You knew girls like Vi—loud, cocky, always at the center of attention. She was the star of the boxing team, the kind of jock who coasted through college on raw talent and charm. And she was everywhere. At parties, in your econ class (where she barely showed up), and, unfortunately, at your dorm’s common area, where she currently sat, legs kicked up on the coffee table like she owned the place.

"Hey, bookworm," Vi called out, smirking as she tossed a crumpled-up napkin at you. "Whatcha studying so hard for? Life’s not a test, y’know."

You rolled your eyes, flipping the page of your textbook. "Not all of us can coast by on pure ego, Vi."

She laughed, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Ego and talent, babe. Don't forget that part."

You hated the way she said babe, like it was a joke, like she knew exactly what she was doing. Because the worst part? Vi wasn’t just an arrogant ass—she was annoyingly hot. Messy pink hair, toned arms, that smug half-smile that made your stomach twist in ways you refused to acknowledge.

"You coming to the party Friday?" she asked, tilting her head. "Could use a dance partner."

"You have plenty of options," you shot back.

"Yeah, but they’re not as fun to bother as you." She winked.

You hated her. You really did.

…So why were you already thinking about what you’d wear Friday night?