5

Coming back to campus always feels like dragging myself out of quicksand.

I collapsed on my bed, staring blankly at my color-coded planner, wondering if I could will it to burst into flames. My phone had been vibrating nonstop all weekend—every buzz a reminder of the texting game I’d willingly walked into with the man whose name I still didn’t know.

Every message was like a flashback. My body still remembered his hands too well. How he touched me like I was his to ruin.

No clue how he got my number. Zero idea who he really was.

And yet, I kept texting back like someone hooked on her own destruction.

Yesterday, curiosity finally won. I asked what to save him as.

Me: How’s your secret villain lifestyle?

Unknown: Thriving. Your parents lecture you about reckless decisions?

Me: Daily. Speaking of which, what name do I assign you? ‘Random Hookup #3’ feels a little savage.

Three dots. Eternal suspense.

Unknown: Private Room Service.

I choked on my coffee. Cocky bastard.

Me: You’re ridiculous.

Private Room Service: But accurate. Five stars, right?

Unfortunately for my dignity, he wasn’t wrong. That stupid flip in my stomach confirmed it. He knew exactly what kind of service he gave—and how unfinished it had been.

This morning, my screen lit up again.

Private Room Service: Still recovering from family rehab?

It was the first time I’d smiled in days. Sad, but true.

Me: Survived another weekend playing Mom against my will. Where’s my gold medal?

Private Room Service: Check the mail. It’s next to your therapy invoice.

Me: Assuming I could afford therapy.

Private Room Service: What’s the damage?

I typed out the tire-slashing incident. Deleted it. Tried the Barbie head story. Deleted that too.

Me: Usual mess. My sister expresses emotions through vandalism.

Private Room Service: Runs in the family?

Me: Excuse me?

Private Room Service: The whole self-sabotage gene.

I blinked at my screen. Who says that?

Me: You don’t know me.

Private Room Service: Don’t I?

Before I could even begin unpacking that psychological grenade, Claudine barreled through the shared bathroom like a sitcom entrance.

“You look like someone chewed you up and forgot to swallow,” she announced, towel turbaned on her head like a crown.

“Fitting,” I muttered. “Madilyn went full soap-opera. Abby lost her mind over a headless Barbie. Dad nearly set the kitchen on fire with holiday decorations.”

“In March?”

“Don’t ask.”

“My family’s a mess, but at least no one lights shit on fire after Valentine’s.”

My phone buzzed again.

Private Room Service: You’re quiet.

Me: Processing your weird therapy dig.

Private Room Service: Did I hit a nerve?

Me: You wish.

Private Room Service: I really do. Nerves are fun.

What kind of BDSM-coded cryptic chaos was this?

“That look,” Claudine said, collapsing onto my bed. “That’s not family burnout. That’s sexual whiplash.”

“I’m not—”

“Who is it? And don’t say ‘nobody.’ That’s your face when you’re mentally recreating porn.”

“You’re insufferable.”

Just then, Ayden stumbled into the room looking like he’d gone twelve rounds with a treadmill.

“Tell my family I loved them,” he groaned, dropping into my desk chair. “Coach wants us dead before regionals.”

“You smell like you bathed in gym socks,” Claudine noted.

“Baby, your dirty talk does things to me.”

Another buzz.

Private Room Service: Still analyzing me?

Me: Still wondering why you care.

Private Room Service: Maybe I want to know what breaks you.

Me: Try a new hobby.

Private Room Service: Boring. You’re more fun.

Claudine peeked over my phone. “Oh yeah, you’re 100% sexting someone who wants to ruin your life in the best way.”

“I’m not—”

“She’s got that flushed look,” Ayden added helpfully. “Either she’s in love or plotting a murder.”

“Why not both?” Claudine grinned.

Before I could protest, Ayden perked up. “Did you hear the new gossip about Professor Louis?”

Oh no. Not this again.

“Can we not?” I groaned.

“Too late,” he smirked. “Apparently some senior swears he’s got a dungeon. Like… leather and chains kind of dungeon.”

“I can only get so aroused,” Claudine fanned herself dramatically.

“You two are disgusting.”

“I’m hormonal,” Claudine corrected. “He could alphabetize soup cans and I’d still moan.”

“He’s our professor,” I said.

“He’s hot. Dangerous. Dressed like he’s late for a Vogue shoot and smells like repression.”

My phone pinged again.

Private Room Service: What are you up to now?

Me: Listening to my friends sexually objectify our professor.

Private Room Service: Sounds like a lively campus culture.

Me: It’s college. Gossip is the only currency that matters.

Private Room Service: Do professors count as fair game?

I was typing a snarky reply when Ayden tossed a pillow at me.

“You’re glowing. Who is he?”

“I am not glowing—”

“She’s smiling like she’s got secrets,” Claudine added.