“He didn’t make you come again, did he?”

Cleo’s voice rang through the apartment like a morning fire alarm—loud, unapologetic, and entirely too on-point for 8:42 a.m. I sat on the kitchen counter in an oversized shirt, nursing my coffee like it was the only stable relationship I had left.

“I heard your stupid rose the whole night,” she added with a smirk, grabbing the oat milk from the fridge.

My cheeks flamed. “Can you not say that like you’re announcing it to the entire floor?”

“Girl, please.” Cleo flipped her curls over her shoulder and leaned against the fridge in nothing but a sports bra and satin boxers. “You think anyone on this floor isn’t already using a vibrator named after a flower? Or a fruit? Get with the times.”

Cleo Rossi had been my roommate since freshman year, which felt like decades ago even though it was only three. We couldn’t be more opposite.

She was a fire—loud, reckless, stunning. Long, dark curls always piled messily on her head, winged liner so sharp it could stab someone, and a wardrobe consisting mostly of crop tops and dangerous confidence.

She wore pleasure like perfume.

Cleo was also getting regularly railed by Ayden Chase, the six-foot-four basketball captain with thighs like carved oak and the attention span of a golden-retriever. They had a situationship built on post-practice visits and broken condoms.

Meanwhile, I had Ethan. Or… maybe didn’t anymore.

I sighed and stared into my coffee. “We got into a fight last night.”

“Shocking.” Cleo raised a brow. “What about this time? Let me guess. You tried to spice things up and he cockblocked you.”

I looked up slowly.

“Oh my god, did he?” she gasped, eyes sparkling. “What’d you do, ask him to pull your hair? Use his words? God forbid.”

“I asked him to choke me,” I mumbled into my cup.

Cleo dropped her oat milk dramatically. “Yes, bitch! You go, girl!” Then narrowed her eyes. “Wait. Did he at least try?”

“No,” I said, voice small. “He freaked out. Rolled off. Said I’m sick and into a freak shit and needed therapy.”

“Oh, please. Princess Ethan?” Cleo snorted so hard it echoed. “That man probably thinks fingering is second base. What did he say exactly?”

I exhaled through my nose. “He said—and I quote—‘You want to be abused during sex now?’”

Cleo slammed the milk on the counter like it personally offended her. “That’s rich, coming from a man who considers foreplay turning off the lights. His dick’s got the personality of a soggy breadstick.”

Despite myself, I laughed. A little too hard. Then suddenly, I almost cried.

Because even though the sex was garbage, Ethan had been my comfort zone. The one consistent thing in a life full of weight I wasn’t ready to carry.

“I don’t know…” I rubbed my hand over my face. “It wasn’t even about the choking. I just wanted something… more. Not even crazy. Just to feel something.”

“Soph. It’s not you.” Cleo didn’t flinch. “Ethan’s ego is bigger than his dick, and somehow still less useful. You deserve someone who listens. Who makes you feel seen. Not… serviced.”

I choked on a laugh. “You’re the worst.”

“No, babe. I’m honest.” She grinned. “And I’m glad you’re not with that stupid shit anymore. He was the human equivalent of saltless fries.”

The truth clung to my ribs. I’d never dated anyone before Ethan. Never had the time. While other girls went to dances and fumbled through high school romance, I was packing lunches and signing school slips for my sisters.

My dad worked twelve-hour shifts at a steel plant—came home coated in soot and silence. It was always me who filled the gaps.

So when Ethan wanted me, it felt… safe. Predictable. Like a role I could play without breaking character. But now that I’d grown into my own mind—into my own body—I realized safety wasn’t the same as satisfaction.

“Come on,” Cleo said, already dressed up and grabbing her keys. “Class in ten. Let’s go get distracted by literature and academic repression.”

“Our new professor. Apparently he’s, like, hotty hot. But also terrifying. Ayden said he made someone cry in a grad seminar last semester just by correcting their syntax.”

He moved like a serpent. Sharp black button-down that probably cost more than my textbooks, perfectly tailored slacks that screamed ‘I have my shit together in ways you can’t even imagine,’ and eyes so cold they could freeze your GPA mid-semester.

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