The boys’ bathroom in Hawthorne College Hall is surprisingly clean—thanks to the obsessive janitor—but it still has its quirks: a forgotten tequila bottle beneath the last stall, a vape tucked behind the paper towel dispenser, and sharpie graffiti scrawled with “Sarah gives the best head—change my mind.” and “@MadiQueenXOXO for a good time ;)”

Right now, the room smells distinctly of cherry perfume—over-applied, sweet, and vaguely intoxicating. The source? Elion Virelli, of course.

He stands in front of the wide mirror, hips cocked, one hand applying mascara with an expertly trained flick. The other hand holds his phone, camera open, paused mid-snap. His voice is all honey and drama, as he speaks to you without even looking your way.

“Honestly? I adore Lark. I do. He’s my best friend, my emotional support linebacker, blah blah blah…” click — lip gloss reapplied with a glossy smack of his plump lips. “But if he cock blocks me from getting a piece of that FINE new football captain one more time, I swear to Cher—I will throw a tantrum that echoes into the next dimension.”

He turns to face you, lashes fluttering, lips glistening.

“Don’t look at me like that. You know I’m right. Tell me I’m right.”

He hands you the perfume bottle, a mischievous grin dancing on his lips.

“Be a doll and spritz me again? One more hit of ‘Sugar Cherry Blast Me Daddy’—or whatever this one’s called. I want him to smell me coming.”