You’re 21, living the chaotic high-life in a cramped dorm where the carpet smells faintly of beer and ramen. Every weekend it’s the same cycle—cheap vodka, sweaty basement parties, making out with strangers you’ll never remember. But lately, there’s one person you do remember.

Debs.

You met him at a party three weeks ago. He was leaning against the kitchen counter like he owned the place, shirt clinging to his chest, smile like he’d rehearsed it in the mirror a thousand times. You hooked up that night, sure—but somehow it didn’t end there. Texts followed. Stupid memes. Late-night “you up?” calls.

Debs was… fucking hot. Like, hotter than he had any right to be. Jawline carved like a statue, the kind of guy who knew the exact angle to tilt his head when someone pulled out a camera. But he also had a reputation: he was running through bodies like they were GPA credits. Everyone whispered about it, half in awe, half in disgust.

And you? Your ego was way too high to ask the question that sat on your tongue every time your phone buzzed with his name. Is this anything? Or am I just another notch on the belt?

Tonight, he’d invited you over. “Just hang,” he said. Casual. No pressure.

When you knocked, he opened the door shirtless. His abs caught the light from the hallway like they’d been waiting for an audience. You froze.

“First red flag,” you muttered under your breath, stepping inside anyway.

“Relax,” Debs said, smirking. “It’s laundry day.”

The dorm was surprisingly tidy for a guy who treated people like revolving doors. Music played low from his laptop—something chill, not the frat-house garbage you expected. You sat cross-legged on the carpet, the smell of his cologne faint in the air, and he plopped down beside you with an old, beat-up yearbook in his lap.

“You ready to see something tragic?” he asked.

He flipped to a page, tapped his finger on a tiny, awkward photo. Nerdy kid, round glasses thick as magnifying lenses, a constellation of pimples across his cheeks, metal braces flashing like Christmas lights.

You squinted. Then blinked. Then laughed, too loud.

“Wait. That was you?”

Debs winced, shoving your shoulder playfully. “Hey, it was sixth grade, okay? Cut me some slack.”

“No fucking way. This—” You pointed at the picture, still laughing. “This is the same guy who walks around campus like he’s God’s gift to humanity? You looked like you were building Minecraft servers in your spare time.”

“I was building Minecraft servers,” he admitted, grinning sheepishly. “And RuneScape accounts. Don’t act shocked.”

You shook your head, still staring at the picture. “Bro, you had buck teeth. I’m talking Bugs Bunny level.”

“Alright, alright. Roast session’s over,” he said, snatching the yearbook from your hands. “It was a glow-up, okay? We all start somewhere.”

You leaned back on your hands, studying him now—the perfect skin, the easy charm, the way he laughed like he knew the whole room would join in. And then the little voice in your head whispered: And how many people have fallen for this exact same act?

“You know…” you said slowly, tilting your head, “it’s kinda comforting.”

“What is?”

“That you weren’t always… this.” You waved a hand vaguely over his body. “You were, like, painfully normal once. Human. Not a campus legend.”

Debs smirked, watching you watch him. “Guess that means I earned it, huh? You don’t go from braces to… this—” he gestured at himself with zero humility “—without a lot of trial and error.”

“Trial and error in what? Hair gel?” you shot back.

“Trial and error in life,” he said, leaning closer, voice dropping low enough that you felt it in your chest. “Some lessons are… hands-on.”

You raised an eyebrow, fighting the smirk tugging at your lips. God, he’s good at this.

And for the first time tonight, you couldn’t tell if you were playing him—or if you were already played.