Page 3 of Second Quarter Comeback
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. The last thing I want is to spend the night dodging drunk college kids while pretending I’m not dead inside. But Lucian’s looking at me like he actually wants me there—not as backup, but as his brother.
“Fine,” I say, pushing off the wall. “But we’re not staying all night.”
Lucian’s grin widens as he opens the door. “We’ll stay as long as necessary.”
“Not reassuring,” I mutter, following him out. “At all.”
The Alpha Sigma Deltahouse isn’t so much a house as a mini-mansion perched on the edge of campus. It screams “trust fund” and “future senator” at the same time, with glowing windows that radiate warmth and a faint bass-heavy thrum that hints at questionable decisions being made inside.
As we walk up the sidewalk, the music grows louder, and the muffled sounds of laughter and shouting spill out. Inside, the scene is exactly what I expected: loud, buzzing, and packed with people who definitely pre-gamed a little too hard before arriving. Expensive furniture has been shoved aside to make room for a makeshift dance floor that’s already sticky with spilled beer.
Lucian disappears into the crowd with the kind of swagger only a freshman who feels invincible can pull off. I follow at a slower pace, dodging clusters of very wasted people. Someone offers me a beer, but I shake my head and stick to the bottle of water I grabbed from the car. Dad’s lectures about hydration—and avoiding drinks from strangers—are permanently burned into my brain. He’s probably still worried I’ll waste myself in college, though I wonder if he’ll be just as paranoid with my siblings.
“Luc,” I call, spotting my brother near the kitchen, already surrounded by a group of guys who seem to have adopted him as their new mascot. He’s in hiselement, flashing that easy grin of his while someone hands him a drink. I roll my eyes, weaving through the crowd, but before I reach him, someone bumps into me, and I turn to apologize.
That’s when I seeher.
She’s standing by the window, a book in one hand and a red cup in the other, looking like she’s somehow wandered into the wrong house. The rest of the party is all neon lights and chaotic energy, but she’s calm, focused—like the eye of the storm. Her soft cardigan and colorful top seem at odds with the ripped jeans she’s wearing, and the loose waves of her red hair frame her face like she belongs in a completely different setting.
Her eyes flick up from her book, sweeping the room with a casualness that feels oddly intentional. Then they land on me. For a second—no, longer than that—we just look. Her gaze isn’t just curious. It’s bold, a little intense, like she’s flipping through a mental Rolodex to figure out where I fit in all this.
My pulse stumbles, like my body’s caught off guard by something it can’t define. Her expression is a challenge, a silent dare to explain why I’m here and what, exactly, I want. In the charged seconds between us, it happens—a spark, sharp and electric, igniting just below the surface, ready to blaze if I let it.
“You lost?” I ask, taking a step closer, my voice loud enough so she can hear me, but not so much that everyone becomes part of this moment between us.
She raises an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement tugging at her lips. “I could ask you the same thing. You don’t exactly blend in. Not preppy enough . . . or designer enough for this crowd.”
Is designer even a term? Instead of asking, I glance down at my hoodie and joggers, letting out a dry laugh. “Didn’t know there was a dress code.”
“There’s not.” She shrugs, her lips curving just enough to suggest she finds this all very entertaining. “But you still stand out.”
“Good to know.” I nod toward the book in her hand. “What are you reading?”
She lifts it slightly, just enough for me to catch the title:Foundations of Biochemistry. Her expression stays deadpan as she says, “Riveting stuff. I’d recommend it, but I don’t think it’s your style.”
“You brought a textbook to a party?” I ask, my eyebrows shooting up. “Bold move.”
She shrugs again, this time more defensively. “I was studying when my roommate dragged me here. Something about living a little and finding my Charles. Apparently, that means standing in a corner while everyone else drinks punch that looks like antifreeze.”
“Finding your Charles?”
“Long, boring story,” she says, waving me off like it’s not worth the explanation.
I glance toward the dance floor, where Lucian is attempting what I can only assume is his version of amoonwalk. It’s bad. “It’s good to know I’m not the only one who got dragged here.”
She follows my gaze, a small smile pulling at her lips. “Crawford is your brother?”
“Unfortunately.” I lean against the wall, letting out a long breath. “I’m in town visiting. He wanted me to come, so here I am.”
“Let me guess—big brother guilt?”
“Something like that.” I shrug a shoulder, as if confirming she’s right. She doesn’t need to learn that I’m ditching my parents for the night. Hopefully Pop will entertain Dad enough that tomorrow will be a light day.
“I’m Camille,” she says, holding out her hand. Her lips quirk into a knowing smile that somehow feels equal parts challenge and invitation. “You have one of those . . . names?”
“Killion,” I reply, taking her hand. The moment our palms meet, there’s a subtle jolt, the kind of spark that makes your brain stutter. Her hand is warm, her grip firm, and yet there’s this softness to it, like she’s letting me in just enough to keep me intrigued.
For a beat, the music fades, the crowd blurs, and it’s just us. Her green eyes hold mine, searching, assessing, as if she’s piecing together who I am and why I’m here. And judging by the slight tilt of her head and the ghost of a smirk on her lips, I’ve passed.
