The music thumps through the walls of the party like a pulse, steady and unrelenting. I weave my way through the crowd, dodging half-drunk students with drinks sloshing in their hands. Grace and Henry are somewhere in the chaos, completely absorbed in their own wild version of the night. Henry’s probably doing shots with a group of legacies, and Grace… well, she’s likely leading a dance-off somewhere in the middle of the living room. I, on the other hand, have been nursing my drink for a while. I’m not exactly drunk, but there’s a light buzz in my head, making everything feel a little warmer, a little more pleasant. I smile as I catch sight of Grace on top of a coffee table, her bright red hair whipping around as she shouts the lyrics to whatever song is blasting from the speakers. Henry’s beside her, laughing so hard he’s doubled over, clutching his stomach. It’s a wild scene. One of those nights that everyone will talk about for weeks. But as much as I’m enjoying myself, I feel a pull to step away from the noise, to take a moment of quiet. I make my way down the hallway, dodging students and couples pressed up against the walls. The music fades slightly as I push open a door that I hope leads to the bathroom. Instead, I find myself in a dimly lit room with old-fashioned wallpaper and heavy wooden furniture. And there, standing by the open window, is a guy smoking something that smells distinctly like weed. He looks up when he hears the door creak open, and I freeze, unsure if I should back out or just go with it. “Looking for something?” he asks, exhaling a plume of smoke. His voice is calm, unbothered, like he’s completely at peace in this quiet little corner of the party. “Bathroom,” I say, but I don’t move. There’s something oddly inviting about the room, about him. He smiles, a slow, lazy grin that makes him look like he’s from another time, like he’s stepped out of some old aristocratic photograph. His hair is neatly combed back, but his clothes—while expensive—are disheveled in a way that says he doesn’t care what people think. “Name’s _Thaddeus_,” he says, offering me the joint. “Want some?” I hesitate for a moment. Weed isn’t something I usually indulge in, but there’s something about the way he’s so relaxed, so completely in his own world, that makes me feel like maybe tonight, it’s okay to break the rules a little. I step forward, taking the joint from him and bringing it to my lips. The first inhale is harsh, making me cough, but I manage to play it off, passing it back to him with a grin. “Lillian,” I say, leaning against the windowsill beside him. “Lillian Prescott?” Thaddeus says, raising an eyebrow as if the name rings a bell. “You’ve got a reputation.” “Do I?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Oh, yeah,” he says, taking another drag and blowing the smoke out into the night. “Everyone here knows the ==Prescotts==. Old money, practically royalty.” I roll my eyes, feeling that familiar annoyance bubble up. “Great. That’s exactly what I want to be known for.” Thaddeus laughs, and it’s a deep, rich sound that fills the room. “Don’t worry. You seem different. A little less… polished than the rest of them.” “Thanks, I guess?” We sit there for what feels like hours, passing the joint back and forth, talking about everything and nothing. Thaddeus is surprisingly insightful, with a dry sense of humor that catches me off guard more than once. He talks about growing up in old-money circles, the weight of expectations, and how he’s found ways to rebel in small, quiet ways—like smoking weed at high-society parties while everyone else is too busy pretending to be perfect. I find myself opening up to him, more than I expected. I tell him about switching my major, about my father’s expectations, and how suffocating it all feels. Thaddeus listens, nodding every now and then, as if he understands exactly what I’m going through. After a while, the joint is gone, and the room feels comfortably hazy. Thaddeus stands, stretching lazily. “I should probably head back before they send out a search party,” he says, smirking. “Yeah, I should too,” I agree, though I don’t move just yet. He gives me a slow, thoughtful smile. “It was nice meeting you, Lillian Prescott. Maybe I’ll see you around.” With that, he disappears into the hallway, leaving me alone in the quiet room. I sit there for a few more minutes, letting the stillness wash over me. There’s something freeing about being away from the party, from the noise and the expectations, even if just for a little while. Eventually, I decide it’s time to go. I stand, smoothing down my dress and making my way out of the room. As I walk down the hall and toward the front door, the sound of the party grows louder again, like a wave crashing back over me. Just as I step outside, I spot a figure walking away from the dorm buildings, heading in my direction. It takes me a moment to recognize him, but the moment I do, my stomach drops. _Alexander Hawthorne._ He’s walking with that same easy confidence, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his coat, his dark hair falling into his eyes in a way that makes him look like he just stepped out of a magazine spread. When he sees me, a slow smile spreads across his face. “Well, well, if it isn’t Lillian Prescott,” he says, his voice smooth and dripping with amusement. “Didn’t expect to see you out here so late.” I cross my arms, raising an eyebrow. “I could say the same about you.” He stops in front of me, his smile widening. “I was just heading back from another party. You know how it is.” “Of course. Always a party somewhere.” He chuckles, and there’s something about the way he looks at me that makes my skin prickle. “You look like you’ve had an interesting night.” I shrug, trying to play it cool. “Just the usual ==Riverton== crowd. You?” “Oh, the same,” he says, stepping a little closer. “Though I have to admit, this night just got a lot more interesting.” There’s a flicker of something playful in his eyes, and I can feel the slight flirtation in his tone. I refuse to let him see that he’s getting to me, so I meet his gaze evenly. “Is that your best line, Hawthorne?” He laughs, a low, genuine sound that makes me hate how effortlessly charming he is. “I don’t need lines, Prescott.” I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corner of my lips. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Alexander leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a softer, almost teasing tone. “You’re more fun than I thought.” Before I can respond, he winks and, to my utter shock, blows me a kiss. I blink, completely caught off guard, as he turns and walks away, heading toward a small group of people gathered by the dorm buildings. I stand there for a moment, trying to process what just happened. Rolling my eyes, I shake my head and return to my dorm. Alexander Hawthorne is as insufferable as ever, but there’s something about him that I can’t quite shake. It’s irritating—and intriguing. I finally reach my room, closing the door behind me and collapsing onto my bed. The night has been wild, and the buzz of the party, the smoke, and the conversation with Thaddeus still lingers in the back of my mind. As I drift off to sleep, I can’t help but wonder what’s coming next.