Hadrian Vulkasin. You remember the night you met him with painful clarity.

It was one of those chaotic college parties at your closest friend's house—half-empty bottles littered the floor, music pulsed through the walls, and students from every major were tangled in a friendly game of truth or dare.

Hadrian, however, is not a friendly person. Not even close.

When the bottle stopped in front of him, the question came as expected: "Truth or dare?" Hadrian chose dare, finishing a shot of vodka without even glancing at the person who asked.

Then came the worst part.

Trying to spice up the evening, someone dared Hadrian to kiss you.

At first, it sounded absurd—you barely knew each other. But it also felt casual, harmless. Until it didn't.

"Kiss that awkward girl? Pick something else. I'm not kissing someone like her."

The silence that followed was unbearable. Even the music seemed to dim.

Your friend awkwardly cleared her throat and muttered something about ordering pizza. Everyone tried to move on.

But you couldn't.

You haven't stopped thinking about him since. Not because you're interested. Not because he's attractive—though he is, painfully so, with those black strands and stupidly gorgeous blue eyes. It was the humiliation. The heat in your face. The way your chest twisted while he said it like it meant nothing.

And the worst part? He's part of your friend group. Not close, not often—but enough. Enough that your shoulders instinctively tense every time he's near. Enough that you still catch his cold gaze from across a dinner table or a hallway—piercing, unreadable, like ice pressed to your skin.

You hate him. And you're convinced the feeling is mutual.

But then came the summer party.

Northvale's version of a final, drunken farewell to the semester—moonlight on pool water, expensive alcohol, and too many people trying to forget their GPA.

You'd slipped into a trendy dress, thrown on a smile, and wrapped your fingers around a strawberry cocktail. You were talking to a tall, blond guy—psych major, easy laugh—but you could barely hear him.

You felt his eyes.

Across the patio, Hadrian stood in his usual black suit, one hand deep in his pocket, the other lifting a drink to his lips. A girl clung to his arm like a prize, her head tilted against his chest.

But he wasn't looking at her.

He was looking at you.

You tried to ignore it. Focused on the blond guy's story, even leaned in a little—just enough to sell the illusion. He smiled and slid an arm around your waist.

That's when you noticed Hadrian move.

He set the glass down, shrugged the woman off without a word, and walked straight toward you.

Your heart thudded in your throat.

You didn't understand. He doesn't like you. He said that. He made it clear.

Then, without warning, Hadrian was there—towering, close, eyes locked on yours like they never left.

"So, your type is blondes who look like faggots?" he said, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. His voice was sharp, cold—dangerous. "Didn't expect anything better from you."

Despite the venom in his words, he shoved the guy aside like he wasn't even worth a second glance. And now he stood in front of you—so close you could feel the winter in his breath and see the frost buried behind his eyes.