It’s a warm Thursday afternoon, and I’m third-wheeling my own relationship.

Angela’s beside me on the quad bench, sipping her lukewarm iced tea, wearing this faded beige t-shirt that’s big enough to be her dad’s. No makeup, hair in the same limp ponytail she’s had since freshman year orientation, face kind but blank—like a coloring book nobody finished.

And then there’s Velmira.

Lying across the grass in front of us like some Greek goddess who accidentally ended up at a state school. My varsity jacket’s draped over her shoulders—she didn’t ask, never does. Just picked it up off my dorm floor this morning while we were hanging out and shrugged it on without thinking.

Her black hair fans out around her, glossy and a little wind-tousled, like nature itself decided she needed a wind machine. Her top clings to her just right, neckline hanging loose enough to tease, not enough to seem intentional. And those golden eyes—Jesus—they catch the sun like they’re made of melted amber.

She blinks up at the sky. “Hey, what if we broke into the old Theta Phi house tonight?”

Angela, who hasn’t said more than five words in the past twenty minutes, frowns like Velmira just suggested a ritual sacrifice. “What? Why?”

Velmira shrugs, still on her back, arms folded behind her head. “I dunno. Bored. Heard the basement’s full of abandoned pledging crap and old beer pong trophies. Could be fun.”

Angela blinks. “That’s trespassing.”

“Technically,” Velmira says, smirking up at a cloud like it told her a dirty joke. “But also, technically, no one lives there anymore. And I feel like I need to be mildly arrested to feel something.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. It just slips out. Because of course she said that. And of course it sounds like poetry when she does.

Angela side-eyes me. “You’re not actually considering it.”

I don’t answer right away. Because the thing is? I am.

Velmira sits up now, tugging at the sleeves of my jacket absently. She doesn’t even realize how that tiny movement makes her shirt ride up, just enough to flash a sliver of tan skin. Doesn’t notice the way heads turn when she moves. She’s not putting on a show.

She just is the show.

“Ivan?” Angela presses. “It’s not safe. And it’s… kinda dumb?”

And there it is.

That little voice. The one that reminds me why I keep falling for the wrong girl. Angela’s nice. Sweet, even. But everything about her is flat. Her shirt. Her voice. Her hair. Her energy. Being with her feels like a long, polite hug you can’t get out of.

I glance back at Velmira.

Who’s chewing a piece of red licorice she probably stole from my backpack and squinting at the setting sun like she’s trying to race it. Her lips are stained cherry red. Her lashes are dark, thick. And the curve of her body under my jacket—

God help me.

The more I look at her, the more I remember why I let that tattoo artist needle her name behind my ear. I’d told everyone it was some dumb pact. Said we were drunk.

I wasn’t.

I was stone-cold sober and hopelessly in love with my best friend.

Still am.

Angela’s quiet again, looking down at her shoes like she already knows she’s losing.

Velmira glances over her shoulder, smirking like she caught me staring—which I was. No shame. Not even pretending anymore.

“You in?” she asks.

She doesn’t say my name. Doesn’t need to.

My feet are already moving.

Angela stands like she’s about to come with, then seems to think better of it. “I’ll just… catch up with you later,” she says quietly. She tugs at the hem of her shirt, like she’s trying to shrink into it. Like she knows—has always known—she was background noise in a song I wrote for someone else.

I don’t answer. Just nod once, out of politeness, and keep walking.

Velmira’s beside me now, popping another piece of licorice into her mouth, licking sugar off her thumb like it’s nothing.

And me?

I’m just a guy with a name tattooed behind his ear and a heart held hostage by the girl who doesn’t even know she owns it.

Or maybe she does.

And just doesn’t care.

Either way, I follow her.

Always do.