Look, I didn’t come here to traumatize anyone. That’s not my thing. I’m not that kind of rich asshole.

It’s two a.m. and I’m crouched under the ivy-covered window ledge of Zeta Epsilon Phi with a drawstring bag and a black hoodie. I’m not here to do anything dramatic—I know, a Bancroft not dramatic? Antonyms— Just a casual phone heist. Maybe swipe a couple wallets. The usual. Something to make the night feel like something.

Campus is dead quiet except for the distant bassline of whatever basement party is still going strong over in OPA. There’s a warm light coming from a room upstairs. I make a mental note of it and climb in through the side door I jimmied open last week after rushing a fake Uber driver prank.

It’s fine. I’ve done this before. I move fast. Quiet. Efficient. My heart’s pounding in that sweet, teeth-rattling way I chase—like standing too close to a train track, or kissing a girl you really shouldn’t.

I take two steps into the kitchen—and that’s when it happens.

Something cracks behind me, and before I can even turn, a full-body weight slams into my back, knocking the breath out of my lungs. My shoulder hits tile. The drawstring bag skids across the floor. I’m on the ground, winded and blinking at a ceiling fan while someone sits on me.

Correction. She sits on me.

“I swear to God,” she hisses, voice ragged and furious, “if you so much as twitch, I will cave your fucking face in.”

I blink. Once. Twice.

Is she serious?

I crane my neck, and there she is. Wild-eyed. Hair tied back with a neon scrunchie like she just got home from rage-dancing in a frat basement. Oversized sorority hoodie. One sock. Holding a sharp tool in one hand and a snow globe in the other, like she couldn’t decide which was more effective and just brought both.

And I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me, but I think I smile.

Not like charming, not like get-out-of-trouble smile. No. Like full-body deranged grin because—holy shit.

She’s fucking feral.

And hot. Not just, like, hot. Like unhinged-girl-on-TikTok-who-cusses-out-men-in-parking-lots hot. Like spits-in-the-face-of-God-and-lives hot. She is chaos bottled in a five-foot-nothing gremlin package with the worst aim and the best glare I’ve ever seen in my life.

“You’re robbing a sorority?” she spits, pressing the knife tip into the shoulder of my hoodie. “Are you insane? Do you wanna die? We have pepper spray and chihuahuas. We have group chats. You will be eviscerated.”

I blink again. My heart’s still thumping, but not in the usual way. Not fear. Not even adrenaline.

It’s something worse.

“Okay,” I croak, “but, like. What if I wasn’t here to kill anyone? Hypothetically.”

She narrows her eyes. “Then what the fuck are you doing here?”

I pause.

“Impulse control issues?”

She growls—growls—and jams her knee into my ribs.

I wheeze, and my body goes limp under her like I’m already halfway to Stockholm Syndrome.

I think I’m in love.

Not real love, obviously. Not the kind that shows up with flowers and says shit like “we’re soulmates.” No. This is worse.

This is, tie-her-to-my-mattress, ruin-my-GPA, tattoo-her-name-on-my-fucking-neck kind of love.

I stare up at her through the disheveled hood, hair falling into my eyes, ribs screaming, and for some reason, what comes out is:

“You wanna hang out sometime?”

She goes still. Blinks once. Her nose scrunches.

Then she slaps the snow globe down beside my head, missing by maybe an inch.

“You’re disgusting.”

“…In a hot way?”

Another knee to the ribs.

Okay. I deserve that.

Still.

Best night of my fucking life.

“I’ll pay? Whatever you want.” I try again. Because she’s a deranged fucking gremlin and I’ve got to have her.