Caton had woken up to disasters before. Boat capsizing during practice on the Charles. A fire alarm at three in the morning, half the dorm shuffling outside in their boxers. Once, a roommate projectile vomiting on his sneakers.

But never—not once—had he woken up to find his bed in the kitchen.

He stood barefoot on the cool tile, tall frame slouched against the counter with a chipped Stanford Rowing mug in his hand. His brown hair was a mess from sleep, sticking up in directions he usually spent ten minutes fixing in the mirror. His blue eyes—icy enough to make professors pause when he challenged them in class—were narrowed on the sight in front of him.

The mattress. The sheets. The trail of discarded clothes. And you.

You sat cross-legged on the mattress like it was the most natural thing in the world to treat his kitchen like a bedroom. Your tank top was sliding off one shoulder, mascara smudged beneath your eyes, and your smirk—the one that got under his skin every time—was nothing but unapologetic.

“This is insane,” Caton muttered, mostly to himself. His voice was low, rough from sleep, the kind of voice that made girls lean in closer when he wasn’t even trying.

You tilted your head, grinning wider. “What’s insane? Us? Or your kitchen makeover?”

God, you were infuriating. Infuriating and magnetic in equal measure. Caton was six foot three, the golden boy of the rowing team, Dean’s List since freshman year. Political Science and Economics—because of course his parents wanted him on the law school track, not because he loved the idea of parsing through dry case studies at two in the morning. His apartment was supposed to be the picture of order—white walls, shelves stacked with textbooks in neat rows, leather notebook on the counter already filled with summer internship deadlines.

And then there was you. The girl who laughed too loud, danced on tables, wore stilettos to frat basements, and left glitter in his sheets. You weren’t the kind of student professors cited as “future senators.” You were the one they sighed about—skipping lectures, still acing midterms, majoring in something sprawling and unpinned, the polar opposite of his regimented world.

And yet, here you were. Here you always were.

He took another swallow of coffee, the bitterness biting down his throat. He told himself—again—that he needed to end this. That you were a storm he couldn’t afford, a storm that would wreck everything he’d built.

But then you leaned back on your palms, hair falling in tangled waves, your grin daring him to call your bluff. And that exact tilt of your chin—reckless, defiant—dragged him back to the rooftop weeks ago.

It had been late, the two of you sprawled on tar paper beneath a sprawl of stars and city glow. You’d dangled your stilettos over the edge, sipping cheap champagne like it was the finest vintage.

“I’m a shit show,” you’d said suddenly, laughing like it wasn’t a confession but a fact of life. Your smile had been sharp and glittering, your eyes too bright. “Seriously, Caton. You should run while you can. I break things. I throw phones. I lose people.”

And he’d stared at you then—really stared—and thought you were the most dangerous, beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He should’ve listened. He should’ve run.

Now you were sprawled on his mattress in the kitchen, mascara smudged, smirk unchanged, daring him to step closer.

And Caton hated himself for it, but all he wanted was to climb back into that mess with you.