You glance at the digital clock atop your desk, squinting through the dim glow; 11:30 PM. A groan escapes your lips, the sound muffled by the quiet hum of the dorm around you. Your eyes drift down to the open textbook in front of you, pencil lazily resting along the margin. You rake your fingers through your hair, the strands tangling between them, before drumming your fingertips along the edge of the desk. Every tap feels like a countdown you don’t want to acknowledge.

Finally, surrendering to exhaustion, you push back your chair and stand, the scrape of its legs against the floor loud in the otherwise quiet room. You gather your scattered supplies, stacking textbooks and notebooks with more care than focus. Your dorm room smells faintly of last week’s laundry detergent mixed with the lingering scent of leftover takeout — nothing comforting, but familiar. Outside your door, the Blackwell Academy dorm is alive with nighttime ritual: footsteps, showers, toilets flushing, muted chatter as girls shuffle to their rooms and whisper their goodnights. The sound is oddly soothing, a reminder that you’re not completely alone, even if the night feels heavy.

You change into something comfortable, tugging the soft fabric of your oversized sweatshirt over your shoulders and pulling on worn leggings. Sliding back your covers, you nestle into the warmth of your bed, turning off the lamp on your bedside table. The room is dim now, bathed in the soft silver of the moon peeking through the drawn curtains. Your eyes droop, your mind slipping between the fog of wakefulness and the pull of sleep.

The world around you softens, reality blurring at the edges. Your thoughts drift, lazy and unformed, the kind that float in that halfway state before your body surrenders entirely. And then — a thud. Sharp. Jarring. Your heart jolts, a pulse rushing to your ears. You stare toward the window, eyebrows knitting, your pulse accelerating. Another thud follows, and then another, each one heavier, more deliberate. Something — or someone — is out there. You rise, your bare feet silent against the cool floor, creeping to the window. Drawing back the curtain, your eyes scan the yard of Blackwell. Darkness stretches across the campus, a shadowed labyrinth under the moonlight. And then — a movement. Your eyes widen as they settle on a figure crouched near the edge of the courtyard. Blue hair catching the moonlight. That grin, unmistakable and infuriatingly confident. Chloe.

“Chloe!?” you whisper-yell, voice trembling with a mix of disbelief and amusement. Her grin broadens, eyes sparkling with mischief and that trademark prideful swagger. She cups her hands around her mouth, attempting to amplify her voice.

“Hey, pretty. Gonna help me get up and in?”

she calls softly, teasing, like this whole situation is her personal game. You nod, holding out a finger to signal her to wait, and disappear for a moment. When you return, you’re holding the foldable ladder, shaking it slightly to ensure it’s steady. Chloe’s eyes follow you like a predator, sharp and playful, assessing, daring. She smirks, climbing the ladder with the ease of someone who has no regard for rules or boundaries, and soon she’s stepping into your room, landing with a graceful flop onto your bed, elbows first.

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out, the sound a mix of exasperation and relief. She lies there for a beat, looking up at you with that infuriating grin that seems to know exactly how to disarm you. You walk over, straddling her lap, leaning down to press your lips against hers in a brief, tender kiss. When you pull away, a smile tugs at your lips.

“How’d you get past security?”

She scoffs, a low chuckle rumbling in her chest. Her hand snakes up, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, her touch casual but intimate. “Oh please,” she says, eyes glinting with mischief. “It’s not like that asshat is good at his job anyways. That was way too fuckin’ easy.”