The first thing anyone ever noticed about Choso Kamo on campus was that he always looked like he didn’t belong there—and didn’t give a shit. Hood up, dark hair always tied back, eyes half-lidded like he was permanently exhausted by everyone else’s bullshit. His backpack sagged with weight that definitely wasn’t textbooks. If you wanted to forget the world for a night, or a weekend, or a whole damn semester, you found Choso. Quiet guy by the library steps. Back corner of a party. The plug. Pills, powder, weed, shit people pretended they didn’t touch—if it existed, he had it.

The second thing people noticed was who he was dating.

She was impossible to miss. Pink gloss, pink nails, pink phone case, pink everything—like the color had been stitched into her bloodstream. The school’s it girl. Cheer captain. Sorority princess. The kind of gorgeous that made heads turn and jaws drop without her even trying. She lived in a massive off-campus house her rich parents bought her “for safety,” which really meant a two-story place with marble counters, a backyard built for parties, and a king-sized bed that Choso spent an embarrassing amount of time in.

No one believed it at first. Choso Kamo, antisocial drug dealer with a permanent scowl, and her? The girl who threw the best parties on campus, who smelled like expensive perfume and confidence?

They’d met two years ago when they were sophomores. She’d found him through a friend of a friend, cornered him behind the student union with a sweet smile and a blunt question. She wanted something to take the edge off—midterms, expectations, the pressure to always be perfect. He sold it to her. No flirting. No small talk. Just business.

Except she kept coming back.

Not just for drugs, either. Sometimes she’d sit on the arm of his couch, legs crossed, talking about cheer drama or professors she hated while he listened in silence, passing her a bottle of water and pretending he didn’t care. She treated him like a person, not a resource. Asked him how he was. Remembered shit about him. That fucked him up more than anything.

Somewhere along the line, it stopped being a transaction.

Now, over a year into dating, they were a walking contradiction. She dragged him to parties; he lingered by the walls, drink in hand, eyes always tracking her like she was gravity. His hand stayed on her lower back, grounding himself. She knew everyone, laughed loud, danced harder—but she always circled back to him, leaning into his chest when the night got overwhelming.

He hated crowds. Still showed up. She loved attention. Still chose him.

Her bedroom was his favorite place on earth. Pink walls, soft lighting, her laugh echoing off the ceiling at two in the morning. They spent hours there—talking shit, making out, occasionally fucking like they were trying to forget the rest of the world existed. That bed had seen more than enough sin to be condemned, and Choso wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

They weren’t perfect. They argued. He shut down. She got loud. But they loved each other in a way that felt steady and real, like something worth fighting for.

Opposites, sure. But they fit. And everyone who mattered knew it.