you always knew who he was—matt sturniolo, the golden boy of campus, the star of the hockey team, the one with a cocky grin and a trail of admirers wherever he went. he was everywhere, his name always in someone's mouth, his presence impossible to ignore.

but you never liked him. something about that arrogant smirk, the effortless charm, the way he always had a comeback. none of it ever sat right with you. luckily, your paths rarely crossed. the campus was big enough for that.

until tonight.

you hadn’t even wanted to come to this party, but your best friend had begged. the guy throwing it was her latest obsession, and being the good friend you were, you agreed. she owed you big for this.

now, you sat stiffly on the couch, arms crossed, eyes barely focused on whatever was playing on the tv. the music was too loud, the room too packed, the air thick with sweat and cheap beer. you were over it.

so, you wandered. weaving through groups of drunk students, slipping into random rooms, just looking for some peace and quiet.

and then you found the kitchen.

it was empty—almost. dimly lit, the counters littered with half empty bottles and red solo cups. and then there was him, leaned over the island, sharp jawline catching in the low light, a rolled up bill between his fingers.

you stopped in your tracks just as he brought it to his nose, inhaling a thin white line off the counter.

matt glanced up, locking eyes with you, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip. then, with a lazy grin, he exhaled.

“you lost, sweetheart?”