Page 26 of Seeds of Friendship
We find him cornered by three girls in the kitchen, looking like a trapped animal.
“Save me,” he mouths over their heads.
But before we can, more people flood in. The party takes on a life of its own. People are taking pictures with Einstein, turninghim into some kind of ironic icon. Someone starts a “Fuck Connor Matthews” chant that we probably should stop but don't.
This is it. We're not the losers on Oak Street anymore. We're the house that threw the party everyone will be talking about.
I grab another beer, the music pounding through the floor, and think—we actually fucking pulled this off. Four idiots who couldn't figure out housing just created something Alpha Pi could never replicate.
No rules. No hierarchy. Just a good fucking time.
The anti-frat is officially born.
11
The morning light is a personal attack.
I crack one eye open, immediately regretting every life choice that led to this moment. My mouth tastes like something died in it, possibly my dignity. The room spins gently, which would be concerning if I gave a shit.
There's warmth pressed against my side. Soft, naked warmth.
Oh fuck.
I turn my head slowly, like I'm diffusing a bomb. Dark hair spilled across my pillow. Smooth shoulder peeking out from my sheets. A face that's somehow even prettier in the unforgiving morning light.
Brianna. The girl from my Business class. The one who gave me that look when Troy mentioned we were throwing a party.
How the fuck did this happen?
Fragments from last night float through my brain fog. The party exploding beyond our wildest expectations. Every room packed. People spilling onto the lawn. Someone doing body shots off the kitchen counter while Alfie looked on in horror. Troy crowd-surfing—actually crowd-surfing—in ourliving room. Ethan leading a group rendition of “Mr. Brightside” that probably woke half of Oak Street.
And Brianna, appearing at my elbow sometime after midnight, pressed close in the crowd, whispering something about how she'd been hoping to get me alone.
The rest is... athletic. And enthusiastic.
But now, in the harsh morning light, her arm draped across my chest, her leg tangled with mine, she's doing that thing where she nuzzles closer in her sleep—and all I feel is trapped.
This is why I have rules. No sleepovers. No cuddling. No morning-after breakfast like we're something we're not.
I extract myself carefully, but she stirs anyway, those brown eyes fluttering open with a soft smile that immediately fades when she sees me already half-dressed.
“Morning,” she murmurs, reaching for me.
“Hey, yeah, morning.” I'm hunting for my shirt, not meeting her eyes. “You should probably—the guys will be up soon and?—”
Her face hardens. “Right. Of course.” She sits up, sheet clutched to her chest. “God, you're exactly like I thought you’d be.”
“What?”
“Freddie Donovan. Great for a night, useless for anything more.” She's gathering her clothes now, movements sharp. “My friend warned me. She said sheknowsyour type. Said you'd be charming as hell until you got what you wanted.”
“I told you what this was?—”
“Yeah, you did. Multiple times. Even during.” She pulls on her dress. “Really sets the mood when a guy reminds you mid-hookup that 'this doesn't mean anything.'”
Did I say that? Fuck, I probably did.
She leaves without another word, and I stand there in my boxers feeling like I didn't really win anything. The party was asuccess. We're not social pariahs anymore. I hooked up with a hot girl. Everything went according to plan.
