The first sign that my life was about to implode? The sound. Muffled laughter. The distinct, unmistakable sound of lips on lips. And the wet, obscene squelch of– oh my God.

The second sign? The box of Annie’s white cheddar mac I’d been holding was now mangled beyond recognition because apparently, my stress response involved murdering carbohydrates.

The third—and most horrifying—sign? The guy currently inhaling a blonde girl’s face. In my kitchen.

Correction. Our kitchen?

Which shouldn’t have been possible. Because, according to the University of Blackridge Housing Portal, my roommate was Rowan Carter. And there was hockey gear splattered everywhere, yes, but I’d made the perfectly logical assumption that Blake Davenport was a girl. Because why can't girls play hockey too? And since Blake was one of those delightfully gender-ambiguous names, my brain had short-circuited straight to woman.

Apparently, my brain was wrong.

Because the person currently playing tonsil hockey against my refrigerator was most definitely not a girl.

He was tall. All broad shoulders and a stupidly thick neck. His dark hair was the kind of messy that rich boys paid barbers to recreate. His jawline could cut glass. And don’t even get me started on the tattoos curling under the sleeves of his fitted t-shirt.

And I knew him. Or I had known him. Sort of. Briefly. At a party last semester. We flirted. Sparks flew. We kissed. I thought we had a thing. He apparently thought nothing of it.

“Oh my God,” the blonde giggled, breathless, pressing a hand to his chest. “We shouldn't!"

“Mmhmm,” he murmured, biting her lip like a walking HR violation. “Definitely shouldn’t.”

I made a sound. A strangled, horrified, completely involuntary noise that was probably half-cough, half-wheeze.

Rowan’s head snapped toward me.

And then—then—his smirk faltered. His brow furrowed. Not in recognition. Not even confusion laced with familiarity. No, this was the pure, puzzled alarm of someone seeing a total stranger standing in their kitchen holding a box of mutilated pasta.

“Uh?” His hand dropped from Blondie’s waist. “Who are you?”

I blinked. “Who am I?” A borderline hysterical laugh escaped me. “I live here. Who are you?”

His head tilted. “Blake.”

I froze. “Blake Davenport?”

“Yeah.” His frown deepened, but his eyes swept down—past my oversized Blackridge Library hoodie and threadbare leggings—and something flickered behind them. “Wait, did we– have we met before?”

Wow. Ouch.

I exhaled through my nose. “No."

Blondie cleared her throat, giving us both the world’s most awkward smile. “Soo, I should– yeah.” She practically sprinted out the door.

Silence. Blake dragged a hand through his hair, turning to face me fully. He seemed confused, eyes lingering on my very flat chest as he tilted his head to the side. I barely had time to process it before he pulled me into one of those half-assed bro hugs. The kind with a slap on the back.

"Sorry about that, man."