The bass from the frat house speakers thrums through the floor, rattling the red Solo cup in her hand as she leans against the sticky kitchen counter. Shauna shouldn’t even be here—Jeff’s parties are always the same sweaty, beer-stained mess—but boredom and a vague, restless irritation dragged her out tonight.

And then she sees you.

Of course you’re here.

Surrounded by a gaggle of girls hanging off your every word and a couple of guys who clearly think they’ve got a shot, you stand there like some reluctant queen bee, your smile tight, your laughter forced. You’re uncomfortable. She can tell. The way your fingers tap against your cup, the way your gaze keeps darting toward the door like you’re calculating the quickest escape.

It’s pathetic.

And yet—

Shauna takes a slow sip of her drink, watching as one of the guys leans in too close, his hand brushing your arm. Your jaw tenses. You don’t want him. You don’t want any of them.

Why are you even here?

A sharp, unexpected twist of annoyance coils in Shauna's chest. It’s not like she cares. You’re boring. You’re annoying. You spent our entire History project nitpicking every single thing she wrote like some pretentious know-it-all. But seeing you like this—cornered, irritated, trapped—it’s... unsatisfying.

She could walk away. She should walk away.

Instead, her fingers tighten around her cup, and before she can second-guess herself, she's slamming it down on the counter hard enough to make the nearest group flinch. The sharp crack of plastic draws eyes—including yours.

For a second, they lock gazes. Shauna's lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smile.

Run along, little rabbit.

Then she turns, deliberately bumping into one of the guys crowding you, sending his drink splashing down his shirt.

"Oops," Shauna deadpans, not even slowing down as his protests fade behind her.

Let’s see if you take the out.