My dorm room is a mess. Books stacked, half-drunk coffee cups on every surface, a wrinkled hoodie slouched over my desk chair like it gave up. 'Real legacy material.'
I tug the hem of the white lace dress again. It's tighter than I remember--especially across the hips--and the hemline hits high on my thighs, flirting with indecency every time I move. Probably tailored by my mom. 'To fit better,' she always says, which is family code for make sure your ass gets noticed. Three generations of Sigma Alpha Belle girls.
My phone buzzes.
Mom: "Don't forget to smile tonight. First impressions matter. And tuck your hair behind your ears--it softens your face. Love you!"
I roll my eyes so hard I swear I see last year.
Of course she wants me to smile. That's the Belle way--smile through the pressure, through the scrutiny, through the perfectly curated lies. Smile even when you're being lined up like a prize. God forbid I look like I don't belong at the most pristine, polished, elite sorority on campus.
I look like someone I don't recognize.
Tonight is the first rush party. All the freshman girls are required to wear white--some purity-symbolism bullshit that doesn't even pretend to hide what it really is. The party's at our brother fraternity, Omega Phi Delta. And everyone knows--it's tradition.
The Omega seniors wear smirks. The Freshman Belles wear white marking us as the prey.
I know what I'm walking into.
And still--I grab my heels.
A soft knock at my door. One knock. Pause. Two more.
"Come in," I call, smoothing the white lace against my thighs like I'm pretending to be the kind of girl who wants to be hunted.
He steps in--and stops.
His eyes rake over me, and his whole body goes still, like he's forgotten how to breathe. His mouth parts, but nothing comes out at first. Then, finally, quietly:
"Wow. You look... amazing."
I glance down. "Thanks," I murmur, fingers fussing with a sleeve I've already adjusted three times.
He closes the door behind him and leans back against it, hands in his pockets. Jeans and a fitted charcoal sweater that clings just right to his chest. Effortless. Familiar.
Straw-colored hair, soft and clean like always. Blue-green eyes that blink slowly when he's overwhelmed. Ethan is sweet. The kind of sweet that makes me feel safe.
We have been boyfriend and girlfriend since third grade. I have never not wanted to be his.
We grew up next door to each other--our moms were best friends before we were even born. We shared bubble baths before we could talk, tree forts before we could drive, and secrets long before we knew what they meant.
He's been my first everything--first kiss. My first sleepover that turned into something else, first boy to touch me and make me forget where I was.
We've done almost everything two people can do without actually having sex. Hours tangled in each other, mouths and hands exploring, learning what made the other one fall apart. Always stopping just short--out of respect, or fear, or something that felt bigger than both of us.
I'm still a virgin, technically. But that's never stopped us from getting creative.
"You don't have to go, you know. Just... stay here. With me."
God, I want to.
But I can't. Not when my mom's already texted twice to make sure I'm wearing this dress. Not when the word legacy feels heavier than my own name.
I smile--small, sad. "You know I have to."
His jaw tightens. Like he hates all of this--hates the thought of me walking into a house full of frat guys with their slick smiles and red Solo cups.
But none of that matters.
Because no party--no guy in that house--is going to change me.
He's the only one I've ever wanted.
"Ethan..."
"I mean it. You already got into school. Who gives a damn about some pretentious sorority party?"
I sigh and turn toward the mirror, fixing a loose curl. "You know it's not that simple."
He's behind me before I hear him move. Three strides, and his hands are at my waist--firm, warm, grounding.
"It should be," he murmurs. "Screw your mom and her Belle legacy bullshit."
I laugh--half breath, half bitterness. "Tell her that."
And then he kisses me.
Soft, at first--like a question.
His lips graze mine, warm and hesitant, testing the space between us like he's afraid I might vanish if he touches me too much, too fast. But I don't pull away.
So the kiss deepens.
His mouth opens against mine, tongue brushing gently, tasting me in that way that's always made my knees go soft. My breath catches. His hands slide over my waist, slow and sure, fingertips tracing the edge of the lace hem--the place where fabric ends and bare skin begins.
I kiss him back.
Greedily, desperately, like I'm trying to press every emotion into him through my lips, my body. Like if I kiss him hard enough, maybe this night will vanish, and it'll be just us again--back to sleepy goodnights and his flannel shirts that smelled like pine and clean laundry.
He groans into my mouth, low and aching, and then we're moving. Stumbling backward until the backs of my thighs hit the desk. His hips press into mine, and I feel it--how hard he is.
His hands grip my thighs, lifting me just enough to perch on the edge of the desk. He steps between my legs, and his mouth finds the curve of my neck, right beneath my ear--my softest place. I shiver, my breath hitching.
"We don't have to go any further," he whispers, voice raw. "I just want to feel you."
I nod.
I trust him. I always have.
His hand slides up the inside of my thigh, slow and deliberate, fingers skimming over the lace. Teasing. I tilt my hips toward him, my body already aching, already wet. His other hand finds my waist, anchoring me. His mouth crashes back to mine--deeper this time. Hungrier.
And then--
His fingers find the heat between my legs.
Barely-there pressure that sends lightning through me. I gasp against his lips, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging in.
