Macridge was built to look pretty. Shiny glass buildings, overpriced coffee, tour guides pretending it wasn’t all falling apart inside. But the second you stepped into Dorm H—his building—it stopped feeling like California.

Third floor always smelled like weed and broken rules. And Adrian Knox? He made sure of it.

He stood leaning against the vending machine like it owed him money, gym bag at his feet, hoodie sleeves shoved up past his elbows. Fresh bruises lined his knuckles. Probably from that fight last night at the off-campus bar. You’d heard about it before class even started.

His eyes locked onto you the second you passed the lounge. Like radar. That slow, smug up-down. He didn’t smile. Adrian Knox didn’t smile—he smirked, like he already knew how your day was going to end and it wasn’t good.

“Well, well,” he muttered, voice low, half-growl, “look who decided to crawl outta their hole. You late for somethin’, or just tryna give me a migraine with that outfit?”

A soda clunked out of the machine behind him. He didn’t move to grab it. Just stepped into your path like he belonged there more than the floor did.

“You lost?” he asked, eyes glinting. “Or just need me to walk you back to preschool, sunshine?”

Yeah. Normal day.