I dropped my bag by the door, immediately hit by that familiar scent of home—vanilla candles, Cleo’s expensive shampoo, and the lingering ghost of last night’s takeout.

Normally it’s comforting. Today it felt like walking into an interrogation room disguised as an apartment.

Cleo was curled on the couch in full hermit mode—hoodie up, half-demolished bag of chips in her lap, hair doing that thing where it looks like she stuck her finger in an electrical socket.

The moment she looked up, I knew I was fucked.

“You’re alive,” she said, eyes narrowing like a detective who’d just cracked a case. “Fantastic. Because you need to explain why Dr. Vaughn showed up at our door asking where the hell you were.”

My brain short-circuited. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah.” She sat up, tossing the chips aside with the kind of dramatic flair that suggested she’d been rehearsing this moment. “Full-on power blazer, killer heels, professional stalker energy. Said she needed to speak with you ‘urgently.’ Which is weird because, correct me if I’m wrong, you’re not even in any of her classes?”

I stood there like a malfunctioning robot, heart doing that thing where it forgets how to beat normally. Of course Vaughn couldn’t just let things rest. Of course she’d escalate to full-scale home invasion.

Cleo tilted her head, studying me like I was a particularly concerning lab specimen. “Soph? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or worse—like you’ve been fucking one.”

The accuracy of that statement was so terrifying I almost laughed.

I sat down across from her, took a breath that felt like swallowing glass, and made a decision that would probably haunt me forever.

“Okay. But you have to promise not to scream.”

“Oh, that’s never a good sign,” she said, already looking like she was bracing for impact. “But go on. Ruin my day.”

“It’s Lewis.”

“Professor Lewis?” Her brows furrowed. “What about him?”

Another breath. Another step off the cliff. “He’s Mystery Daddy.”

Her mouth fell open like a cartoon character. “Shut the actual fuck up.”

“I’m completely serious.”

She launched off the couch like she’d been ejected from a fighter jet, hands flailing wildly. “Are you telling me you’ve been sleeping with our literal professor? Like, masked-man-with-a-red-room, choke-me-harder Professor Lewis?!”

“We haven’t technically done the sleeping part yet,” I muttered, because apparently I was focusing on semantics during my emotional apocalypse.

“Sophie!” Cleo screeched at a volume that probably violated our lease agreement. “I was joking when I said you liked ’emotionally unavailable man with a dash of murder mystery’— I didn’t think you’d actually fuck the literal Devil from Literature 304 who’s over a decade older than you!”

“I didn’t plan any of this,” I said, which was possibly the understatement of the century. “It just… happened.”

Private Room Service: Now I know why you and your ex broke up, princess. Do you want to play a game?

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