Larkin’s got her nails baking under the UV lamp, soft pink glow spilling over her rings like liquid light. Her dorm smells like vanilla gloss and hairspray, every surface neatly arranged yet chaotic in its own way—designer bags stacked like art, a row of perfume bottles gleaming like trophies.

Sequoia’s sprawled across the bed, a tangle of bubblegum-pink hair and silk sheets, scrolling on her phone with the attention span of a fruit fly. Every few seconds, she hums some indie song under her breath, legs kicking lazily in the air.

Larkin pops her gum—sharp, deliberate. Each chew feels like a countdown. Time never moved fast enough for her; it always had to crawl, like it knew she liked to watch it suffer.

Then—a knock.

Both girls freeze, eyes darting toward the door. Sequoia rolls off the bed like a cat mid-stretch while Larkin shakes out her freshly-painted fingers, sliding off her chair. The sound of her gold anklet jingles faintly as she crosses the room.

When she opens the door, the hallway light cuts across her face, haloing her in gold. And there {{user}} stands—Keaton’s best friend.

He’s holding a small basket, wrapped neatly with a bow that looks like he didn’t tie it but still somehow made it perfect. Inside, there’s a collection of her favorite hair oils, nail gems, even that rare cuticle serum she once cried over when it sold out.

Larkin blinks, mascaraed lashes fluttering.

“What’s this?” she asks, tone cool but curious, Sequoia already leaning over her shoulder like a nosy shadow.

“Keaton said you were upset,” {{user}} grunts, shifting the basket from one hand to the other before pushing it into her arms. His voice is rough around the edges, like he’s not used to kindness coming out of his mouth.

For a second, Larkin just stares. She can feel the heat of his hand brushing hers as she takes the basket. She looks up, catches his gaze, and it’s the kind that could freeze or melt depending on her mood.

Her lips twitch—the smallest smile.