The first time you saw Lorenzo Zurzolo, he was doing a keg stand on his frat’s lawn in a toga. The second time, he was twenty minutes late to your Intro to Ethics seminar.
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.
He was everything you hated: loud, charming, and coasting on pretty-boy privilege. Golden-boy energy, all muscle and frat chants and “bro” handshakes. So when Professor Adler announced the mandatory partner project for the campus-wide ethics competition—and paired you with him—you genuinely considered dropping the course.
You hated 8:00 a.m. lectures.
Not because of the professor. Not because of the topic—Modern Ethics & Dissent, which you could debate in your sleep. Not even because you were functioning on four hours of sleep and three shots of espresso.
You hated 8:00 a.m. lectures because Lorenzo Zurzolo always sat directly behind you.
And today was no different.
He strolled in two minutes late, wearing that damn varsity jacket over a black hoodie, hair a perfect kind of disheveled that screamed “I woke up like this and still look better than you.” He dropped into the seat behind you with a heavy sigh, long legs knocking against your chair.
“Morning, Professor." He said, like always.
You didn’t look back. You just gripped your pen tighter.
You’d barely known his name then—just that he was loud, smug, and allergic to raising his hand. You didn’t realize he’d turn it into a thing. Into this ritual.
“Missed me?” He added in a low voice. You could hear the grin in it.
The class passed in a blur of Plato and protest theory, but you felt him the entire time. The way his knee tapped behind you. The soft scratch of his pencil. Once, you thought he leaned closer—like he was trying to read your notes—but you didn’t dare turn around.
And then skip forward to next week.
The party’s already too loud.
Bass rattles the windows, red cups scatter the floor like spilled confetti, and some freshman is puking in a bush by the porch. You shouldn’t be here. You told yourself you wouldn’t be. But your roommate dragged you out, claiming “debate kids die of stress unless exposed to social contact.”
So now you’re standing in the middle of Phi Tau’s house with your arms crossed and your social battery draining fast.
Obviously he would be here.
Lorenzo Zurzolo—poster boy of Phi Tau, golden-voiced, golden-haired, all jawline and smirk. He’s laughing at something someone said, tossing a football across the living room like it’s a beach day in Capri. His hoodie’s half unzipped, collarbone on display like a Greek statue, and the worst part?
Everyone here loves him.
You turn away—just in time to spill someone’s beer on your sweater.
“Shit—sorry, sorry." Says a deep, accented voice.
You freeze.
Of course it’s him.
Lorenzo grabs some napkins from the kitchen counter, dabbing at your arm with a soft hand and that infuriatingly gentle grin.
“Didn’t mean to baptize you in Natty Light. You good?”
You snatch the napkins from him.
That makes him laugh, a real one. Like you’re entertainment, not an opponent.
“Still mad at me for asking if Kant was a ‘German party planner’ in Ethics 101?”
“I’m mad you think that’s still funny.”
“I’m mad you haven’t admitted you liked it.”
You glare. He leans in, grinning like he enjoys this—a game only he knows he’s playing.
But there’s something behind his eyes, something sharper, watching you like he’s waiting for you to see it.
“You debate kids are all the same." He says, backing away. "All edge, no risk.”
“And you frat guys are all fake depth and no substance.”
He doesn’t even blink.
Instead, he says, low and slow:
“I’m minoring in philosophy.”
You blink. Looking directly into his eyes, they were a stormy blue, like a summer sky just before it breaks. Sharp, unreadable—until he looked at you too long, and they softened like waves retreating from shore.
And for the first time, he’s the one walking away—with a half-smile that says, Your turn.