Monday morning slipped in before I even felt the night settle. I surfaced from sleep slowly, only to stop short the moment awareness fully hit me.

There was heat between my thighs, a soft, unmistakable dampness that made my breath catch. For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling my pulse throb in places I didn't want to think about.

I shifted my legs slightly under the sheets, the slickness gathering, reminding me exactly of the dream I hadn't meant to have... and the man who had been at the center of it.

A slow flush crawled up my chest and throat. God. I squeezed my eyes shut, mortified at myself, at how little time I'd been in this new place and yet how deeply the thought of him had settled into me.

I threw the blanket back like it was contaminated, scrambled to my feet, and stood in the center of the room as if distance might dissolve the evidence. But nothing dissolved. The sheets were damp, and my underwear clung to me in a way that made me want to peel off my own skin.

I hadn't had a wet dream in my life. Not once! Sex dreams? Those belonged to other girls, the ones who whispered and giggled in locker rooms about half-naked celebrities or crushes they imagined pressing them into lockers, or hookups after parties, or complained about professors they'd slept with in exchange for grades. Not me. I'd made it through twenty-one years with my mind safely sterile, too consumed with anxiety and survival to waste time on that. Until him. Until one hallway glance and a shirtless delivery.

"Jesus Christ," I muttered, pacing toward the bathroom. "Why? Why now? Why him?"

I yanked my clothes off in a frantic heap and bolted for the shower, twisting the knob so hard it squealed.

I scrubbed harder than necessary as if shame could be exfoliated. The spray tangled in my hair, ran down my face, and I groaned out loud, pressing my forehead against the tile.

Of all mornings, it had to be this one. The first Monday of the semester. The day when professors rattled off syllabi like commandments and parking lots turned into battlefields. The day I'd promised myself I would be calm, prepared, and normal.

Instead, I was showering before dawn because my subconscious had staged a private porno starring the neighbor I'd met once.

Pathetic.

"Perfect," I hissed. "Just perfect."

My alarm clock blinked like it was mocking me, reminding me I had forty-five minutes to eat something, find my notebooks, and pretend I hadn't just... yeah.

"Get it together, Nyelle," I told myself.

I yanked on jeans and a tank top, stuffed the sheets into a laundry bag I'd die before letting Mariah see, and I couldn't stop cursing under my breath.

And that made me feel even more pathetic.

By the time I shoved my backpack over my shoulder, my vow had already solidified, this would never happen again. I wouldn't allow it. I'd chain my own brain if I had to. My body had no business conjuring him in the dark.

The city bus was already packed with bleary-eyed students bumping shoulders. I squeezed into a seat near the window, earbuds jammed in, and pressed my forehead to the glass.

I tried to breathe evenly and pretend I was just another returning student, weighed down by dread of textbooks and syllabi. But the memory kept slicing through.

I texted Mariah.

Meet u before class? Need caffeine x10.

She replied instantly, already at Bean & Brew. Save u a seat 💋

When I finally got there, backpack digging into my shoulder, she was perched at a corner table, iced latte in hand, looking obnoxiously alive for eight in the morning.

"First day back, bitch!" she beamed.

I forced a smile, heading for the counter. The line felt eternal, but I ordered my usual black coffee with an extra shot, because if anything could drown this morning in acid, it was caffeine.

When I slid into the seat across from her, she was already talking about a new TA she'd spotted, how unfairly hot he was. I nodded, laughed at the right moments, let her chatter fill the air like plaster over cracks.

I couldn't tell her, or even hint. If Mariah knew, she'd pry, tease, and make it into a story we laughed about later. But this wasn't funny. This was a shame that sat like a stone in my gut.

So I sipped my coffee, scalding my tongue, and pretended to care about her new class schedule.

When the clock chimed half past, we packed up. She looped her arm through mine for the walk across campus, buzzing about her electives, before we split at the quad.

"Text me if you get bored in psych," she called.

I waved, heart hammering, then turned toward my own building.

The familiar smell of flour and butter hit me the moment I stepped into the culinary lab. It was ridiculous how grounding it felt, the clean gleam of the stainless-steel counters, the hum of ovens already preheated, and knives laid out like soldiers. My chest loosened a fraction. This room had always been my sanctuary.

I slipped into my station, setting my knives down with careful reverence most people reserved for prayer. Around me, chatter buzzed, the same voices from years past, some new, some too loud for my comfort. I tugged at the hem of my apron and tried to fade into the rhythm of the room.

"Miss Nyelle," Professor Hart's voice cut through. He was tall, silver-haired, with that perpetually stained chef's coat that somehow made him more authoritative instead of less. He always spotted me, no matter how small I tried to make myself.

"Yes, Chef?" My voice came out quieter than intended, but he didn't seem to mind.

He glanced at the neat way I'd already arranged my tools. "Still, the only student who treats mise en place like a religion. Excellent."

Heat bloomed across my cheeks. Compliments always made me itch. Still, I nodded and murmured, "Thank you, Chef."

The class started, and I fell into the movements like second nature. Today was laminated doughs, croissants, and puff pastry. The part of baking that demanded patience, control, and precision. My wheelhouse.

Around me, some students groaned as their dough tore or their butter leaked. Someone cursed when flour puffed up into their face. I kept my head down, hands steady. The anxiety that gnawed at me everywhere else went silent here, drowned in the logic of ratios and the promise of a clean rise in the oven.

"Perfect lamination," Professor Hart announced when he stopped at my station, lifting the edge of my dough to examine the layers. "As always. If only the rest of you took notes from Miss Nyelle."

A few students shot me looks, some impressed, some irritated, but I pretended not to notice. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and whispered a small, "Thanks."

By the end of class, golden, buttery croissants cooled on my rack, their layers crisp and delicate. The sight alone eased something in me.

When the timer beeped for dismissal, I packed my tools in precise order, wiped down my station until it gleamed, and tugged my backpack onto my shoulders.

The hall outside was noisier, filled with students spilling between classes, but I moved through it like a ghost, hugging the wall. My phone buzzed with a text from Mariah.

"Break time, bitch. Meet me at the fountain."

I exhaled. At least with her, I didn't have to pretend quite as hard.

When I reached the fountain in the quad, she was already there, perched on the stone ledge, iced drink in hand and sunglasses shoved into her curls. She grinned the second she spotted me.

"There's my favorite kitchen witch," she teased, arms open wide.

I rolled my eyes but stepped into her hug anyway, the comfort of it sinking into my bones.

"How was class?" she asked as she pulled back. "Bet you showed those dough-heads who's boss."

I shrugged, biting back the smile tugging at my lips. "It went fine."

"Fine?" She narrowed her eyes. "Translation, you killed it, and Professor Hart probably proposed marriage again."

I laughed despite myself. "Shut up."

Mariah's grin widened. "Never. I live to embarrass you."

We sat together on the fountain ledge, the sun sharp overhead but softened by the breeze that finally, mercifully cut through the heat. Students streamed past, laughing, smoking, and scrolling on their phones.

Mariah launched into a story about her English professor mispronouncing her name three times in a row, her arms flailing as she mimicked his stammer. I listened, sipped from the water bottle I'd packed, and let her chatter steady me.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of steel, steam, and voices. After baking came food science, a lecture heavy with formulas and reactions that most students groaned at. I didn't.

I liked formulas. They made sense. Gluten development, starch gelatinization, and Maillard reactions every process had a cause and an effect. Unlike people, and emotions.

I scribbled notes fast and neat, diagrams crowding the margins. The professor threw out questions no one wanted to answer, and my hand lifted before I could stop myself. His nod came like permission, and I recited the explanation automatically.

A few students turned to glance at me. I felt the heat crawl up my neck, but kept my gaze on the notebook.

By noon, my head buzzed with information, but it was a good kind of buzz. A controlled kind. I stopped by the student café for lunch and ate in the quietest corner I could find. Mariah texted me memes throughout, dramatic GIFs that made me stifle laughter behind my spoon.

Afternoon classes dragged, less engaging, but I powered through them. Menu planning. Restaurant management. Numbers and margins, deadlines and flow charts. None of it thrilled me like the doughs and sauces, but I knew it mattered. Control didn't just live in recipes. It lived in spreadsheets, too.

By late afternoon, the sky softened to gold. I walked across campus with my binder pressed tight to my chest, weaving through clusters of students sprawled on the lawn or lounging by the fountain. Their laughter rose like bubbles, easy and careless. I wasn't jealous, exactly. Just...aware that I didn't fit in that way.

And maybe I didn't want to.

Mariah found me again before my last class, shoving half a bagel into her mouth while rattling off plans for the weekend. A party invite, a movie she wanted to drag me to, and a new restaurant she swore we had to try.

"You're not gonna hide in your cave all semester," she warned, pointing the bagel at me like a dagger.

"I don't hide," I said softly.

She gave me a look.

"Okay," I admitted. "I selectively retreat."

Her laughter rang out, loud enough to turn heads, and I found myself smiling despite the coil of nerves still tight in my chest.

When my final class ended, dusk had already begun to stretch shadows across campus. I packed my things, slung my bag over my shoulder, and made my way toward the bus stop.

That was the thing about school, it was exhausting, overwhelming at times, but here I had order, predictability, professors with syllabi, assignments with due dates, and projects with measurable outcomes.

Here, I knew exactly what was expected of me.

It was only when the bus hissed to a stop in front of my building, and I stepped down onto the sidewalk, that the knot in my stomach returned.

Because home wasn't really safe anymore.

Home had Lloyd.

And whether he was behind his door, on his balcony, or laughing low through the wall, his presence was enough to make every bit of control I'd built during the day start to fray.

I balanced my tote on my hip as I fished for my keys, pretending not to notice the light spilling faintly from his balcony.

The lock clicked open with a soft thud, and I slipped inside, exhaling like I'd been holding my breath the whole bus ride home.

I dropped my bag, changed into shorts and an oversized shirt, and started dinner. Nothing fancy, leftover rice, an egg, soy sauce, and sesame oil.

The steam fogged my glasses as I leaned over the stove. Somewhere above, faint footsteps crossed the ceiling. Someone laughed, and it made me pause with the spatula midair.

Lloyd.

The realization hit like static against my skin.

I tried to shake it off and focus on plating my food, but the sound had already settled under my ribs. I sat down, scrolled through my phone to distract myself, messages from Mariah, a meme she said "looked like me on caffeine withdrawal." I smiled weakly and sent a quick reply, pretending my hands weren't trembling.

But when another burst of laughter echoed through the wall, deeper this time, accompanied by another voice, female, light, and tinkling, I froze.

There was nothing explicit about it. It was just laughter. But something about it burrowed deep.

I set my fork down and stared at the wall, suddenly very aware of the tight, unfamiliar ache that curled low in my stomach.

Why does it bother you? I asked myself.

He's just your neighbor. He doesn't matter.

But my brain was a liar when it came to him.

I finished dinner in silence and took the plate to the sink, rinsed it twice, and then once more, because the first two didn't feel enough.

By ten, the laughter had stopped. I told myself that was good, that the quiet was what I wanted, but it didn't feel like relief.

I went through my nightly checklist anyway. I brushed my teeth and turned on the fan for white noise.

I flipped onto my side, glaring at the ceiling like it was his fault my body had apparently decided to rewrite its entire chemistry overnight because his voice wouldn't stop haunting me.

Not the words, those were forgettable, but the texture of them. The way they scraped down my spine like velvet dragged the wrong way.

I kicked off the blanket, pulled it back up, then kicked it again. The room felt too warm, and the air too heavy. I could smell my own shampoo, that faint vanilla clinging to the pillowcase, and it only made me more aware of myself, my pulse, the slick heat on my neck, the ridiculous tremor running through me.

Get a grip, Nyelle.

He's just a guy. A loud, cocky, probably insufferable guy.

But my traitor of a brain replayed the slope of his smile anyway, the one that looked carved rather than earned. I shut my eyes and tried to erase it. Instead, his laughter threaded through the dark like a song I didn't ask for, curling into the hollow behind my ribs.

The ache built until it was almost physical, and panic hit.

I sat up fast, heart hammering, throat dry. My body was acting like it had been... triggered by something, and I hated it, the way it refused to listen to reason. I buried my face in my hands, trying to breathe the heat out.

When that didn't work, I grabbed my phone. If I couldn't stop thinking about him, maybe I could neutralize him, find some proof that he was just another self-absorbed guy, nothing more. Something to ruin the illusion.

I opened Instagram. Typed his name. Deleted it. Typed again. The search bar blinked at me like it was in on the joke.

There were hundreds of Lloyds, millions, even, and still, somehow, I knew I'd find him. My thumb hovered before adding our campus name. A small, stupid hope whispered that maybe he wasn't online, and that maybe this obsession was just mine to carry.

The screen refreshed. And there he was.

Top of the list. Verified. Every inch of him was exactly as magnetic as memory made him. @lloyd.Luxen, 200k followers, athlete, basketball highlight reels, a grin that screamed I know I'm trouble. His bio read:

🏀 "Not everything needs to be figured out."

Of course it didn't. Guys like him never had to figure things out, the world just bent to their rhythm.

The first photo stopped me cold, him mid-air, jersey clinging, and the entire court blurred beneath his leap. The next was a grin, with his teeth flashing, and arms spread as if he owned gravity itself. Another was a close-up, sweat catching the light on his throat.

I wasn't into sports. I didn't even know the difference between a dunk and a lay-up, yet I scrolled like I'd been starving for this. Each image was a pulse of color and motion that made something inside me tighten.

Crowds, teammates, trophy shots. The comments section was an avalanche of heart emojis and drooling faces. Apparently, the entire campus already belonged to him.

I should've stopped there. I told myself I would. And then my thumb slipped, followed immediately by a soft click, and the tiny blue checkmark turned solid.

Following.

It took a heartbeat for the horror to register. My stomach dropped through the mattress.

"No, no, no..."

I scrambled, unfollowed instantly, praying he hadn't seen the notification, praying the algorithm would be merciful. My pulse was so loud it drowned out the room. I stared at the phone like it was a live wire, cheeks burning hot enough to light the air.

How did it come to this?

A single class, a handful of words, and now I was the kind of girl who stalked a man she barely knew.

I dropped the phone facedown and lay there, motionless, half hoping the ceiling would cave in and bury me before morning. But even then, the thought of him wouldn't fade. It pulsed quietly under my embarrassment. A notification blinked at the top of my screen.

Lloyd Luxen has sent you a message.

My pulse stopped.

You stalking me, neighbor? 👀

I dropped the phone. Literally. It hit the carpet with a dull thud while I stared at it like it had grown teeth. I picked it back up.

Oh my god, no 😭 I followed you by accident.

There! Perfect, casual, and totally believable. Except that the typing bubble appeared instantly.

lol sure, you "accidentally" searched my full name and followed me? That's dedication

🙄 Don't flatter yourself. I texted back.

Who says I need to?

You really are full of yourself, huh,

just confident. There's a difference.

right. confident enough to DM strangers in the middle of the night?

You're not a stranger. You're the girl from across the hall who doesn't wear a shirt in 90-degree heat.

I choked.

I literally choked on air.

The audacity! The nerve! The fact that my face was on fire!

That's not... I was unpacking. It was hot. The air conditioning was broken.

mmm excuses.

You're insufferable.

And yet you're still replying.

I wanted to hurl my phone across the room. I also wanted to keep reading whatever came next.

He didn't text again for a few seconds, long enough for me to think it was over.

So what's your favorite pie? His text popped up again.

My fingers hovered. This again?

cherry. why?

noted.

noted for what??

You'll see.

And then he went offline. Just like that.

No goodbye, emoji, or explanation.

I stared at the empty chat box, heart still hammering, a weird little ache building in my stomach.

The logical part of me screamed to stop. To block him, erase the conversation and the heat pooling low in my abdomen.

But the part of me that had felt invisible for years, that part leaned into the screen light and read the last message again. You'll see.