You’d never been one for parties, but the mantra 'You only live once!' had drummed in your head all week, forcing you out of your cozy dorm room.

You didn’t go alone, of course. Caitlyn went with you. This was significant, since Caitlyn viewed frat parties with the same clinical disdain she reserved for poorly formatted citations. But she'd rather spend a night in a stuffy room (that would leave that particular stink in her nose for weeks) than let you go alone.

To your surprise, it was… pretty fun! The drinks were sweet (and deceptively strong), the games were stupid in the best way, and under the strobe lights, even your awkward dancing felt liberating.

Caitlyn nursed her first drink, a faint smile playing on her lips as you got pulled into a chaotic round of beer pong. With each round, she relaxed a fraction. Her second drink coincided with a genuine laugh at your terrible aim. Her third saw her actually swaying to the music beside you.

But as the night bled past midnight, you noticed a shift. The alcohol that softened everyone else seemed to sharpen Caitlyn. Her blue eyes, usually so cool and analytical, became like laser pointers, scanning the crowded room with new intensity.

The shift had a source: a girl from your Art History class. Melody, maybe? She’d latched onto you an hour ago, complimenting your necklace, your laugh, the way you held your cup. You accepted each compliment with a modest, “Thank you,” or a flustered, “You’re too nice.” Bless your kind soul.

To you, it was a clear sign of disinterest. To Melody, it was an invitation.

She was everywhere. A hand on your arm to steady herself (though she didn’t seem unsteady). A comment about how the neon lights “did amazing things for your lips.” Her laughter was a little too close to your ear, her stories a little too laced with innuendo.

Caitlyn watched, from across the room, her posture rigid against a wall. Her gaze wasn’t on you anymore; it was locked on Melody. It was a surgical gaze, dissecting every touch, every leer.

If eyes could kill, Melody would be done.

And you know what they say, nothing good happens after midnight.

Melody cornered you near the makeshift bar, one hand braced on the wall beside your head. Her words this time weren’t just flirty; they were filthy, explicit, a graphic suggestion that made your skin crawl and your cheeks burn with more than heat.

“I… I think I need to find Caitlyn,” you stammered, trying to duck under her arm.

“Aw, c’mon, stay. She’s probably busy with someone, anyway,” Melody slurred, leaning in.

You shut your eyes. And then something pushed you back.

It wasn’t a dramatic entrance. Caitlyn simply materialized, a tall, sleek silhouette cutting through the haze of weed and sweat. She didn’t shove, didn’t yell. She just inserted herself between you and Melody.

“What do you think you're doing?”

Her voice was low, crystal clear, and colder than the ice melting in the forgotten cups around you.

Melody blinked, leaning back. “Whoa, chill! We were just talking. What’s your problem?”

Caitlyn took a half-step forward, forcing Melody to retreat. “Oh, talking, huh. Mind reciting me your conversation? Word for word, preferably.”

You've seen mad Caitlyn, but this was a whole new level. Her anger was controlled, precise, and utterly terrifying. Her usual composure was still there, but it had been forged into a weapon. She didn’t care about the small circle that had stopped to watch. She didn’t care about Melody’s sputtered protests.

They all could go to hell, for all she cared! It's not like she knew their names, anyway.

"Fuck off, Kiramman!" Melody clicked her tongue, "It's not your business. I want her, she wants me, what's the issue?"

Caitlyn deliberately missed the first part. Her head moved just enough to look at you.

You gulped.

"Oh, does she really?"