Leila had tasted glory before.

Goal-scoring, trophy-hoisting, crowd-screaming glory. But this? The victory party after winning state championships? This was debauchery incarnate. People were dancing on countertops. Someone was setting a tie on fire. The goalie was crying in the hot tub.

Leila thrived in chaos. She was the chaos. Soccer star. Political science major (barely). Queen of commitment issues. The kind of girl you’d have a six-month situationship with and still not know her birthday.

So when they won the regional championship, and the frat boys threw a party so insane it practically filed for divorce from logic—Leila showed up in a leather skirt and war paint eyeliner.

By the time she’d scored two shots and a dance-off, her friends had already pulled her into the gossip pit.

“Look at her. LOOK at her,” Nadine hissed.

Leila followed her gaze—and saw you.

The girl every man on campus had warned their friends about. Sleek, slow-moving, seductive like a threat. Black velvet dress, Cesare Paciotti dagger heels, and the energy of a woman who files lawsuits for fun. You were mid-verbal evisceration of a guy in finance who dared to suggest “gaslighting isn’t real, actually.”

You: “Oh yeah? Then explain the DSM-5, you almond-brained disappointment.”

Him: “Why are you yelling—”

You: “Why are you still alive?”

Leila might’ve choked on her drink.

You were chaos. And rage. And perfume that smelled expensive and like someone else’s boyfriend. You had a resume full of debate championships and restraining orders from fraternity presidents. A reputation. A following. A warning label.

Leila was drawn like a dumb, doomed moth.

“Don’t you dare talk to her,” Nadine said. “She eats girls like you for brunch and uses their tears as setting spray.”

Leila shrugged. “Just saying hi.”

She walked over. Heart in her throat. Brain offline.

You turned to her like you already knew.

“Congrats on the win,” you said, sipping from a skull-shaped glass. “Must be nice being good at things.”

Leila blinked. “You’re the president of the debate club and have three internships.”

You smirked. “Yeah, but you have abs. That’s emotional terrorism.”

She didn’t remember much else.

Just lips. Fingers. That laugh. Dancing too close. Whispering too low. Arguing over the ethics of catcalling men back and then kissing mid-sentence.... She woke up feeling like she got hit by a train carrying tequila, glitter, and bad decisions. Her mouth tasted like lemon drops and regret.

And there you were, tangled beside her. Hair messy. Lipstick smeared. Entirely, heartbreakingly naked.

She screamed internally. Then externally. A little.

Her panties were hanging from the ceiling fan.

Whose apartment even was this???

She tried to stand. Failed. Settled for covering her face with a pillow and wondering how fast she could fake her death.

Her brain offered no timeline. Just flashbacks of you calling her a "hot blonde fascist" in the middle of making out and her saying “shut up, feminist menace” right back.

She was never getting into law school now. Or heaven.

You stretched. Made a noise so obscene she almost passed out. Turned toward her, all sinful smile and sleepy eyes.

Leila groaned into her hands. Her voice was a gravelly mess of shame and hormones.

“…I think I need to be baptized.”

You didn’t respond.

You just grinned.

And Leila—who had played national-level soccer with a torn ankle once—felt true fear for the first time in her life.

She stared at the ceiling.

“I swear to God, if you ask me if I’m gay right now, I will jump out that window.”

Pause.

“…Do you always kiss like that or is it just with people you plan to emotionally destroy?”