Sienna's POV

I’d barely survived my first night in the lion’s den.

I slept like garbage, tossing and turning while Rhett’s bass-heavy playlist haunted my dreams like a teenage poltergeist. At one point, I actually woke up thinking someone was tattooing my soul with a subwoofer.

But somehow, I still managed to wake up early.

Old habits. The world could fall apart, but I’d still be up at 6 a.m. sharp, making lists in my head and organizing mental to-do columns.

It was the first day of the semester. New classes, final credits, thesis proposal. If I could just power through the next few months, I’d be free. A diploma in one hand, and a lease to my own tiny apartment in the other.

I grabbed my towel and robe, padded down the hall, and peeked at Rhett’s door.

Closed.

Silent.

Good.

The bathroom smelled like eucalyptus and something faintly minty—Angela probably had essential oils spritzed into the vents or something. I locked the door, double-checked it, and finally allowed myself to breathe.

Shower. Steam. Silence.

For a blissful ten minutes, I remembered who I was before everything got tangled in grief and stepfamilies and sarcastic tattooed man who called me Ice Princess like it was my legal name.

I turned the water off, wrapped my towel around me, and opened the door into the hallway—

Only to scream.

There stood Rhett.

Shirtless.

Again.

Toothbrush hanging from his mouth like some lazy accessory, his lean frame leaning casually against the wall. His eyes dropped instantly, then lifted again—slow and infuriatingly calm.

His lips curled. “You know,” he said, voice muffled slightly by the toothbrush, “there’s a lock.”

“I did lock it,” I snapped, clutching my towel like it was armor.

He shrugged. “Guess you didn’t do it right.”

“What are you even doing here?”

He spit into the sink and rinsed. “Brushing my teeth. You planning to monologue in a towel all morning?”

My entire body felt like it was on fire.

“You’re disgusting,” I hissed.

“And you’re dramatic,” he replied, grabbing a towel from the rack and running it through his damp curls. “But I guess that fits the whole Ice Queen vibe. Steam rising off you and everything.”

I wanted to slap him. Or cry. Or both. Instead, I stormed back to my room, slamming the door so hard a picture frame rattled.

By the time I was dressed and ready—dark jeans, neutral blouse, sneakers—I still felt like my skin was too tight, stretched over all the things I couldn’t say. I tucked my earbuds in and blasted Florence and the Machine until I could almost pretend the morning hadn’t happened.

Almost.

Campus was worse.

I’d forgotten how loud it was. How busy. People milling between classes, couples kissing too dramatically near the student center, flyers for underground film screenings and “free emotional support goats during finals week.” Typical.

I ducked into the library before my first class to grab a copy of the required textbook.

That’s when I heard it.

Two girls whispering near the philosophy shelf.

“I swear, he tutored Professor Harlow’s daughter last year.”

“And totally slept with her. I saw them at the spring gala. He had his hand on her lower back.”

“No way.”

“Yes way. Rhett Carter is basically majoring in seduction.”

I froze behind the nonfiction aisle.

Rhett. Again.

Why was this man everywhere?

I peeked through a gap in the shelf and saw them. Sorority types—perfect makeup, manicured nails, shiny hair. The kind of girls who always seemed effortlessly in control of their lives.

“He’s hot, though,” one added. “Even professors like him. My psych TA said he could charm his way through a brick wall.”

I wanted to roll my eyes so hard they’d never return to alignment.

I grabbed my textbook and left before they noticed me, but the words clung to me like static.

He tutored. He flirted. He seduced.

Apparently, he was the entire college’s favorite fantasy.

Great.

I spotted him again after lunch.

I’d been trying to cut across the quad, hoping to reach my next class early and find a seat far from the front—anywhere I could go unnoticed.

But then I heard him laugh.

That laugh was dangerous. Lazy and loud, like he owned the air.

He stood in a circle of people—girls, mostly, and a few guys—holding court like some modern-day Hades in jeans and rings. One girl clutched his arm, giggling too hard at something he said. Another flipped her hair and adjusted her shirt.

I ducked my head.

Walk fast, Sienna. Don’t engage. You don’t see him, he doesn’t see you—

“Hey, roomie!”

I froze.

Every head turned. A few people actually snickered.

I could feel my soul shrivel.

Rhett lifted a hand in mock salute, like we were best friends. Or war allies.

I didn’t wave back. Just kept walking, my spine too stiff, my ears too hot.

Roomie?

He might as well have shouted “I saw her in a towel!”

By the time I got home that night, I was done.

Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually.

Angela was having a book club in the living room. The air smelled like wine and cheese and subtle judgment.

I nodded politely, offered a tight smile, then escaped upstairs.

I didn’t expect to see Rhett’s door open.

Or hear laughter echoing from inside.

He was FaceTiming someone—some guy with bleached hair and a lip piercing. They were talking about a house party this weekend. Rhett’s voice was warm, teasing. Different.

I closed my door quietly, sat on my bed, and pulled out my laptop.

I didn’t mean to look.

I swear I didn’t.

But the campus forum had a new trending post.

“The Psychology of Being Hot & Reckless – Featuring Rhett Carter”

Over a hundred comments. Half thirsty. Half accusing. All fascinated.

I stared at the screen.

Then I whispered, “What the hell have I moved into?”

The post had screenshots.

Not anything scandalous—just Rhett at a debate competition last semester, grinning in a tailored black blazer, mic in hand, eyes gleaming like he knew he owned the room. One of the commenters called it “peak criminal charm.”

Another said:

“Can confirm. He came to our sorority mixer once. Said my name once and I haven’t recovered since.”

I slammed my laptop shut.

This was a joke. It had to be.

I wasn’t going to live with some overgrown heartthrob who thought flirtation was a personality trait. I wasn’t going to be reduced to “roomie” or become the next blurry footnote in his folder of flings.

No. I had plans. Boundaries. A schedule. I had—

A knock on my door.

I didn’t answer.

Another knock. Louder. More obnoxious.

I finally opened it with just a crack.

Rhett leaned against the frame, shirtless again (seriously, was this a religion for him?) and holding a bowl of popcorn.

“You hungry?” he asked like we were friends.

I blinked at him. “Is this an apology snack? Because I don’t forgive you.”

“For what?”

“For being born. And also for this morning.”

He smirked. “You should thank me. I gave you your main character moment. All the best rom-coms start with a towel mishap.”

I crossed my arms. “This isn’t a rom-com. It’s a cautionary tale.”

“Oh, c’mon, Ice Princess. I was being helpful.”

“Helpful?!”

“Yeah. Letting you know about the lock situation. Public service announcement.”

“Your existence is a public nuisance,” I snapped.

He just chuckled and tossed a piece of popcorn in his mouth like I hadn’t just insulted the very core of his being.

“You know,” he said casually, “you get really intense when you’re flustered. It’s kinda cute.”

I stared at him, absolutely dumbfounded. “Cute?”

He shrugged. “In a prickly porcupine sort of way.”

I slammed the door.

Twice.

And then locked it. Just to be petty.

Later that night, I couldn’t sleep.

I kept hearing things: the clink of glassware downstairs, a car engine rumbling in the driveway, Rhett’s laughter again. Always that damn laugh.

I checked the forum post again.

It had 214 comments now.

One girl had tagged him. He'd liked it.

I hated that it bugged me.

I didn’t even like him.

Did I?

No. Absolutely not.

I barely knew him.

He was reckless and loud and flirty and infuriating and—

He knocked again.

I didn’t answer.

A moment later, he slipped something under my door.

I waited a beat before getting up and picking it up.

It was… a sticky note.

In tiny, surprisingly neat writing:

Relax. I’ll wear a shirt tomorrow.

Maybe.

I stared at it. My brain, blank.

Then, against all logic, I smiled.

Just a little.

And then I tore the note in half and tossed it into the trash like it hadn’t mattered.

The next morning, I set my alarm earlier.

This time I double-locked the bathroom. I even brought my own towel instead of using the one from the rack.

No interruptions.

No shirtless Rhett.

Just peace and conditioner.

Small wins.

When I stepped out, fully dressed and hair towel-dried, I tiptoed past his room. The door was cracked open.

He was asleep.

Finally,

His hand was slung over his stomach, a notebook beside him. Music, still playing softly from his speaker.

He looked… not harmless. Never that. But less sharp. Like a hurricane taking a breath.

I didn’t look long.

I didn’t care.

Except I kind of did.

Which was a problem.