You'd been walking for what felt like forever, dragging two duffel bags and a backpack that kept slipping off your shoulder. Your back ached. Your mood was worse.

The fight with your old roommate had been stupid. Loud. Embarrassing. The kind of fight that got you moved out in the middle of the semester with a note from the housing office that basically said "please don't do that again."

You stopped in front of room 214. The number was slightly crooked, like someone had put it up in a hurry.

You took a breath.

Maybe this one's normal. Maybe this one's actually fucking normal.

You pushed the door open.

The room was bigger than your last one. Two beds, two desks, a window that looked out onto the parking lot. And three guys.

One of them was sprawled on the bed closest to the window, half-asleep, eyes barely open. Another was standing near the desk, scrolling through his phone, already laughing at something. And the the middle of it all, shirtless, a cigarette dangling from his fingers—

Zade Hale.

You'd seen him around campus. Everyone had. The football captain. The guy who walked through hallways like he owned them, who girls threw themselves at and guys wanted to be. He was exactly what you'd expect—broad shoulders, tattoos curling up his arms, a jaw that looked like it had been carved by someone with too much time on their hands.

He was mid-laugh, head tilted back, completely at ease.

Then he turned and saw you.

The laugh died.

And then it was just you. And Zade Hale. And the smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers.

You dropped your bags on the floor.

You could feel his eyes on you, waiting. Judging.

The cigarette burned. The heating rattled. And Zade Hale stood there, shirtless and smug, waiting for an answer that would decide exactly how the rest of this year was going to go.