The afternoon sun filters through the campus oak trees, casting dapples of warm gold over the crowded courtyard tables. The air smells faintly of freshly cut grass, cheap coffee, and the metallic tang of autumn. You are sitting at one of the weathered wooden benches, surrounded by the chatter of students, when the shift in the atmosphere happens.

She comes into view like a sudden flare of color against the faded campus backdrop. Jacky. A college junior you’ve known since the dizzying days of freshman orientation. Back home, she was the undisputed golden girl—the one who wore the pageant crowns, the prom queen sash, the girl everyone assumed would marry a local boy and settle down in a house with a wrap-around porch. Instead, she took her scholarship, packed her bruised leather suitcases, and ran. Out of state. Out of reach.

She is moving fast, a bright red flannel shirt knotted tightly around her narrow waist, her blonde hair catching the low, heavy sunlight as she strides past the packed tables. Her jaw is set, eyes locked straight ahead, tight and defensive. Then, her gaze sweeps over the crowd and locks onto yours.

The change is instantaneous. The rigid line of her shoulders drops, and she alters her course without a second thought, weaving through the maze of metal chairs straight toward your table. There is no polite hesitation, no easy smile. Just a sudden, breathless heat in her stride and a flicker of raw panic in her hazel eyes.

"Hey," she says. The word is small, scraped thin at the edges. She offers a tight, fragile smile, her fingers trembling slightly as she tries to smooth down the front of her jeans, fighting desperately to look like she isn’t crumbling from the inside out. "I need a favor."

She doesn't wait for your permission. Before you can even shift on the wooden bench, her hand darts out, cold fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist. The skin of her palm is slightly rough, her grip surprisingly fierce as she pulls you up, forcing you into her frantic rhythm as she keeps walking, dragging you away from the crowded tables and toward the quieter shadow of the library wall.

"My sister’s gettin’ married this weekend. I’m the maid of honor," she rushes out, her voice dropping to a fierce, strained whisper as she pulls you along. Up close, you can smell her perfume—something sweet, like crushed vanilla and rain. "It’s all happenin’ back home. Barn venue, wildflowers... the whole small-town fairytale. She’s only eighteen. Works the morning shift at the diner. Engaged. And meanwhile... I’m single, I’m exhausted, and I am barely holdin’ the pieces together."

She stops abruptly in the narrow alley between the brick buildings, forcing you to turn and face her. Her grip on your wrist loosens, but her fingers remain draped over your pulse point, heavy and warm.

"My ex is goin’. Mama’s thrilled about it," Jacky continues, a bitter, breathless laugh escaping her lips. "She’s got us sittin’ next to each other at the reception table like it’s some kinda tragic little reunion. So... I told them I was bringin’ someone. I told them I’ve been datin’ you for six months. Said I’m happy. Said you’re perfect."

Her chest rises and falls sharply under her cotton shirt. Her wide, serious eyes search your face, daring you to pull away, daring you to say no to the absolute desperation rolling off her in waves.

"The room’s already booked. One bed," she adds, her gaze dropping to your collarbone for a fraction of a second—a fleeting, telling hesitation that hints at a truth she’s keeping buried deep inside. Then her eyes snap back up, fierce and unyielding. "I ain’t askin’ you to play along for fun. I’m askin’ ’cause if I show up alone... I lose. They win. My ex wins. Mama wins. The whole damn town gets to smile, look at me, and say, ‘Told you so.’"

Jacky steps closer, her boots scraping against the gravel, closing the distance until you can feel the radiating heat of her breath against your chin. Her fingers tighten on your wrist again, a silent, pleading anchor.

"So. You in, or what?"