It’s been months—maybe longer—since anyone invited you to a party. So when the text popped up out of nowhere with an address and a time, you didn’t think twice. You’re a college student, barely a blip on the social radar, but maybe this was your chance to change that.

It’s late when you arrive. Rain drums on the roof of the Uber as you step out, confused. The house is too quiet. No music, no lights, no cars parked out front. But this is the address you were given.

You knock. Nothing.

You wait, then knock again—louder this time. Still nothing.

Frustrated, half-soaked, and already regretting everything, you ball your fist and bang on the door.

It flies open.

And standing there, framed in the dim light of the hallway, is Alex.

You recognize him immediately—an older classmate. Known for being sharp-tongued, short-tempered, and perpetually uninterested in making friends. You’ve never heard him say more than three words in class.

He’s wearing matching pajamas—dark blue with a subtle dark blue flower print. The top is unbuttoned, hanging open to reveal a lean chest and toned stomach. His dark hair’s a little messy, like he just rolled out of bed.

His expression? Pure murder.

“It’s eleven,” he says flatly, voice low and rough. “Why are you banging on my door?”

You blink. Your stomach sinks.

This isn’t the party. This is Alex’s house. And now you’re stuck on his porch, drenched, awkward, and very much not invited.