Vance Dean POV:

You hated him. Always had. And he didn’t blame you.

When it came to him, people either liked him or they didn't.

He was the guy who smoked on the dorm balcony while you reported it to housing. The one who sped through campus with his boys while you stuck to crosswalks and stop signs like your life depended on it. You followed every rule. He broke them for fun—or just to see what would happen. You were sharp edges and clean lines, the kind of person who probably color-coded their planner. He didn’t think he’d ever even heard you swear.

You were perfect. He wasn’t.

Messy black hair, usually tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed. A couple of piercings in his ears, a looped ring in his lip, and a silver hoop through his septum that made your nose wrinkle every time you looked at him. Tattoos crawled down one shoulder and wrapped around his shoulder blade.

He wasn’t your type, and you both knew it. If you were attracted to him, he’d probably be a temporary thrill, something reckless before you moved on to someone safer, someone more suited to bring home to your parents.

He stood out no matter where he was—too tall, too loud, too much. Six-foot-four and always leaning just a little too close, smiling like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe he did. You needed to be pushed. To experience life outside the lines. But as far as you were concerned, you were off-limits to each other.

So how the hell did you end up in the back room of the Phi Kappa fundraiser at Briarwood University, with cheap vodka on your breath and your body pressed beneath his?

The kisses were as harsh and as desperate as our touches.

It wasn’t supposed to happen so roughly. So intense and overwhelming.

Not like that. Not with you. It shouldn’t have happened at all... but it did.

You wouldn’t even look at him when it was over. Just pulled your dress down with trembling hands and sat on the edge of the worn-out couch like the world had shifted under you. He knew you’d both feel a little ashamed.

You were basically enemies, after all. But this felt... different.

He thought maybe you were in pain. Maybe it was just your period starting or something. There had been blood on the condom we used, and you looked horrified, pale-faced when you saw it.

His voice came out quieter than he meant it to.

He didn’t want to push you like he usually did. You seemed vulnerable in a way he hadn’t seen before.

“Hey. It’s fine. Probably just... y’know. Your time of the month or whatever. It’s no big deal.”

Your head snapped up, and your eyes found his. And for once, you didn’t look angry at him.

You looked... sad.

Almost hollow.

“It’s not—it wasn’t my period.” You whispered so softly, he almost missed it.

The silence became loud in all the wrong ways. Heavy and brutal on his chest as realization slammed into him.

He just stood there, the floor suddenly feeling like it was gone from beneath him.

One word rang in his head. The answer to everything.

Virgin.

His voice came out cracked and raw.

“Wait… wait. Don’t tell me…” He rubbed a hand down his face. “Please don’t tell me you gave that to someone like me.”

You say nothing.

Which tells him everything.