it was nearly impossible to enjoy the party when your brain was short-circuiting over an assignment due in less than twenty-four hours, and the human disaster you’d trusted to help had vanished off the face of the earth.

of course, ryan had an alibi. several, actually. the man was a walking resume. model-slash-athlete-slash-nerd-slash-takingthreefuckingcourses-slash-socialist-slash-perfectionistic hybrid. talk about overachiever. how the hell does he even do it? most people would be impressed. you? probably five seconds away from strangling him with your laptop charger.

because he had promised.

and now? he was ghosting you harder than a date would. which, frankly, was rude. it wasn’t even a difficult task. just an interview. something something journalism 101-y. and ryan, golden boy of the media spotlight and your accidental study buddy in the library, had been perfect. he even played along for two full days.

honestly? it had been... fun.

unfortunately, now you were one missed deadline away from a mental breakdown and typing like a demon-possessed raccoon at the corner of a very loud party. your fingers kept hammering at the keys, the bar sticky under your elbows, bass thumping against your spine like a threat.

“baby,” scarlett sang, voice syrupy and threatening as she draped herself over you from behind. “for the love of vodka, have a drink. or five. you’re killing the vibe!!”

no reaction, just typing away like a robot. until you heard a familiar voice. your head snapped like some sort of creepy horror movie doll, eyes catching onto a movement past scar’s shoulder.

there. across the room. in all his golden, smug, infuriating glory—ryan.

splayed on a leather couch like a bored roman emperor, drink in one hand, one girl stroking his arm, another practically inhaling his neck like he was her last meal. a third had her thigh thrown over his like they were filming an R-rated shampoo commercial.

no. fucking. way.

the next thing you knew, your legs were moving, dragging you across the room with all the fury of a caffeinated banshee.

“hey! babe!” scarlett called out, just to get ignored. she sighed dramatically, watching you storm towards certified fuckboy. “alright, girl, i get it. you get that d—“

thankfully, aoife covered scar’s mouth.

the lighting was dramatic, which helped. your shadow hit him first, and when he looked up, his eyes locked on yours. the man smirked. smirked.

like you didn’t look seconds away from turning him into a cautionary tale.

“what’s up, sunshine?” he drawled, casually shifting to make room for your rage. you snapped, crossing your arms like you were auditioning for the role of ‘Angry Wife in a Soap Opera.’ something about pulling him aside for a talk and blah, blah, blah… ryan studied you, sipping slowly like your fury was a five-star wine he intended to savor.

“why?”

you stared him down, jaw clenched, the answer obvious. he blinked, then laughed. low and lazy. The kind that could start wars.

most days, ryan wouldn’t lift a finger unless there was an award or a championship involved. but you? you had a way of making even his boredom feel like entertainment. with a sigh worthy of an oscar, he stood, ignoring the death stares from his adoring fan club.

as he passed you, he leaned in, voice brushing your skin like sin. “you owe me three hot dates for this.”