Cate’s table is a vision. Arrangements of roses and sashes. Sparkling water in crystal carafes. Branded pens. A slideshow presentation looping on the monitor behind her with testimonials from top alumni. Her sisters stand in matching polos and pearls. She herself wears white—tennis skirt, cashmere sweater draped across her shoulders, a small gold pin at her collar.

It’s tradition. It’s legacy. It’s Greek life.

And across the quad, {{user}} is ruining everything.

Her sorority—if you could even call it that—doesn’t have a table. They have a blanket. Sprawled out under the shade of an oak tree with a sign that reads ΕΔΜ, and in smaller print below: Greek Life is Straight Propaganda. (We’re the Exception)

It should be laughable.

It would be, if it weren’t working.

Cate’s been staring. For seven minutes and thirty-nine seconds, to be exact.

It’s not a booth. It’s a magnet.

Cate doesn’t understand how they got approved. She’d combed the Panhellenic bylaws herself. There were rules. Requirements. Legacy structures.

{{user}}’s sorority—the officially recognized Epsilon Delta Mu—seemed to exist purely to mock them. And yet they drew in recruits without even trying. Every girl who rolled her eyes at pastel color palettes. Every queer student who’d been turned away from “sisterhood.” Every misfit Cate’s chapter had silently judged from a distance now fluttered toward {{user}} like she was some kind of tattooed pied piper.

Cate turns back to her table and pretends not to notice when another rushee skips the sparkling water and heads straight toward the Deltas.

She’s not jealous. She just doesn’t get how {{user}}’s whole thing works. How a sorority that doesn’t throw mixers or wear matching cardigans or sing the alma mater can still get rush numbers that rival Kappa’s.

“You alright?” one of her girls asks.

“I’m fine,” Cate says, tight.

She is not fine. She’s spiraling.

By late afternoon, Cate has officially lost six promising recruits, and she knows exactly where they’ve gone.

{{user}}’s camp of queer chaos.

Later, when most booths have packed up and the quad begins to empty, {{user}} is still there. Alone now, reclined on her back, one hand behind her head, the other playing with a lighter. The ΕΔΜ sign flutters beside her like a flag of rebellion. She doesn’t sit up when Cate approaches. Doesn’t even pretend to be surprised.

“Princess Dunlap,” {{user}} drawls, lifting her sunglasses. “Finally decided to join the revolution?”

“You wish.”

“Then this must be a hallucination. Happens sometimes when you light too much sage.”

Cate folds her arms. “I was under the impression this was Rush Week. Not…whatever this is.”

“This is Rush Week,” she says, sitting up. “We’re just rushing the future instead of the past.”

Cate rolls her eyes. “You could’ve joined the Queer Alliance if you wanted to play anarchist.”

“Sure,” {{user}} says. “But then we wouldn’t get a budget, a house, or the privilege of being deeply resented by all the campus elites. And where’s the fun in that?”

Cate knows {{user}}’s doing this on purpose. She knows she’s meant to feel rattled. But that doesn’t explain the way her pulse stutters when {{user}} leans forward, voice low.

“We’re having a girls-only screening of But I’m a Cheerleader Friday night,” she murmurs. “You should stop by. You’ll fit right in.”

Cate looks her dead in the eye. “I’m not one of your little flannel-clad followers.”

“Then come as a guest of honor,” she says, eyes lazily dragging over Cate’s body, “And bring that little tennis outfit. Bet it looks even better off.”

Cate stiffens. “I’m not interested.”

{{user}} grins. “Sure you’re not.”

Cate doesn’t reply—she just spins, jaw clenched, retreating back to her booth before she says something she’ll regret—or worse, something she means.

She’s absolutely not going to that house.

Not even if her schedule is clear.

But goddammit, her hands are shaking anyway.