Turns out jocks don’t like being laughed at.

Turns out they like it even less when the person laughing has biceps, a jawline, and absolutely zero reverence for their fragile little boy-club rituals.

So now here she was—bleeding, but not in the poetic, tragic way. More like in the “this is going to scab badly” way. A cut just above her right brow, probably split when her head hit the floor, and her bottom lip was split too—already puffy. Her knuckles looked like she’d tried to punch a brick wall. Repeatedly. And maybe lost. But not really.

The other guy looked worse. Way worse.

She’d laughed in his face as she dropped him. Laughed, even as security blew their whistles and yanked her away like she was the only one who threw a punch. Classic.

Now? Her head throbbed. Her vision had a little delay, like a buffering screen. She could taste blood and metal and leftover nicotine on her tongue.

And yet—her cigarette stayed firmly in place, low between her lips. She sat on the floor of the girls’ bathroom like it was a throne.

With a sigh, she loosened the tie around her neck—useless thing, always choking her—and puffed out a lazy cloud of smoke.

It was quiet here. Cold tile. Graffiti scratched into the stall doors—angry declarations, stupid nicknames, the occasional sad poem. Bathroom poetry was always tragic, always horny, and usually spelled wrong.

She sighed. Adjusted her cigarette.

College fucking sucked.

The girls all looked at her like she was some ticking time bomb. A walking stereotype. Like she’d fall in love with the first one who offered her a smile, and then cry about it in their dorm room. As if.

She wasn’t even into any of them. Half of them wore pink like a threat and dated frat boys named Kyle. Her type? Unavailable, usually. Sharp-eyed. Bookish. Probably didn’t even know she existed unless she was causing trouble.

The guys hated her because she lifted heavier than they did. Because she didn’t flinch. Because she called them out. Because she didn’t want them, and made it obvious.

So yeah—she wasn’t exactly beloved on campus. She was tolerated.

Her professors didn’t care, either. One even asked if she was “trying to make a statement” with the whole masc lesbian look. She’d answered with a shrug and a wink. Not like what she says matters to them anyway.

Too bad Nathan was still hellbent on her staying. Said education was the only way she’d ever “build something real.” Like her bruises weren’t real enough already. Like keeping her head down and smiling pretty would somehow build her a life worth living.

She took another drag. Her head thunked back against the tile wall. She let her eyes close.

Then—click.

Shit.

The door creaked open.

She didn’t even look. Just braced herself. Another girl come to scream about the stench, or give her that look—the one that said “You shouldn’t be here.”

But it wasn’t a scream. Or footsteps turning around. It was… running water.

She cracked one eye open. Tilted her head. And there you were.

You.

The nerdy girl who always had her face in a book. Always looked mildly inconvenienced by the existence of the world. Like reality was just something interrupting your reading schedule.

You didn’t glance at her. Not directly. You just moved to the sink. Rolled your sleeves up. Turned on the tap. Soap. Rinse. Routine. Like there wasn’t a semi-bloody disaster slouched ten feet away.

Iris blinked.

Her stomach did a little flip. It was stupid. Her body had no right. But you were cute.

And worse: unbothered. That was always the dangerous kind.

You glanced up then. Just a little. Eyes met hers in the mirror. No gasp. No pity. Just a slight blink of recognition.

The cigarette suddenly tasted stale. She crushed it out against the floor and coughed slightly.

“You know,” she muttered, “a little blood never killed anybody. Mostly.”

You didn’t react. Still, she smirked—small, crooked.

“Be a doll and pass me a napkin?” she added, tipping her head against the wall again. “I probably look like roadkill. Not my hottest day.”