Well… I’m single, charming, andfullyprepared to make the most of my last year surrounded by hot, interesting, questionably chaotic women.
It’s a public service, really.
I grin to myself, tapping my pen against the desk as I half-heartedly scribble some notes. Mostly, I’m planning my outfit, my drink of choice, and which party game I’ll spring on everyone once things start to feel too couple-y.
It’s gonna be a good night.
As I stretch, my phone buzzes. I check it under view of the professor. A text from Mom asking if I can call “them today”. I ignore it. I’ve spoken to her plenty, but like hell I’m speaking to him. I've been ignoring his calls all week. Ten years old, holding Tara while she cried because Dad couldn’t make her birthday, making up stories about business trips while Mom locked herself in the bathroom. Yeah, I’m still not ready to speak to the man who taught me how to lie before I learned algebra.
The professor’s still mid-sentence—something about turbulence equations and boundary conditions—when I glance over and catch Jared passed out, mouth hanging open like a catfish at feeding time.
I nudge him with my pen.
He startles upright, blinking at the board like he's just been asked to solve climate change.
I chuckle under my breath and go back to my notebook.
The numbers blur.
My brain’s already somewhere else. Imagining how fucking great it’s going to be between some lucky lady’s thighs tonight.
After that firstlecture of the day, I swing by the UMS campus store. They’ve somehow nailed their merch, so it’s so fucking comfortable, everyone wears this shit around campus.
It’s freezing, and I’ve seriously misjudged the weather.My old hoodie’s thin as paper, and after a summer spent outdoors, I’ve dropped a bit of bulk and leaned up.
But hey—tradeoff?
I’m tan as hell and look fucking great. Pale hair, light eyes, golden skin. Honestly, I could walk into class wearing a trash bag and still turn heads.
The girl behind the counter looks half-asleep, scrolling her phone like it’s the only thing keeping her alive. Doesn’t even glance up.
I lean on the counter, lowering my voice just enough to get her attention.
“Hey. You free to help me out for a sec?”
She startles, looks up—and yeah,there it is. The once-over from beneath her lashes, she tilts her chin. I flashthatsmile. The one that makes professors give extensions and bartenders pour heavy. The one I perfected at thirteen when Mom needed cheering up and Dad was God-knows-where. “Works every time,” Tara always says, not realizing it's less charm and more a well-practiced survival skill.
Still got it.
“Sure,” she says, perking up. “What d’ya need?”
She’s cute. Blonde, petite, pretty mouth. Very much my type.
“I’m picking between two hoodies,” I say, holding them up. “Burgundy or navy. Be honest, which one will suit me better?”
She hums, bites her lip, glances around at the empty store.
“I can’t tell,” she says, her voice husky. “Why don’t you try them on for me?”
Now we're getting somewhere. I raise a brow. I like it.
I tug on the burgundy first, take a slow stroll up and down the shop, doing a goofy catwalk impression before spinning back around.
She giggles.
“So?” I ask, posing.
She taps her chin, thoughtfully.
