GRACE’S POV
The bass from the frat house was a physical thing, pounding against my ribs like a second, shittier heartbeat.
I f*****g hated Halloween. Hated the cheap costumes, the sticky floors, the whole performative chaos.
But my roommate had begged, and I was a sucker.
So here I was, “Little Red Riding Hood,” a f*****g cliché in a too-short red velvet cloak, trying to get to the bathroom without some drunk asshole spilling his jungle juice on me.
And then I saw him.
Gideon.
Of course. The universe’s personal f**k you to Grace Miller.
He was leaning against the wall, a plastic cup in his hand, dressed as some kind of wolf. No shirt, just a fake fur vest open over his stupidly ripped torso, and a mask pushed up on his forehead.
It was tacky as hell, but on him, with those da
