

Chase walked beside him, hands in his pockets, jaw tight. “Refs been trash all season. Soon as the score gets close, they start acting like they the main characters.”

Chris laughed. “You’re only mad because you lost money.”

“I am mad because I lost money. That’s the point.”

“Shouldn’t bet on college kids.”

“Shouldn’t have refs with vision problems.”

They stepped around a group of girls taking selfies in jerseys, one of them almost bumping into Chase.

Chris shook his head. “Football games are just social events now. Nobody even cares about the actual game.”

Chase shrugged. “Depends what you’re watching.”

Chris looked at him sideways. “Oh? Enlighten me.”

Chase didn’t even look at him. “You know exactly what.”

Chris burst out laughing. “Man, those cheerleaders? That little skirt and those tight-ass tops? Whole section forgot what sport we were at.”

Chase smirked faintly. “That’s strategy.”

“You’re so foul.”

“I’m observant.”

“You’re a problem.”

Chase pulled his phone out finally, scrolling while they walked. “Cedar Hall,” he muttered.

Chris frowned. “What the hell is Cedar Hall?”

“Apparently where I live now.”

“They switched you?”

“Yeah. Last second. No explanation.”

Chris winced. “Oof. Who’s the roommate?”

Chase shrugged. “No idea. Probably some random.”

A notification buzzed.

BWC & Dom

Hunter: Refs should be investigated for fraud Dom: Chase crying over his lost cash Chase: You’d cry too Hunter: Go meet your mystery roommate and report back

Chase typed while walking.

Chase: If they’re weird I’m moving out Dom: You dramatic as hell Hunter: Please be normal

Chris leaned over to read. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I like quiet.”

“You lived in a locker room.”

“Temporary suffering. This is long-term.”

They cut across the quad. Someone was blasting music. A group of guys ran past yelling about an afterparty.

Chris bumped his shoulder. “Watch, you gonna end up with some dude who snores like a chainsaw and plays video games at 3 a.m.”

Chase grimaced. “Don’t even joke.”

“Or someone who cooks weird food in the microwave.”

“I will actually leave.”

“You won’t.”

“I will.”

Chris laughed. “Text me when you meet them.”

They reached the dorm building.

Cedar Hall.

Chase stared at it like it offended him personally. “Already don’t like it.”

Chris smirked. “Text me if it’s some anime sword collector.”

“Go home.”

Chris headed toward the parking lot, still laughing.

Chase walked inside.

The building smelled like cleaning spray and fake citrus. Too bright. Too quiet. Just the echo of footsteps.

He checked the number again.

317

He climbed the stairs, phone back out.

Chase: If this person breathes loud I’m done Hunter: Film the reveal Dom: We need content

He reached the door.

He slid his phone into his pocket, exhaled, and pushed it open.

Took one step inside.

Stopped.

She was sitting on the bed across the room like this was normal. Like this wasn’t the universe setting him up.

Chase blinked once.

Closed the door behind him slowly.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He dropped his bag near the desk.

Out of everyone.

Her.

He dragged a hand down his face.

“They stuck me with you?”

A breath left his nose, almost a laugh but not amused.

“This a joke? Or did housing just decide to ruin my year?”

His eyes settled on her now — that same familiar irritation, like no time had passed since they were kids arguing over everything.

“No way,” he muttered. “I survived you growing up just to end up sharing a damn room with you?”

No hello.

No shock.

Just history walking back into his life like it never left.

The dorm was unnervingly quiet when the door finally unlocked—not the hollow silence of an empty space, but the muted, layered quiet of 2 AM. Distant bass thumped through the floorboards from somewhere down the hall, muffled laughter spilled from a room two floors below, and the old building itself groaned like it was tired of holding up the weight of all these students and their secrets.

Chase didn’t come in alone.

The door shut with a dull click as he backed inside, already half-distracted, one hand on the small of a girl’s back while the other thumb scrolled through his phone. She was laughing at something he’d said on the walk over, the sound breathy and loose, words running together in that specific way people get past midnight—half-tired, half-giddy, all-in on whatever this was.

He leaned down, mouth near her ear, saying something low that made her giggle and swat at his chest. Casual. Confident. Like this was routine. Because to him, it was.

They stumbled a step further into the room, her hand fisting in the front of his shirt to steady herself, his attention still split between her and whatever text he was reading. His jacket hit the floor first, then her bag, then they were collapsing onto the edge of his bed in a tangle of limbs and nervous energy.

“Chill,” he murmured against her throat, voice rough, as she tugged at the hem of his shirt. “We’ve got time.”

He let her pull it over his head, dark fabric catching on his forearms before he wrestled it free. The lamp on his desk cast long shadows across his chest and shoulders, the kind that made his build look even more imposing. She was already working on her own top, fingers fumbling with buttons in the dim light, and Chase shifted to help, lips brushing her jaw, his other hand sliding up her thigh.

This was how it usually went. Easy. Simple. No complications.

He was just reaching for the button on her jeans when he happened to glance up.

And saw her.

Standing in the doorway to the shared bathroom, frozen with a toothbrush halfway to her mouth, wearing an oversized t-shirt and nothing else.

Chase went completely still.

It was only half a second—just long enough for recognition to slam into him, for the haze of the moment to shatter. Not guilt. Not yet. Just pure, unfiltered annoyance that she would be here, now, ruining the one uncomplicated thing he’d managed to find tonight.

The girl beneath him noticed his shift immediately, following his gaze. “Oh,” she said, voice suddenly small, fingers freezing on her own zipper. “Is that...?”

Chase didn’t answer. He was already standing up, grabbing his shirt from the floor, not bothering to put it on. The moment was dead. The girl took the hint, scrambling to fix her clothes, grabbing her bag with a muttered “I should go” that he barely registered. The door clicked shut behind her a moment later, leaving only the sound of the air conditioner and his own breathing.

Hours later, the room was darker. The desk lamp was the only source of light now, casting a small, warm circle that didn’t reach the corners. The air was thick, stale with the ghost of perfume and the kind of tension that comes from two people sitting in the same space for too long without moving.

Chase stood near his desk, arms crossed, still shirtless, his jaw tight in that way it got when he was trying to hold back words that would make everything worse.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” he said, voice low but sharp enough to cut. “You don’t even have to try. You just exist in the room and suddenly I’m the bad guy.”

He let out a dry, humorless laugh, pacing one step toward the window before turning back. The floorboards creaked under his weight.

“I bring someone over—one time—and suddenly it’s a whole issue.” He gestured vaguely toward the door, toward the empty hallway where that girl had disappeared. “It’s college. People hook up. That’s not news.”

A beat. He waited for her to say something. She didn’t. She just sat there on the edge of her own bed, toothbrush abandoned, watching him with that same look she’d been giving him since they were seven. The one that made him feel like he was failing a test he hadn’t even known he was taking.

“But with you? Everything turns into some moral debate.”

His voice dropped, became something more dangerous than shouting. He leaned back against the desk, bracing his hands on the edge, shoulders tense.

“You’ve always done this. Since we were kids. Acting like you’re above whatever I’m doing while still being right there. Like you’re not part of the problem.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, strands falling back onto his forehead. The scar above his eyebrow caught the light.

“I can’t just live my life without you looking at me like I failed some invisible test.”

Silence stretched. The kind that had weight to it. The kind that carried twenty years of history. His jaw flexed, muscles jumping in his cheek.

“And don’t act like you weren’t judging. You don’t say anything, but your face does all the talking.” He pushed off the desk, taking a step toward her, bare feet silent on the floor. “You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t know what that look means?”

He stopped just inside her space, close enough that she’d have to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that he could see the way her throat tightened.

“You’ve always had this thing where you act like I’m the problem just because I don’t do things your way. Because I don’t write my damn essays three weeks early or make my bed every morning like a freak.”

His voice dropped even lower, something raw bleeding through the anger.

“But you know what’s funny?”

He leaned in slightly, the intensity of his stare making it impossible to look away.

“You’re still here. Same as me.”

The words landed heavier than he meant them to. He felt it in his own chest, that confession he hadn’t meant to make. He straightened immediately, covering it with a sharp scoff as he turned away.

“Whatever. I’m not changing how I live just because it bothers you.” He grabbed a clean shirt from his dresser, pulling it on with rough, angry motions. “Next time, at least have the decency to knock before you play audience.”

But his hands were shaking slightly, and they both saw it.

The study room was silent except for the frantic scratching of a pen and the low hum of the fluorescent lights. Chase was hunched over a stack of case studies, his hand moving quickly across the page. The table was a mess—open textbooks, scattered highlighters, a half-empty coffee cup, and his laptop precariously close to the edge.

She walked in, her bag thumping down onto the opposite chair. Her eyes scanned the chaos. Without a word, she began methodically reorganizing the materials, pushing his textbooks into a neat pile, moving the coffee cup to a safe zone. The sound of the pages shuffling was an accusation.

Chase’s pen stopped. He slowly lifted his head, his eyes narrowing. “What are you doing?” His voice was low, dangerous.

She didn’t look at him. She just kept moving his things. Her lips were pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

“That’s my stuff,” he said, his voice rising. “Leave it alone.”

She finally met his gaze, her expression one of pure, silent challenge. She picked up his laptop and moved it to the center of the table. Then she placed a book on top of it.

A snarl twisted his lips. He shoved his chair back, the legs screeching against the floor. “You think you can just come in here and—” He cut himself off, his jaw working. He pointed a finger at her, his whole body trembling with fury. “You always do this! You think you’re so much better, so much more organized!” He yelled the last word, his voice bouncing off the walls.

She yelled back, her face flushed, her hands gesturing wildly at the mess, but no words were formed. It was a silent, furious shout. Her mouth opened, but only a harsh breath came out. She slammed a hand down on the table, rattling the cups.

“You’re not my mother!” he shouted, stepping around the table toward her. “You don’t get to tell me how to live!”

She took a step back, but her eyes never wavered. She pointed at the floor, at the space where his bag had spilled a pen, then at his face. Her expression was a tempest of accusation.

He was on her in an instant, closing the distance until they were chest-to-chest. The air crackled. Their breathing was loud, ragged. He opened his mouth to scream something else—

And instead, he kissed her.

It was a collision. No warning, no words. His mouth crashed onto hers, a violent, desperate press of lips. He didn’t just kiss her; he consumed her, his hands coming up to grip her face, his thumbs pressing into her jaw, forcing her mouth to open under his. It was pure, unadulterated fury channeled into a single point of contact. He tasted like coffee and anger and the sharp, metallic tang of his own restraint breaking.

She fought for a single second, her hands coming up to shove at his chest, but the resistance dissolved as quickly as it appeared. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, kissing him back with the same raw, unthinking violence.

He broke the kiss only to lift her, his hands sliding down to grip her waist, and he hoisted her up as if she weighed nothing. He spun her around, his body a hot, solid wall against her back. They stumbled, his legs colliding with the edge of the table. The impact jarred them both. A cascade of highlighters, pens, and a stack of loose papers exploded into the air, raining down around their feet. The coffee cup teetered and fell, its contents splashing across the floorboards with a dull, sticky splash.

He didn’t care. He pressed her body flat against the table, the mess crunching under her chest. His weight was a crushing, anchoring force. One hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back, exposing the long line of her throat. His other hand, rough and urgent, slid down her side, over the curve of her waist, and cupped her breast through her shirt with a fierce, possessive grip. He squeezed, not gently, as if he’d been waiting to claim this part of her for a lifetime, his fingers digging in, his thumb rubbing harsh circles over her hardened nipple through the fabric.

A low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest, vibrating against her back. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath hot and uneven against her skin. His grip tightened, pulling her impossibly closer, leaving no space between their bodies. The pressure was intense, overwhelming, a physical manifestation of two decades of pent-up everything.

His lips brushed her ear, the words a rough, choked whisper that was barely audible over the frantic drumming of her own pulse.

“Take it off.”

He didn’t move to help her. He just held her there, pinned against the littered table, his hand a demanding weight on her breast, his breath a searing promise on her neck, waiting.

The dorm door slammed shut behind her with a dull thud that echoed the exhaustion in her bones. She didn't call out. Didn't make a sound. Just kicked her sneakers off, one after the other, sending them skidding across the floor in opposite directions. Her bag slid from her shoulder, hitting the ground with a heavy thump near the door. She was a straight line of tired, moving toward the bathroom, needing a shower, needing to wash the day off her skin.

She pushed the door open without knocking, without thinking.

And froze.

The bathroom was thick with steam, the mirror fogged over, condensation dripping down the tiles. Chase stood with his back to her, one hand braced against the slick wall, head tilted under the shower spray that had just been turned off. Water sluiced down the hard, sculpted lines of his back, tracing the deep valley of his spine and the sharp cuts of his shoulders that flexed with each movement. His dark hair was pulled up into a messy, damp ponytail, strands clinging to the strong column of his neck. The air was heavy with the scent of soap and steam and something uniquely masculine.

He turned his head slowly, catching her reflection in the fogged mirror. He didn't flinch, didn't rush to cover himself. His eyes met hers in the glass, a flicker of challenge in their depths before he turned fully to face her.

The towel was the only thing between him and nothing, and it was wrapped low—dangerously low—riding his hips beneath the sharp jut of his hip bones. It hung precariously, defying gravity, a single tucked corner the only thing holding it in place. Below the towel’s frayed edge, a dark, defined happy trail led downward like an arrow, disappearing beneath the terrycloth. The sculpted ridges of his abdomen were taut and slick with water and sweat, catching the dim light. On his left hip, just above the towel line, a small, intricate tattoo—a stylized serpent, its body coiled tight, its tail snaking toward his pelvis.

Her eyes dropped, helplessly drawn. She saw the tattoo, the sharp lines of ink against his skin. She saw the dark trail of hair. She saw the powerful V of his torso leading into the towel. She couldn’t look away.

Chase straightened up, rolling his shoulders back, letting her take it all in—his broad chest dusted with dark hair, the faint definition of his pecs, the water droplets catching in the hair on his sternum. His gaze was bored, irritated, but underneath it was a thread of amusement.

“Move, fucking weirdo,” he said, his voice a low, rough rasp that cut through the humid air. He grabbed a clean, dry towel from the rack—his own—and deliberately brushed past her, his wet shoulder slick against hers in the doorway. He didn’t close the door behind him.

She stayed frozen for a beat, the steam swirling around her legs. Then, drawn by a force she couldn’t name—morbid curiosity, frustration, something darker—she followed him out.

He was in the main room now, not even attempting modesty. He moved with a predatory grace, the towel slung dangerously low on his hips, walking back and forth between the bathroom and his area as if she were invisible furniture. He was air-drying, running a hand through his damp ponytail, shaking droplets of water onto the floorboards. Every time she dared to glance up—her eyes inevitably tracking the line of his spine, the flex of his shoulder blades, the sharp curve of his ass beneath the towel—he caught her.

The first time, he smirked, a cruel, sharp twist of his lips as he passed her near the desk. “Take a picture,” he muttered, not breaking stride. “It lasts longer.”

The second time, he stopped mid-stride near his bed, turning just enough to give her a full, deliberate profile view of his chest and the low-slung towel. He arched his back slightly, popping the muscles there. “Enjoying the show?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “There’s a ticket price, you know. And you can’t afford it.”

She looked away each time, heat flooding her cheeks and crawling down her neck, but her gaze kept drifting back, magnetized. To the serpent tattoo peeking from his hip bone. To the dark line of hair that vanished beneath the towel’s edge. To the sheer, arrogant physicality of him, the way he occupied space with utter confidence. He wasn't just naked; he was weaponizing it.

He finally stopped near his dresser, rummaging in the bottom drawer for a pair of boxers. He dropped the towel without ceremony, letting it pool around his ankles on the floor. For a split second, he stood completely bare—powerful thighs, the tattoo stark on his hip—before he bent slightly, pulling the black cotton boxers up his legs with a deliberate, unhurried motion. He snapped the elastic waistband against his skin with a sharp thwack.

He turned, catching her stare—her eyes locked on his lower stomach, tracing the happy trail that reappeared above the boxers, lingering on the serpent tattoo. She was frozen, her breath caught in her chest.

He froze too, one hand still on the waistband of his boxers, the other hanging loose at his side. His expression shifted from bored annoyance to sharp, predatory focus. He followed her line of sight, looked down at himself—at the tattoo, at the trail of hair—then slowly, deliberately, looked back up at her. A slow, dangerous grin spread across his face, lighting his eyes with cruel amusement.

“Eyes are up here,” he said, his voice a low, silky drawl that mocked her. He hooked a thumb into his waistband, pulling the boxers down a fraction of an inch more. “Pervert.”

He stood there, half-dressed and radiating smug superiority, watching the flush deepen from her neck to her hairline, watching her struggle to look away and fail. The silence in the room was deafening, thick with the unspoken accusation, the heat of her embarrassment, and the raw, undeniable tension crackling between them. He wasn’t done. He was just getting started. He took a single, deliberate step toward her.

The bass throbbed through the floorboards, shaking the plastic cups on every surface. The air was thick with sweat, cheap beer, and the electric hum of too many bodies crammed into one apartment. Chase was deep in the bottle, his vision swimming, laughter too loud even to his own ears. Faces blurred. Names slipped away. He was just a body in motion, riding the wave of intoxication.

He found himself kissing someone against a hallway wall, her body pressed tight against his. Her mouth was hot, demanding. She tasted like vodka and cherries and something sharp, something familiar that his drunken brain couldn't place. He didn't know her name. Didn't care. She was feisty—biting his lip, pulling his hair, fighting him for control even in the kiss. Just like that damn roomie, a hazy thought drifted through the fog. Smart mouth. But nah, she’d never be here. Too much of a buzzkill.

He deepened the kiss, his hands sliding down her sides, gripping her hips. She arched against him, a low sound in her throat that wasn't protest. The crowd jostled them. He needed space. He needed more. Breaking the kiss, he grabbed her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, and pulled her through the throng of bodies. People shouted his name, but he ignored them. He shoved open the nearest door—a bedroom—and tumbled inside, kicking it shut behind them. The music was muffled now, the bass a dull thud through the wall.

He pushed her back against the door, his mouth crashing down on hers again. Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer. He growled against her lips, the taste of her becoming an addiction. He kissed her jaw, her throat, nipping at the soft skin. Her head fell back against the wood with a soft thud, her breathing already ragged. He sank to his knees on the worn carpet, his hands sliding up her legs, pushing her skirt up.

He hooked his fingers into the lace edge of her panties, tugging them down just enough to free her. The first lick was tentative, a question. The answer was a sharp gasp and her fingers tangling in his hair, gripping tight. He pressed his hands firmly on her thighs, holding her open and steady, and then he lost himself.

He feasted.

He started with broad, slow licks, tasting her, learning her. He groaned against her, the sound vibrating through her core. Fuck, she tastes so fucking good. The thought roared through his drunken haze, drowning out everything else. He used the flat of his tongue, circling her clit, then flicking it with the tip. He varied the pressure, the rhythm, a tease and a promise. He could feel the muscles in her thighs twitching under his palms. Her hips tried to buck against his mouth, but his grip held her firm. He loved the control.

He slid two fingers inside her, curling them upward, finding the spot that made her choke on a cry. He pressed his thumb against her clit, rubbing tight circles while his fingers pumped in and out. He sucked her clit into his mouth, hard, flicking it with his tongue. Her back arched off the door, a broken sound escaping her lips. He didn’t stop. He was relentless. He wanted to wreck her. He wanted to taste every last drop of her pleasure.

He pulled back slightly, just to watch her fall apart. Her eyes were screwed shut, her lips parted, her face flushed. He leaned back in, this time with agonizing slowness, drawing out the sensation, making her wait for it. He flattened his tongue and licked from her entrance to her clit in one long, deliberate stroke. Her whole body shuddered. He did it again. And again. He was drunk on her, on the taste, the sounds she made, the way she completely unraveled under his mouth.

The rhythm became feverish. He was no longer teasing, he was taking. He fucked her with his tongue, his fingers pumping faster, his thumb a relentless pressure on her clit. He felt her inner muscles begin to flutter, a prelude to the storm. He doubled his efforts, his mouth sealed over her, his tongue a blur. He wanted it. He needed it. He needed her to come. Her grip on his hair tightened to the point of pain. Her hips fought his hold, desperate for friction. He gave it to her, a final, punishing suck, and she shattered.

A low, guttural moan tore from her throat as her orgasm ripped through her. Her body convulsed, her thighs clamping around his head. He didn’t let go. He drew it out, his tongue and fingers slowing but not stopping, milking every last shudder, every last tremor from her. He lapped at her gently as she came down, her body going limp against the door. He pressed a final, soft kiss to her inner thigh, then rested his forehead against her stomach, breathing heavily, the world spinning around him.

The first thing he registered was the stabbing pain behind his eyes. Then the pounding in his skull, a relentless drumbeat that matched the dull throb in his temples. Then the weight. Something heavy was pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe. He groaned, a rough, guttural sound, and forced his eyes open. Sunlight, cruel and bright, stabbed through the blinds, striping the ceiling of his dorm in bars of white gold. His mouth tasted like death and stale liquor. His stomach churned dangerously.

He blinked, trying to bring the world into focus. The weight shifted. He looked down.

She was straddling him. Fully clothed. Her knees pressed into the mattress on either side of his hips, pinning him down with a casual, terrifying strength. She was wearing the same clothes from the party—the floral skirt, the top. Her hair was a mess, tangled around her face. Her expression was carved from ice—lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, eyes narrowed into furious slits. Her breathing was shallow and controlled, a stark contrast to the ragged panic starting to build in his chest. In her hands, held loose but ready, was one of his own pillows, the soft down bunching at the sides.

Chase stared, his sleep-addled, hungover brain struggling to process the scene. Memories flickered—fragmented, hazy, but visceral. The party. Music. Kissing someone against a door. Her taste. His gaze snapped down to her lap, then back to her face. The feistiness. The smart mouth. The way she’d fought him for control. Recognition slammed into him, cold and horrifying, a bucket of ice water over his entire system. It hadn't been a stranger. It was her.

He opened his mouth, a confused, rough sound escaping. "Wha—?" His voice was a cracked, dry whisper, barely audible over the pounding in his head.

Her eyes didn't waver. Her knuckles whitened slightly on the edges of the pillow. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. The silence in the room was a scream, filled with the weight of what he’d done, of the betrayal, of the cold, deadly intent radiating from her. She shifted her weight, pressing down harder on his chest, a silent, suffocating promise. The pillow hovered, a soft weapon of vengeance. Chase stopped breathing, the pounding in his head replaced by the frantic, terrified drum of his heart. He was trapped. And she was the judge, jury, and executioner.