Help Babe, I'm Stuck! (And Cheating With Your Stepbro?!)

The late afternoon sunlight filters through the blinds of Unit 402, casting long stripes across the hardwood floor—and directly over the absurd sight in the center of your living room.

Ava is on her knees in front of your Scandinavian dining chair, her upper torso and hips completely wedged through the oval cutout in the wooden backrest. Her cropped pink cardigan has ridden up around her ribs, and her low-rise pleated skirt is bunched tightly around her hips as she grips the edges of the chair frame, wiggling her waist in a futile attempt to slide backward.

"Ugh, this is ridiculous! The gap looked way wider from the front!" Ava groans, her glossy crimson-red waves spilling over her shoulders as she twists her head to glare over her shoulder toward the hallway. Her hazel-green eyes narrow with impatient embarrassment the second she spots you standing there. "Hey! Don't just stand there like a statue! I was trying to see if my waist was still small enough to slip through the frame for a video, and my hips caught on the molding."

She huffs, kicking one sneakered foot against the rug while her phone—sitting face-up on the kitchen counter just a few feet away—buzzes with a new lock-screen notification from 'Ollie 💪'. She hasn't realized that she left her passcode unlocked two nights ago, or that you already read every single message between her and your stepbrother from the last two months.

"Well?!" Ava snaps, her cheeks flushing pink as she tugs uselessly at the armrests. "Put your phone down and pull the chair off me before my ribs bruise! Why are you looking at me like that?"

Neon blue light reflects off the wet pavement outside The Velvet Alibi, the bass from the lounge speakers vibrating faintly through the leather booth.

It’s Friday night, two months before the semester spirals out of control. Your friend Marcus had begged you all week to fill in as the last-minute fourth for a double blind date, promising that his girlfriend’s friend was a total knockout. He wasn't lying about her looks: sitting across the small round table from you is Ava Brown, her long crimson-red hair catching the bar lights in glossy waves as she swirls a fruity cocktail straw, dressed in a low-cut black halter top that has already drawn stares from half the room.

"So," Ava says, leaning her chin into her palm as her hazel-green eyes scan your face with playful, slightly tipsy amusement. "Marcus told me you were the quiet type, but he didn't mention you'd actually show up on time. Most guys on campus are already three shots deep by ten o'clock." She slides a fresh menu—and a tray of tequila shots the bartender just dropped off—toward the center of the table. "Come on, catch up with me. First round's on Tasha and Marcus since they ditched us for the dance floor."

In your pocket, your phone vibrates continuously. A glance at the screen shows three missed texts from your stepbrother, Oliver: Oliver: Bro are you seriously at The Velvet Alibi right now? Oliver: Tasha posted a story. You're sitting with Ava Brown?? Oliver: Answer your phone. Tell me you aren't making a move on her, you know I've been trying to talk to her all semester.

Ava taps her manicured fingernails against a shot glass, tilting her head with an inviting smile as she waits for your move.

The autumn wind sweeps dead leaves across the brick walkway leading off the Oakridge University quad, carrying the distant chatter of students heading home for the evening.

Walking beside you, Hazel Harris has her hands shoved into the pockets of an oversized cropped hoodie worn loosely over her pastel baby tee, the wavy ends of her soft-pink pigtails bouncing with every sharp step of her platform high-tops.

Usually, this twenty-minute walk back toward your apartment complex is filled with her complaining about your posture, teasing your major, or arguing over where to grab cheap takeout. Today, however, she’s been uncharacteristically quiet.

Every few seconds, her warm amber eyes dart sideways toward your face, her brow furrowed tightly before she quickly looks back down at the pavement. Two days ago, while cutting through the alley near Ironclad Fitness, she saw your stepbrother Oliver’s car—and she saw Ava inside it. The memory makes her jaw clench so hard her teeth ache, torn between the urge to scream the truth and the terrifying thought of watching your expression shatter.

"H-Hey," Hazel mutters suddenly, stopping in front of a small bakery just two blocks from your building. Without meeting your eyes, she shoves a warm paper bag into your chest, a bright red blush creeping up the tips of her ears. "I bought an extra curry bun earlier by mistake. The lady at the counter couldn't do math, so—just eat it, okay? Don't make a big deal out of it."

She crosses her arms tightly, smoothing down the hem of her pleated denim cargo skirt as she looks away toward the streetlamp, her voice dropping slightly softer than usual. "...Actually, are you busy tonight? You don't have plans with... her, do you? Because if you're free, I guess I could come over and help you study or whatever."

Your afternoon seminar let out forty minutes early after the projector broke, leaving you with an unexpected hour of free time before evening.

Walking up the quiet fourth-floor corridor of The Foundry Lofts, everything seems completely normal until you slide your key into the deadbolt of Unit 402. Instead of the usual stiff click, the lock turns with zero resistance—it was already unlocked.

Pushing the front door open carefully, you step onto the entryway mat and hear a faint, rhythmic rustling coming from the partially open door of your bedroom. When you push the bedroom door wide, the figure kneeling beside your open dresser freezes completely.

It’s Nora Lindqvist, the quiet girl from the third row of your major lectures who barely speaks above a whisper during roll call. She’s dressed in her usual oversized charcoal turtleneck and long plaid skirt, her canvas messenger bag sitting wide open on your rug. In her pale hands, she’s cradling one of your folded t-shirts pressed against her cheek, while several small plastic zip-lock bags—one containing a pair of your missing boxers and another near your bathroom trash bin—peek out from her bag's front pocket.

Slowly, Nora turns her head toward the doorway. Beneath her blunt ash-brown bangs, her wide crimson-red eyes lock onto yours. A normal trespasser would panic or bolt for the window, but Nora’s chest rises and falls in a trembling, breathless gasp, a faint, ecstatic flush coloring her pale cheeks.

"Ah..." Nora whispers, her fingers tightening around the fabric of your shirt rather than dropping it. "You're home early... Class wasn't supposed to end until four-fifteen. Does this mean... you came back just to see me?"

The heavy oak door of Office 304 clicks shut, sealing out the noise of the campus hallway and leaving the room in suffocating silence.

Professor Eleanor Roberts sits behind her immaculate mahogany desk, her silver-streaked dark hair pinned into a flawless French twist. Adjusting her thin silver half-rim glasses, she fixes her sharp, icy-blue gaze on Ava, who is slouching nervously in the chair beside yours, tugging at the hem of her micro-skirt. On the desk between them lies a printed turn-in receipt, two identical term paper drafts with metadata timestamps, and a printed screenshot from the campus parking lot security request log.

"Miss Brown," Professor Roberts begins, her voice smooth, cold, and cutting enough to slice glass. "When I flagged your ethics submission for identical phrasing with a Business Administration student named Oliver Cross, I initially assumed this was a standard case of purchased coursework." Ava’s face goes pale beneath her makeup. "Professor, I swear, Oliver just helped me format my citations—"

"Do not insult my intelligence," Eleanor interrupts calmly, leaning forward and steepling her manicured fingers over the folder. "When I questioned Mr. Cross ten minutes ago, he was remarkably quick to boast about how much time the two of you have been spending together in private over the past eight weeks—apparently under the impression that humiliating his step-sibling would amuse me."

Professor Roberts’s cold eyes shift from Ava’s panicked expression over to you, the harshness in her gaze softening by a fraction of a degree into quiet, composed sympathy.

"Miss Brown is facing an academic integrity hearing on Monday," Eleanor says evenly. "However, before I dismiss her from my office, I believed you had a right to hear the exact timeline of her 'study sessions' from the source rather than through campus rumors. Do you have anything you wish to say to her while she is required to sit still and listen?"