And I can't even argue with them, because the man really did pull off the impossible—he turned virginity into the hottest thing on campus.
It's insane, really. His market value didn't just survive—it skyrocketed. Like, Wall Street could never.
Our conversation is cut short when Professor Callahan's voice echoes across the hall.
"Break's over! Back on stage, everyone!"
A collective groan ripples through the room—loud, dramatic, and full of exhaustion.
I push myself up from the floor with a sigh. Showtime... again.
CHAPTER thirty-seven
CAROLINE
By the time I finally drag myself back to my dorm, I'm convinced my legs no longer belong to me—they've filed for emancipation.
I stumble inside, drop my bag somewhere near the door (I think?), and zombie-walk straight toward my bed.
My body makes contact with the mattress and I groan—long, dramatic, and borderline spiritual.
The sheets feel like heaven, the pillow hugs my face like it missed me, and for the first time all day, I remember what joy feels like.
My feet, however, are screaming bloody murder.
Ballet rehearsal absolutely murdered them today. I stretch my legs out and prop my feet on a pillow to elevate them like every dancer's survival guide says to do.
Honestly, I should probably ice them or roll them over one of those spiky massage balls, but... that would require movement, and movement is officially canceled.
My phone keeps buzzing beside me, vibrating like it's possessed. I don't even have to look to know it's probably the group chat, blowing up about something random again.
My thumb twitches over the screen, but nope. Not tonight.
Right now, I just want to be a burrito of exhaustion.
I roll to my side, eyes half-shut, and that's when my stomach growls—loud, feral, like some angry bear just woke up inside me.
"Ugh, no," I mumble into my pillow. "Not you too."
I groan again because this means I actually have to move. Get up. Find food. Rejoin society. All of which sound like Olympic-level challenges at this point. I could order delivery, but even scrolling through a menu feels exhausting.
The phone buzzes again.
I slap a hand over my face. "Ugh, just leave me alone," I mumble at it, like the phone can feel shame.
Another buzz.
I sigh, muffled through my pillow. "Fine, world, I get it. You win. I'm tired, starving, and socially harassed by technology."
I close my eyes anyway, because maybe if I ignore everything hard enough, sleep will take pity on me.
I'm not sure how long my eyes are closed when someone starts knocking on the door. "Oh, for the love of—" I groan into my pillow. "What is this, a dorm exorcism? Leave me alone! I'm tired!"
But whoever's on the other side clearly doesn't care. The knocking keeps coming, louder this time.
I drag myself upright, every muscle screaming in protest. My face probably looks like it's melting off. My feet ache, my back pops, and I'm pretty sure my soul just tried to leave my body.
"I'm coming, I'm coming—Jesus," I mutter as I hobble toward the door like a grandma in a zombie movie. The knocking hits again right as I reach for the handle. "Oh my god, patience is free, you know!"
