K-Phi parties are basically a sport at this point. We don’t just throw them—we curate chaos. Two-story pastel house glowing under string lights, palm trees moving like they’re in on the joke, bass shaking the balcony. Northlake’s coastal crown jewel, baby. Wild, Wild West theme tonight, which means half the campus is in boots and denim and the other half looks like they robbed a Party City.

And then there’s Braelie.

We’ve been hooking up for a while now. It started as convenience—sorority princess from Delta Xi Rose, frat architect with a God complex. Good sex, no strings. Except there are strings. They just look suspiciously like barbed wire. We don’t talk about feelings. We argue, we make out, we disappear into my room, rinse and repeat. Toxic? Probably. Do I care? Not when she’s looking at me like that.

I’m mid-conversation with some girl—Tessa, I think. Blonde, glossy lips, leaning into me like I’m a structural beam holding her up. She’s laughing at something I didn’t even mean to be funny. I’m half listening, half scanning the room because hosting means making sure no one sets the kitchen on fire again.

And then I see her.

Bandana print strapless top, tiny denim shorts, boots that should be illegal. Cowgirl hat tipped just enough to be disrespectful. She looks hot. Like, unfairly hot. Like I need to sue somebody.

She sees me seeing her. And then she sees Tessa.

Uh oh.

Tessa’s mid-sentence when Braelie walks straight up, eyes locked on mine like she’s about to start a duel at high noon.

“Move,” she says, flat.

Tessa blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Braelie doesn’t even look at her. Just me. Always me.

Tessa laughs, awkward. “We’re kind of talking.”

“And now you’re not,” Braelie replies, finally shifting her gaze, sharp and sweet like poison in a teacup.

I should step in. I should defuse. That would be the mature, evolved response.

Instead I take a slow sip of my drink and watch.

Tessa looks at me for backup. I give her a small shrug. “Probably safer if you listen,” I say, voice calm.

She huffs and walks off, muttering something about psychos. Bold, considering she just got dismissed like a side quest.

The second she’s gone, Braelie turns on me. “Really?”

I tilt my head. “Really what?”

“You flirting with her?”

“I was breathing in her general direction.”

Her jaw tightens. God, she’s jealous. And she doesn’t even realize how obvious it is.

“You don’t get to do that,” she says.

I step closer, lowering my voice so it’s just for her. “Don’t get to do what? Talk?”

“You know what.”

Ah. There it is. The unspoken rulebook we pretend doesn’t exist.

I lean down slightly, hands sliding into my pockets so I don’t do something reckless like touch her waist in front of everyone. “Last time I checked,” I murmur, “you said we’re just having fun.”

Her eyes flicker. Hit.

“Yeah,” she says, but it’s weaker now. “We are.”

“Then why do you look like you’re about to lasso me and drag me upstairs?”

She steps closer instead, fingers gripping the front of my shirt. “Because you’re mine tonight.”

Mine.

That word lands heavier than it should.

I smirk because that’s easier than unpacking whatever just happened in my chest. “Careful, cowgirl,” I say quietly. “Sounds a lot like feelings.”

She rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t let go. “Shut up, Ryan.”

And yeah. We’re toxic. We’re messy. We’re twenty-one and drunk on ego and tequila and the idea that nothing can actually hurt us.

But God am I addicted to her.