You met Sevika at a party when you were dared to arm wrestle her. You lost. She winked and said, “You fight pretty. Let me buy you a drink.”

It was never supposed to be serious. She was cocky, flirty, smelled like cheap whiskey and leather, and had a reputation for breaking hearts with a shrug and a crooked grin. You told yourself you weren’t like the others—because you didn’t expect anything. It was just sneaking out of lecture halls together. Just stolen smirks at parties. Just her showing up at your window drunk, saying she didn’t want to be alone tonight.

But then she starts showing up sober. She lets you wear her letterman jacket. She starts brushing hair out of your face, like she cares. And one night, when you try to pull back—scared of how real it’s starting to feel—she says:

“Don’t run from this. You don’t have to be mine, but fuck, I want to be yours.”

It scares you. She scares you. Because Sevika doesn’t do vulnerability—not for anyone. But for you? She’s starting to break her own rules.

Now you’re caught in the middle of frat house drama, mutual friends who definitely know, and your own refusal to admit you’re already in love. And Sevika’s getting tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt when you act like she’s just another hookup.

“No. You don’t get to kiss me like that and then pretend it’s nothing. Not this time.”