I smile. “Good to know, Doctor Jamie.”
He chuckles, a low, easy sound. “You sticking around for the party?”
“Maybe,” I say. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“Well,” he says, eyes gleaming, “try not to walk into any more bathrooms.”
I’m almost tempted to tell him that I just did but I have to remind myself that he’s a stranger. That the last time a stranger was nice to me, well, it was his teammate, Miles, and see how that turned out.
“I’ll do my best,” I say instead.
“See you around, peeping tom.”
And before I can even think of a comeback, he’s gone—down the stairs, disappearing into the music and light.
I stand there for a moment, my reflection flickering in the half-open bathroom mirror. Lip gloss smudged, hair curling from the humidity, cheeks flushed from tequila and confusion.
This is college, I think. The parties. The boys. The ache ofalmostsandmaybes.
Forget Miles, I think Jamie is cute too. And he is twice as charming anyway. That’s all I can think about as I go about my business.
The bathroom mirror hums with the soft, golden light overhead. It makes everything look too warm, too tender. My reflection is a little flushed, the pulse in my neck still jumpy from laughing with Jamie.
I finish washing my hands, watching the water swirl pink from the cheap strawberry soap, and then run wet fingers through my hair. It looks lighter under this light, more honey than gold, strands catching the shimmer. I fluff it out, push it behind my ears, trying to look less like someone whose stomach has been twisting all day waiting for someone who barely looked at her.
The music downstairs bleeds through the walls—bass-heavy, throbbing. I grab a paper towel, dab my cheeks, check my lip gloss, and then turn toward the door. The house smells like perfume and cheap beer, and under that, something sharp—adrenaline, excitement. The kind of air that crackles.
As I walk down the stairs, voices start to sharpen into words, laughter spiking like fireworks. The crowd has thickened since I came up—more people, more noise, more glitter. And then my heart plummets straight into my shoes.
Because he’s here.
Miles Thatcher. Hat pulled low, hoodie on, the dark gray fabric stretching over his shoulders like sin itself. His knuckles are wrapped, faint bruising still visible on one. There’s a half-healed cut on his lip, and somehow, it makes him even worse for me. And sitting on his lap, legs draped over his thighs like she’s claimed him, is the freckled girl. She’s laughing at something he’s said, her hand tracing circles on his chest through the hoodie, and he doesn’t stop her. Doesn’t even flinch. He takes a slow sip of her beer instead, his eyes darting up straight to me.
I stop on the last step, my breath catching. For one small second, I hope he’ll say something. That maybe that look will mean something. But it’s gone before I can process it. He just looks away. Just like that. No acknowledgment. No warmth. Just… nothing.
A dagger to the chest. A slow, quiet kind of pain.
“Chloe!” Bella’s voice pierces through the haze, too bright, too close. She’s suddenly next to me, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed from too much drinking. She tugs my arm, nearly making me spill the cup I didn’t even realize I was holding. “Where were you?”
“Bathroom,” I say, blinking, trying to focus on her instead of the way Miles’s hand is resting on Leslie’s thigh. “What’s going on?”
Bella grins, teeth gleaming. “Tradition time, baby! It’s pledge night!”
“Tradition?” I echo, trying to sound casual, but my voice cracks at the end. She’s swaying on her heels, her perfume a dizzying mix of citrus and something sharp, like vodka.
Her co-captain—Marie, I think—claps her hands, a whistle piercing through the noise. “You heard her! Time for the pledges to prove they’ve got spirit!” The crowd roars, beer cans shaking in the air. Someone cranks up the music— “Hot in Here” of all songs—and Bella giggles so hard she nearly drops her cup.
My stomach drops. Oh no.
“What kind of… spirit?” I ask, even though I already feel the dread crawling up my throat.
Bella’s smile turns wicked. “Streaking,” she says like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Ladies, take your bra and panties off! Run across the quad!” Marie shouts, raising her beer in salute. “Delta Phi’s legacy, baby!”
The room erupts in cheers. Someone starts chanting “Pledge run! Pledge run!” and before I can process any of it, half the girls are squealing, jumping, unzipping jeans and tossing shirts into the air. I catch sight of sparkly bras, pink lace, someone’s thong hanging from a lamp, and I want the ground to swallow me whole.
