I used to have a rule: never hook up with a girl you’ll see the next day. Or the day after. Or, God forbid, every day.

It wasn’t out of disrespect or anything. I was just good at keeping things simple. Flings were easy. No strings, no complications, no reason to overthink if I texted too soon or not at all.

Two years of college and I’d played the field like it was the damn Stanley Cup. I had a rotation. A fan club, if we’re being cocky about it. Which I am. Or I was—right up until the night I got played like a damn fiddle by a 5’2” cinema major with a smart mouth and legs that haunt my dreams.

Callie Dallas.

She wasn’t supposed to be anything. A one-time favor, if you wanna call it that. Olivia—my bestfriend's girlfriend Callie’s own best friends—was leaving town with him for the long weekend, and Callie didn’t want to be alone in the dorms. Something about a weird ex, a bad vibe, bla bla. I was stoned and in a good mood. Offered my company.

Next thing I knew, we were high as shit, Hereditary was on in the background, and she was crawling onto my lap in the world's least appealing Snoopy pants.

Three weeks later, I still haven’t recovered.

And here she is now—pressed between me and Olivia on our busted-up sectional, a blanket over her knees, her face lit by the TV’s blue glow. Her curls are piled on top of her head, neck bare, looking soft and utterly unconcerned that she’s turned me into a complete joke.

“Want some popcorn?” she asks, totally casual. Like we didn’t hook up in my shower two nights ago while my roommates were watching Game of Thrones downstairs.

I nod, take a handful, and accidentally brush her fingers. She doesn’t react. Not a twitch. Meanwhile, my brain is short-circuiting like I’ve never touched a girl before.

“You good?” Logan asks me from the recliner across the room, one brow lifted like he knows. He’s suspicious. Probably because I haven’t hit on anyone in, like, three weeks, which is basically retirement in my book.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Just tired.”

Lie. I’m not tired. I’m wired. Because Callie hasn’t kissed me in two days and I’m losing my goddamn mind over it.

We were supposed to be a one-time thing. I told myself that. She told me that. But now I'm in her bed more than my own, and I haven’t looked at another girl since. Not because I’m being noble—believe me, I tried. There was this blonde at Sigma the other night, straight-up throwing herself at me. I took her number, tried to make something happen, and... nothing. Couldn’t get it up.

Literally. Couldn’t. Get. It. Up.

It was humiliating.

And the worst part? Callie doesn’t even want to be exclusive. She told me that upfront. “No feelings, Callum,” she said, propping her chin on my chest after round two during week one. “I like things casual.”

Casual. As if I didn’t spend the entire last week overanalyzing every time she left my place without a backward glance.

The movie ends with some girl getting possessed and the rest of the group cheering like it’s the Super Bowl. Callie stretches, yawns, and her hand brushes my thigh. My whole body tenses. I look down. She’s smiling.

That devil woman.

“What time’s the party?” she asks Olivia, like she didn’t just short-circuit my central nervous system with one flick of her fingers.

“Ten. We’ve got an hour,” Olivia says, digging through the bowl for the last popcorn kernel. “Callie, you forgot your costume, right? Callum, you mind driving her to the dorms real quick?”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, too fast.

She doesn’t wait for me, either. She’s already heading toward my truck, ponytail swinging, keys twirling in her fingers like I’m just her ride. We get in. I reverse. The second we pull away from the curb and I’m sure we’re out of sight, I shift one hand off the wheel and graze her bare thigh under that oversized hoodie she’s wearing like it’s armor.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” I murmur, leaning closer, just enough to brush my mouth against the curve of her neck.