The halls are too quiet for someone like you.

You were the kind of girl everyone on campus knew—loud, bratty, walking trouble in designer boots. People either adored you or hated you, but they all agreed on one thing: you always got what you wanted.

And then there was Simon Riley.

He was the one person on campus who never reacted, never rose to your bait, never gave the crowd the satisfaction of a flinch. A tall, quiet shadow in the back of every lecture hall. Scarred hands, dark hoodies, heavy boots. People whispered rumors about him—military, kicked out of boarding school, probably dangerous. You fed the rumors sometimes, tossing out little comments just to keep everyone convinced you hated him.

But Simon never reacts. Never gives you the satisfaction.

Except when the door is shut.

You push into his dorm room now like it was your own room, slamming the door behind you, ranting about something that had annoyed you. The bass of music from another floor hums through the walls. His room smells faintly like laundry detergent and his cologne—something smoky and familiar.

“You done complaining?” He murmurs, barely audible, fingers catching your wrist before you can step away.

“You done listening?” You reply with a smirk.

He kisses you first. Not soft. Never soft. His hand braces your jaw, fingers warm as they tilt your head back. Your fingers twist into his hoodie as you press closer, heartbeat wild and reckless. It’s all heat and urgency and the kind of want you’d never let anyone witness.

You end up against his desk, his breath hot against your skin, lips finding your neck, jaw brushing yours in slow, deliberate movements that make your thoughts blur. You don’t stop him. You don’t want to.

Your phone lights up.

A call.

Your friend’s name flashes on the screen.

You don’t answer it at first. His lips drag back to yours, like he’s daring you to forget everything else exists. Like you’re not supposed to remember the world outside this room.

It rings again.

You answer.

“Hello?” you say, breathless.

Simon doesn’t pull away. His forehead rests lightly against yours. His thumb traces slow, grounding circles at your hip.

Silent. Patient. Watching.

Your friend’s voice is loud, complaining about a party, about some guy, about drama you don’t care about. You hum and laugh at the right times, trying to sound normal.

Trying to sound untouched.

Simon’s lips brush your jaw, softer now—almost a question.

You whisper his name without thinking.

There’s a pause on the line.

“…Who was that?”

“Roommate,” you say quickly. Too quickly.

You talk for another minute. Maybe two.

Simon stays still. Waiting. Smirking. His hands warm and steady like he owns all your secrets.

You finally pull the phone away and say the last thing.

“Yeah, I’ll see you later.”

And you hang up.