But not in the way it's supposed to.

Not in the fluttery, butterflies-in-my-stomach, heart-racing kind of way.

No.

It makes me angry.

Because Luka Mikhaylov—cocky, unbearable, thinks-he's-better-than-everyone Luka Mikhaylov—is standing so close I can feel the heat radiating off him, so close that every inhale drags in the scent of his cologne, his breath, something sharp and clean and suffocating, and he's doing it on purpose.

He's toying with me.

Messing with me.

Enjoying how uncomfortable I am, how my spine is pressed so tightly against the desk behind me that it actually aches, how I've got nowhere to go because he's made sure of it.

And he's watching me—studying me like he's waiting for me to crack, waiting for me to react.

But he doesn't move.

He doesn't take another step.

Because he doesn't have to.

He already has me cornered.

"You're quiet," he murmurs, his voice a low drawl, edged with that ever-present amusement, like this is all just a game to him. "Finally figured out how to shut you up?"

I clench my jaw. "You're insufferable."

His smirk deepens, his sharp blue eyes flickering with something mocking. "And yet, you're still standing here."

I force a slow breath through my nose. "It's a locked room, Mikhaylov. Where exactly do you expect me to go?"

He hums, tilting his head slightly, pretending to think. "Through the wall? Out the window? I don't know, Calloway, you strike me as the desperate type."

I glare at him. "Desperate for what?"

He shrugs, his arms still crossed over his chest, his stance relaxed, unaffected, like he could stay here all night just to mess with me. "Desperate to get away from me."

"Don't flatter yourself," I bite out.

His lips twitch, like he's holding back a smirk. "Wouldn't dream of it."

My fingers twitch at my sides, my skin prickling with irritation, my heart hammering for all the wrong reasons. Not because he's close. Not because of his stupid, pretty face or the way his voice rolls so easily over his accent or the way his blue eyes seem unfairly sharp in this lighting.

No.

Because he's doing this on purpose.

Because he's trying to get under my skin.

And it's working.

"You always do this?" I ask, narrowing my eyes. "Play with people just because you can?"

Luka exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "You say that like you're interesting enough for me to waste my time on."

I blink.

Wow.

I should've expected that—should've known he was going to go for the throat. But something about hearing it out loud, the casual cruelty in his tone, the effortless way he says it like it's just a fact—it stings.

I exhale slowly, keeping my expression neutral. "Right. And yet here you are, wasting your time."

Luka clicks his tongue, shifting slightly, but not moving back. "I don't waste my time, Calloway. I'm just waiting for this stupid game to be over."

"Then why are you so close?" I ask, lifting a brow.

Something flickers across his face, gone too fast to read.

But then he smirks, leaning down slightly—not stepping closer, not touching me, but lowering his head just enough to make it feel like he is. Like he's forcing me to notice every inch of space he takes up.

Like he's forcing me to notice him.

"You're the one against the desk," he murmurs. "I'm not keeping you here."

I scoff, gripping the edge of the desk behind me just to keep myself from doing something violent. "You're blocking the only exit, genius."

He shrugs. "So move me."

I go still.

Luka waits.

Challenges me.

And I realize—he wants me to try.

He wants me to shove him, push him away, put my hands on him. Not because he actually expects me to win, but because he wants to prove that I won't.

That I can't.

That I'll just stand here, stuck, flustered, trapped in the tension he created.

I force my hands to unclench.

I don't move.

Luka exhales sharply, shaking his head like I've disappointed him, and I hate how much it affects me.

"You're all talk," he mutters.

I lift my chin. "And you're all ego."

He huffs out a quiet laugh, but there's no real humor in it. "This is fun for you, huh?"

"Not even a little."

He hums, studying me for a beat longer. Then, finally—finally—he leans back slightly, like he's bored now, like he's already gotten what he wanted from this interaction.

I don't know why that annoys me more than anything else.

The door swings open, and I don't even register who's standing there.

Julian? Some random guy? A drunk couple looking for an empty room?

I don't care.

I shove past Luka without looking back.

I need to leave.

Now.

The second I push past Luka and step back into the hallway, it's like the party slams into me all over again. The air is thick, humid with too many bodies pressed into too little space, the music is so loud it rattles my bones, and the scent of alcohol, sweat, and something faintly burnt clings to the walls.

But it's better than being in that room with him.

I move fast, shoving through the crowd, ignoring the people laughing, drinking, dancing like nothing else exists outside of this night. My heart is still pounding, my skin still burning, and I don't know if it's anger or frustration or just pure exhaustion, but I need to find Julian and get out of here before I actually lose my mind.

I weave through the living room, dodging drunken conversations, avoiding eye contact with anyone who might try to pull me into whatever game or argument or hookup they've got going on. People are everywhere—pressed against walls, sprawled across couches, standing too close, too loud, too messy.

And Julian is nowhere to be found.

I grit my teeth, pushing into the kitchen instead, scanning the room, hoping he's grabbing another drink or flirting with someone new or doing literally anything that will make it easier for me to drag him out of here.

But he's not here either.

What the hell?

I dig my phone out of my pocket, clicking his contact, pressing call.

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Voicemail.

I close my eyes, inhaling sharply.

Perfect.

This is perfect.

I slam my phone back into my pocket and force myself to think.

Okay. If I were Julian, where would I be?

Probably still with that guy.

I let out a slow breath, gripping the edge of the counter for a second, forcing myself to get my head together. I can't just wander around the party looking for him like some lost kid at the mall.

Eventually, I give up entirely, pulling out my phone to text him.

Sofia: Where are you? I'm ready to go.

Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then reappear again.

I stare at the screen, willing him to hurry up.

Then finally—

Julian: Sof. Babe. My love. I have made a mistake.

I blink.

Sofia: What. Kind. Of. Mistake.

Julian: I may or may not be at some guy's place rn.

Sofia: JULIAN.

Julian: Don't yell at me!!! It was an accident!!!

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly, trying not to lose my mind.

Sofia: HOW do you ACCIDENTALLY end up at someone's apartment?

Julian: The power of seduction.

I resist the urge to throw my phone across the room.

Sofia: So you're telling me I have to walk home. Alone.

Julian: I'm so sorry baby I owe you so much

Julian: Like SO MUCH

Julian: I'll make it up to you I swear

I shut off my phone, stuffing it into my back pocket, resisting the urge to chuck it across the room.

Of course this happens.

Of course.

I should have known better. I should have just said no to this stupid party.

I sigh, adjusting the straps of my top, ignoring the way it shifts against my skin. The material feels colder now, like it's finally setting in that the party warmth is gone, and the outside world is waiting.

I need to leave.

I push my way through the house, avoiding sticky floors, half-spilled drinks, and the occasional couple making out against the walls. I catch glimpses of familiar faces—Ethan from earlier, some of the baseball guys, a few girls I recognize from campus—but no Julian.

No easy way out.

The second I step outside, the cold air slams into me, sharp and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the heavy, sticky warmth of the party. The bass of the music still thrums through the walls, vibrating the porch, laughter spilling from the open doorway as more people push their way inside.

And I'm just standing there, staring at my phone like it's going to magically change its mind.

Like Julian is going to text me back and say, Just kidding, babe! I'm already outside waiting to walk you home!

But, of course, he doesn't.

No. Because Julian is currently at some guy's apartment, probably half-naked, definitely not thinking about the best friend he just abandoned.

I should've expected this.

I should've known better.

Now, instead of going home like we planned, I'm stuck figuring out how to get back to campus alone—late at night, in the middle of town, while wearing a barely-there chainmail top that feels more like a regret than a fashion statement.

I inhale slowly, shoving my phone into my back pocket, my mind already running through my options. It's not a long walk back to campus, but it's late, and the last thing I want is to deal with a bunch of drunk guys thinking they're charming when really, they're just loud and annoying.

I just need to move—get out of here before I overthink it.

But, of course—

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Little Miss Concession Stand."

I freeze.

I don't know the voice, but it's too familiar—cocky, playful, tinged with amusement like whoever it belongs to is already enjoying this more than they should.

I turn, and some guy I've never met before in my life is standing at the edge of the porch like he's been waiting for this moment all night.

Tall, lean but built, hoodie unzipped over a tight white t-shirt, damp golden-brown hair curling slightly at the ends, like he's just come from the gym or stepped out of a shower. There's a pair of headphones hanging around his neck, and his brown eyes are bright, sharp, filled with an undeniable spark of mischief.

He looks completely at ease, like he's standing outside his own house, like this party is his scene, like everything is exactly as it should be.

I blink at him, frowning. "Do I know you?"

He gasps dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. "Wow. That hurts. That actually hurts."

I just stare. "...Should I know you?"

"You mean to tell me you work at the arena, and you don't know who I am?" He shakes his head, grinning. "I feel like I should be offended."

I sigh. "That depends. Are you important?"

His grin stretches wider. "Depends on who you ask."

I roll my eyes, already so over this. "Look, if you don't mind, I have somewhere to be, and I—"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down, Concession Girl."

I narrow my eyes. "Stop calling me that."

"Not my fault I don't know your name."

"Not my fault you didn't ask."

His eyebrows shoot up, and for a second—just a second—he looks genuinely surprised. Then, he laughs, and it's annoyingly nice. Warm, easy, like he actually enjoys people instead of tolerating them like Luka.

"Alright, Sofia," he says, and my stomach tightens.

I didn't tell him my name.

He notices my reaction, smirking. "What? You think we don't know who works at the rink? You think we don't recognize the girl who hands us our overpriced Gatorades before every game?"

I groan, rubbing a hand down my face. "Right. You're on the team."

"Jaxon Carter." He sticks out a hand, still grinning. "Jax, if you like me. Carter, if you don't."

I don't shake his hand. "I don't."

He chuckles, unfazed, dropping his hand back into the pocket of his hoodie. "Damn. Tough crowd."

I exhale sharply, turning toward the sidewalk, determined to leave this conversation behind. But, before I can take two steps, I hear the shuffle of sneakers on pavement.

I stop.

So does he.

I glance over my shoulder. "Are you following me?"

"More like walking with you," he corrects, his voice full of fake innocence.

I turn fully, giving him a look. "Why?"

Jax shrugs, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Because I'm a gentleman, Sofia. Can't let a lady walk home alone at night."

I scoff. "Since when are you a gentleman?"

His grin doesn't waver. "Since right now."

I narrow my eyes. "Are you drunk?"

"Not even a little."

"Then why are you still talking?"

Jax laughs, shaking his head. "Damn, you're feisty tonight."

"I'm always feisty," I mutter, shoving my hands into my pockets. "It's just extra bad because my best friend ditched me for a random guy, and now I have to deal with you."

Jax hums, nodding. "Yeah, that's fair. But, look at it this way—you could've been stuck with someone way worse."

I lift a brow. "Like who?"

Jax smirks. "Like Luka."

My stomach tightens.

Jax notices immediately.

His grin turns devious, his brown eyes flickering with way too much amusement. "Ohhh. Oh. What happened in that room, Sofia?"

I glare. "Nothing. Nothing happened."

Jax doesn't believe me for a second.

He tilts his head, studying me like I'm the most interesting thing he's seen all night. "Luka get under your skin?"

"No."

"Liar."

I exhale sharply, picking up my pace. "Are you gonna keep talking the whole way back?"

"Yes," Jax says immediately.

I groan.

Jax just laughs again, looking entirely too pleased with himself as we make our way down the sidewalk.

This is going to be the longest walk of my life.

The street is quieter here, away from the party, the muffled bass fading into the distance. The crisp night air bites at my skin, seeping through the gaps in my top, making me regret every fashion choice I made tonight. I rub my arms, trying to chase away the cold, but it doesn't do much.

Jax notices.

He doesn't say anything at first, just glances over, eyebrows raised slightly. Then, before I can react, he shrugs off his hoodie and tosses it at me.

It hits me square in the face.

I freeze, pulling it off, blinking up at him. "Are you serious?"

Jax smirks, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. "You look like you're about to turn into an icicle."

"I'm fine," I mutter, even as I clutch the hoodie in my hands, the fabric still warm from his body.

"Sure," he says, unconvinced. "But if you die of hypothermia, I don't wanna be blamed."

I sigh, giving in, slipping it over my head. It's way too big, the sleeves swallowing my hands, the hem falling almost to my thighs, but the warmth is instant, wrapping around me like a blanket. The scent of laundry detergent, something woodsy, and the lingering hint of cologne clings to the fabric, familiar in a way I can't place.

Jaxon grins when he sees me wearing it. "Looks good on you, Sofia. Maybe you should keep it."

I pull the hood up over my head, tucking my arms inside like a turtle retreating into its shell. "Maybe I will."

He laughs, shaking his head. "So. What's the deal with you and Julian? You two dating or what?"

I scoff. "Julian? No."

Jax lifts a brow. "You sound pretty sure about that."

"Because I am. He's my best friend."

He hums like he doesn't entirely believe me. "You've never thought about it?"

I roll my eyes. "Julian is into men, Carter."

Jaxon freezes mid-step. "Wait, really?"

I nod.

"Huh," he says, blinking. "Did not see that coming."

"Yeah, well, maybe next time you should ask before assuming."

He grins. "I like to keep life interesting."

I shake my head, hiding a small smile.

We keep walking, the air quieter now, the only sounds are our footsteps against the pavement and the distant hum of passing cars. My body has finally started to warm up, and I relax a little, tugging the sleeves of the hoodie over my fingers.

Jax glances at me again. "So, real talk—what happened in that room with Luka?"

I groan. "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Because Luka doesn't do things like this. He doesn't play party games, he doesn't go along with stupid bets, and he sure as hell doesn't spend seven minutes locked in a room with random girls."

I hesitate, my mind flashing back to the way he stood too close, the mocking glint in his eyes, the way he knew exactly what he was doing.

"He was just being an ass," I say finally. "Like always."

He doesn't look convinced. "Yeah? And that's all?"

I level him with a look. "That's all."

He hums, studying me, but he doesn't push.

For a while, we just walk, the conversation fading as campus comes into view, the glow of the streetlights illuminating the familiar pathways leading back to the dorms. I exhale, relieved to finally be home, already dreaming of crawling into bed and erasing this night from my memory.

Jax stops near the entrance, stretching his arms over his head before dropping them back into his pockets. "Well, Calloway, it's been a pleasure escorting you home."

I smirk. "Pleasure is debatable."

He grins. "You wound me."

I pull the hood tighter over my head, the fabric soft against my cheeks. "Thanks for the hoodie, by the way."

"Keep it," he says easily. "Looks better on you anyway."

I hesitate. "You sure?"

"Yeah." He leans back slightly, smirking. "Besides, now you have to see me again to give it back."

I shake my head, stepping backward toward the entrance. "Goodnight, Carter."

He winks. "Night, Sofia."

And with that, I turn on my heel, disappearing into the building.

—---------------

The common room is bathed in the soft glow of warm, overhead lighting, the usual chaotic hum of conversation missing as most students are either in class or tucked away in their dorms, dreading the wave of assignments creeping up on them. The space, for once, feels almost peaceful, save for the faint scratching of pens on paper, the occasional sigh from someone deep in thought, and the rhythmic click of Julian's nails tapping against the keys of his laptop.

He's sitting across from me, hunched over the screen, his brows slightly furrowed, lips pursed in concentration, though I know better than to assume he's actually working. Every few minutes, he lets out a long, exaggerated sigh, a performance for no one but himself, his way of making sure I know just how much he's suffering.

I've been trying to focus on my own work, my laptop open, notes sprawled across the table in a way that should make me feel productive. But my mind keeps wandering, my eyes skimming over the same paragraph in my textbook without actually absorbing a single word. My thoughts are too scattered, my body restless from sitting in the same spot for too long, the air around me feeling too still, too heavy.

Julian groans suddenly, dragging a hand down his face before dramatically flopping back against his chair. "I can't do this anymore," he announces, shaking his head as if he's just run a marathon instead of typing a few sentences.

I glance up, arching a brow. "You've written, what, two paragraphs?"

"Four," he corrects, offended, though his voice lacks any real conviction. "And one of them is just me restating the assignment prompt in a slightly different way."

I smirk, resting my chin in my palm. "Impressive."

Julian sighs again, tilting his head back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling like he's questioning every decision that led him here. "I swear, college is just a glorified test of endurance. Like, how much can they make us suffer before we break?"

"You're being dramatic."

He waves a hand. "Maybe. But tell me I'm wrong."

I don't.

Instead, I stretch my arms over my head, feeling the stiffness in my spine from sitting too long. The room is cozy in a way that makes it easy to lose track of time, the soft hum of the air conditioning, the occasional shuffle of papers, the muted chatter of the few students lingering nearby all blending together into something almost lulling.

I shift my gaze toward the clock on the wall, my eyes landing on the glowing red numbers.

Then, suddenly, my stomach drops.

5:47 PM.

My shift starts at 6:00.

I shoot upright, my chair scraping loudly against the floor, drawing startled looks from the few people still scattered around the room. Julian jumps, blinking at me with wide eyes, his hand pausing mid-air from where he was reaching for his coffee.

"What the—?" His expression shifts from confusion to understanding in record time, his lips curling into a slow smirk. "Oh my god. You're late, aren't you?"

I don't answer, already snatching up my books, stuffing them haphazardly into my bag, my mind racing through every possible excuse I could give my manager.

Julian, the menace that he is, just leans forward, propping his chin in his hand as he watches me scramble. "Wow. Calloway, late to work? I never thought I'd see the day."

"Not helping, Julian."

He bites back a grin. "Do you think Doug will fire you?"

I shoot him a glare, slinging my bag over my shoulder, barely pausing to make sure I have everything. "If he does, I'm making you financially responsible for me."

Julian gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. "Oh, honey, I love you, but I am not equipped to be a sugar daddy."

Despite my frustration, a small laugh escapes me, but I don't have time to let it linger. I check my phone again, confirming the time, and panic surges up my spine like a cold shock.

"I have to go," I mutter, already moving toward the door, my mind racing through the logistics of how fast I can get to the arena without literally breaking traffic laws.

Julian calls after me, his voice overly sweet. "Drive safe, babe! And tell Luka I say hi!"

I flip him off over my shoulder, but I can still hear his laughter as I disappear down the hallway.

By the time I reach my car, my pulse is pounding in my ears, my breath coming in short bursts as I unlock the door, tossing my bag into the passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel. The air inside is chilled from the evening breeze, but I barely notice, too focused on the time flashing on the dashboard, each passing minute taunting me.

The arena isn't far, but with traffic? With my luck? I'll be lucky if I make it before 6:05.

I start the engine, gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly, my mind running through every possible excuse I could give Doug.

Stuck in traffic? No, he won't care.

Had a family emergency? Too risky.

Got kidnapped by a group of angry hockey fans? ...Tempting, but probably not believable.

I sigh, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the main road, my fingers tapping anxiously against the wheel. The streets are already crowded with cars, students heading to late classes, people commuting back from work, everyone moving just slow enough to ruin my night.

I weave through the lanes as quickly as I can without actually breaking any laws, my foot pressing a little harder on the gas when I hit a stretch of open road. The lights blur past in streaks of yellow and red, the city alive in a way that feels almost taunting, like the universe itself is conspiring against me.

By some miracle—or sheer willpower—I pull into the arena parking lot at exactly 6:04, tires rolling to a stop so fast I barely register putting the car in park before I'm grabbing my bag and throwing myself out the door.

The cold air bites at my skin, but I don't stop to adjust my jacket, don't stop to catch my breath, just sprint across the lot, my boots hitting the pavement with quick, uneven strides. The glow of the overhead lights reflects off the massive glass windows, the faint hum of voices and the distant scrape of skates on ice drifting through the entrance doors.

I push through them, the blast of arena air cool and familiar, the scent of rubber, ice, and popcorn hitting me instantly.

My heart is still racing, my breath uneven as I bolt toward the employee entrance, running through every possible excuse in my head.

I pause for a second outside the break room, pressing a hand to my chest, forcing my pulse to steady, my expression to neutralize.

Then, finally, I step inside.