“Holy fuck, Serena Lakin, where have you been hiding that body?”

Mia wolf-whistles as I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror at the entrance of someone’s house, barely recognizing the girl staring back.

The black bodysuit clings to curves I usually hide beneath hoodies and oversized sweaters. The simple mask covers just enough of my face to make me feel like someone else entirely.

Mia adjusts my mask with the focus of a surgeon. “Lucas is going to swallow his own tongue when he sees you. Hell, I might switch teams.”

Lucas. Right. Sweet, uncomplicated Lucas who sends good morning texts and probably doesn’t know what degradation kinks are.

Unlike some people who probably invented new ones.

“What if he doesn’t recognize me?”

“Oh, he’ll recognize you.” She squeezes my shoulders, grinning wickedly. “That boy has been eye-fucking you through every study session. And maybe tonight, he finally gets to do it for real.”

Probably a bet with his frat brothers.

I shove Caleb’s voice down, lock it away where it belongs.

“Okay.” The word escapes before courage can abandon me. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

The party is chaos incarnate.

Music pounds through the walls, bass so heavy the floor vibrates beneath my heels. Someone thrusts a drink into my hand before I’m five feet inside, and I drain it just to have my hands free.

“Stay close!” Mia shouts over the music. “Lucas said he’d be wearing a Scream mask!”

Great. Super helpful.

I’ve already counted four Scream masks in my immediate vicinity.

Within twenty minutes, Mia’s sorority sisters descend like perfectly coordinated vultures, dragging her toward something called “the situation on the dance floor.” She mouths five minutes but we both know that’s a lie.

I park myself near the makeshift bar, draining my cup and immediately accepting another from some guy dressed as a sexy referee.

The alcohol burns away the edges of my anxiety, making everything softer, warmer, more possible.

Pre-law princess. Frigid. Nothing there to want.

“Looking for someone?” A girl in a vampire costume leans close, breath sweet with alcohol. “You’ve been staring at the crowd for like twenty minutes.”

“My friend,” I managed. “Scream mask, really tall, athletic build.”

She laughs. “Join the club. Half the guys here went as Ghostface. Lazy fuckers.”

I nod and push away from the bar.

That’s when I see him. Lucas.

Tall frame and broad shoulders I recognize. White mask tilted toward me from across the room. He stands motionless while the party churns around him, and even through the anonymity of his costume, I feel his attention like a physical weight.

My pulse quickens, and I tell myself it’s the alcohol.

He doesn’t wave or call out. He simply extends one hand in my direction, palm up, waiting. The gesture is confident and certain, as though he already knows I’ll come to him.

Probably wants to see if the pre-law princess is as frigid as everyone says.

Fine. Let him see. Let him tell everyone afterward. At least I won’t be untouched anymore, won’t be the pathetic virgin Caleb mocks at every opportunity.

I take his hand and his fingers close around mine, warm and firm.

He leads me through the crowd without a word. No “hey” or “you look beautiful” or any of Lucas’s usual sweetness. The silence feels intentional—part of the costume, part of the game.

Must be really getting into character. Ghostface doesn’t exactly do small talk.

We climb the stairs together, and I don’t look back. The hallway is darker up here, quieter, music muffled by distance and closed doors.

He finds an empty room on the third try and pulls me inside.

“Lucas?” I reach for him, but he catches my wrists, backing me against the door. “Oh, we’re really committing to the role, huh?”

He doesn’t answer. His hands find my waist instead, thumbs tracing slow circles against my hip bones, and I decide that silence is answer enough.

I don’t want this to be special. I don’t want tender words or meaningful glances. I just want it done, want to shed this skin that Caleb has convinced me no one could ever want.

Lucas’ hands are rougher than I expected, gripping my waist like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. When he spins me around, pressing my chest against the door, I gasp.

“Fuck, okay, I kinda like aggressive Lucas.”

His response is to drag the zipper of my bodysuit down with deliberate slowness, knuckles grazing each vertebra until I’m shaking.

The fabric pools at my waist, and the cool air makes my nipples tighten into peaks that he immediately cups from behind. Rolling them between his fingers until I’m making embarrassing sounds.

This is happening. This is actually happening.

I’ve done my research. Read every article about first times—the pain, the blood, the awkwardness, the disappointment. I’m prepared for clinical discomfort.

I’m not prepared for this.

God, who knew Lucas had this in him?

What if it was him?

What if he could feel how much I want this?

Caleb’s weight.

Caleb’s hands.

Caleb whispering filthy praises against my ear.

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