He ducks, cackling.
“Get out of my room!” I shriek, trying to slam the drawer shut with one hand while blotting coffee off a vibrator with the other. “You are banned. Banned from helping. Banned frombreathing.”
Luca, bless him, makes a softeepsound, covers his eyes with one hand when I pick up the shoe and throw it again, this time harder. Mads barely dodges it.
“I didn’t see anything!” Luca says, backing out the door slowly. “I don’twantto see anything. I’m going to go load my trunk with the stuff you already have packed up.”
Mads, unfortunately, is still here. Still grinning.
“You know,” he says, leaning casually against the doorframe, “I think this might be the first time I’ve ever seen you flustered. It’s kind of cute.”
I reach for the other cleat.
“Okay, okay!” he laughs, ducking behind the doorframe. “Truce. I come in peace. And full replacement value.”
“You arenotVenmoing me for a drawer full of ruined orgasms,” I snap.
“No,” he says, straightening with a shrug, cocky as ever. “But Iamoffering to take you dildo shopping. You know. As emotional restitution.”
I blink at him. He’s so casual about it. So infuriatingly at ease, standing there in that absolute menace of a sleeveless crop top and basketball shorts, arms crossed, like this is just another Tuesday. And now I can’t help but notice the edge of a thigh tattoo peeking out from beneath his shorts—black ink, thicklines, curling right along the muscle, placed there specifically to ruin me.
God, I hate him.
I also hate that Ido not hatethe idea of him helping me pick out something silicone and battery-powered.
Which is deeply concerning.
“You’re disgusting,” I mutter, shoving a damp bullet vibe into a towel and pretending I’m not actively overheating.
“Add it to the list of things you secretly like about me,” he replies, and disappears down the hall.
I take a deep breath, stare down at the coffee-soaked mess he’s made of my top drawer, and seriously consider testing how long it takes campus security to respond to a homicide.
Instead, I toss every ruined toy into a plastic bag—most are probably fine since they’re waterproof, but that’s not the freaking point—knot it like a biohazard, and shove it deep into my duffle between two pairs of sweatpants and whatever’s left of my dignity.
The rest of the move happens in a blur of stairs, swearing, and Mads beingjust helpful enoughto make it harder to stay mad. He and Luca somehow managed to fit my mattress into the back of Coach Carmichael’s truck without murdering each other, which I personally consider a miracle, because we were about three seconds away from a full-blown“Pivot!”moment trying to get it around the corner between flights.
By the time we pull up to the Birch Unit—sun glaring off the warped tin roof, one shutter half-dangling, a “No Parking” sign duct-taped to a trash can—I’m sweaty, exhausted, and actively mourning the life I just left behind.
We spend the next forty-five minutes dragging every single box, bag, and poor life decision up two narrow, uneven flights of stairs. The railing wobbles. The door sticks. Luca nearly eats it while carrying my fan. Mads keeps insisting he “has a system,”which appears to involve announcing that out loud while doing absolutely nothing efficiently.
By the time the last box thuds onto the floor, I’m drenched, furious, and one twisted ankle away from snapping.
Luca gives me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and escapes before I can beg him to take me with him.
The place smells like dust and vague despair. Old wood and mildew and the faint, lingering stench of boy-sweat ghosts past. Everything about it makes me wonder how many bad decisions have been made within these walls.
Mads flops onto his already-made bed and grins at me like we’re about to start summer camp instead of mutually assured destruction. His arms are behind his head, crop top riding up his ribcage, and I hate how easy-going he looks in this fucking mess. Like he’sthrivinghere.
“Home sweet hell,” he says.
I throw a pillow at his face.
Chapter 4
Mads
Blake is already in full inspection mode before I’ve even made it through the door with the last box, prowling from corner to corner, grading the place on a rubric only she understands—checking outlets, peering behind doors, opening cabinets.
