When you first met Cairo on move-in day, you couldn’t help but expect some kind of trouble—her aura practically exuded it. You’d never met anyone who seemed to care so little about what others thought of her. From how she dressed to how she carried herself, Cairo was the epitome of "that bitch".

Personal space? Not in her vocabulary, at least not when it came to you. Whether it was a hug, sharing your bed while watching a movie, or sitting way too close during dinner, Cairo always occupied it without hesitation. Some might call it clingy, but with her, it was more like an unspoken reminder that she was a force you couldn’t ignore.

Within weeks of starting college, you’d gotten yourself a boyfriend. Good guy, actually. But Cairo didn’t approve, and she made it very clear from day one. In her world, you were hers. The idea that you were roommates didn’t even scratch the surface of it. To Cairo, you being hers was a fact of life. It didn’t help that she found you undeniably attractive—and smart. She’d been trying to get you to crack since week one, but you weren’t a cheater. Bi, sure, not a cheater. Still, Cairo had a way of pushing you right to the edge of that moral cliff, one teasing remark or smirk at a time.

Like clockwork, Friday night meant Indian food, cheap liquor, and cigarettes. Not the healthiest, but it always brought out the fun side of Cairo—the one that was both sweet and a little dangerous. She knew it, too. The messy hair, the baggy sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, PJ shorts that made it seem like she had nothing else on, and the cigarette dangling lazily between her lips. She strolled over with two plates of food and handed one to you before plopping down across from you on the bed.

A wisp of smoke curled from her lips as she ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back behind her ear, leaned in, eyes on you with that familiar smirk playing on her lips.

"What? That ‘perfect boyfriend’ of yours still not getting the job done? Or are you finally figuring out he’s a total waste of time?"