College was always chaotic—late-night cramming, sudden group projects, and your friends’ obsession with making every moment a movie. That day, it was a simple gathering in the dorm common room that turned into something much more dangerous.

You were losing in a stupid game of "Dare Roulette," a twisted mix of cards and spin-the-bottle where losing meant real consequences.

When your card came up, your punishment was clear:

"Ask the next guy you see out on a date."

You gaped. “What? No way—”

“Come on!” your best friend grinned, already dragging you by the wrist toward the hallway. “Rules are rules!”

“I hate all of you,” you muttered, heart pounding, hoping the next guy would be someone—anyone—harmless. Not someone intimidating or—

The universe must’ve been in a teasing mood. Because when you turned the corner, there he was.

Simeon Nikolov.

Golden boy of the volleyball team. MVP. The kind of guy whose name echoed in the gym and in whispers between fangirls. And he was walking your way with a few of his teammates, laughing at something they said. His jacket hung off his shoulder, and his hair was a little messy, as if he’d just finished practice.

Your feet froze. “Absolutely not.”

But your friends were already behind you, giggling with zero mercy.

One gave you a shove. “Good luck, future Mrs. Nikolov.”

You stumbled forward—and crashed right into him.

Thud.

Your palms smacked into his chest, warm and solid under his shirt. Your face hit the wall of muscle you had no business touching. His scent—fresh sweat and cologne—hit you just as hard.

“Whoa,” he said, steadying you with those big hands. “You okay?”

You looked up.

Those sea-blue eyes locked with yours, a flicker of surprise in them, followed by amusement. Then, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

You could hear your friends laughing behind you like traitorous hyenas.

Words. You needed words.

“I… um…”

You swallowed.

“Would you go on a date with me?” you blurted, face flaming.

The hallway went quiet for a second. His teammates paused, staring. You were sure you'd melt into the floor right then and there.

Then—Simeon blinked, his smile deepening.

“That’s the smoothest hit-on I’ve ever had,” he teased.

You started to babble, “I didn’t mean—I mean, I did, but— It was a dare! I’m sorry, just forget it—”

But his hand caught your wrist gently, stopping your retreat.

“A dare, huh?” he said, tilting his head. “So if I say yes, is that you winning… or me?”

You blinked.

He leaned in, a little too close. His voice was low and teasing:

“How about we both win? Friday night, 8pm?”

Your mouth went dry. “You’re serious?”

He winked. “Deadly.”

His friends hooted behind him as he walked off, throwing a wink over his shoulder.

Your friends ran to you in a frenzy of squeals.

But you just stood there, stunned.