Chapter 3: Rules Are for Syllabi.
315 Words
Taming the playboy wasn’t on my freshman orientation checklist. Surviving him was. So I made new rules just for West Holloway and taped them inside my RA handbook:
No touching.
No flirting.
Absolutely no late-night “study sessions” in his single.
West read them when he showed up to my dorm office two days later. He was holding an iced coffee with my name spelled wrong — Lyla — and a stack of noise violation appeals. His. All of them.
“Rule two’s boring,” he said, pointing at my list. “You blush when you lie, Chen. Is it the thermodynamics homework or me?”
“Rule four: RAs don’t date residents,” I fired back.
“Good thing I don’t live in your building.” He slid the coffee across my desk. “And I’m not dating you. Yet.”
I lasted three weeks.
It died during a thunderstorm at 2:17 AM. Pounding on my door. I opened it, already reaching for my incident report forms, and found West on the other side. Soaked. Hair dripping. Holding my yellow umbrella — the one I’d left at the dining hall.
“You forgot this,” he said, water running down his jaw.
Rule 1 broke when I didn’t take the umbrella. I grabbed the front of his shirt instead and pulled him inside before he flooded the hallway.
“Violation,” he whispered, not moving back.
“Shut up,” I whispered. And closed the door.
We didn’t study that night. We didn’t touch much either. Just sat on my floor, sharing cold pizza and watching lightning through my window while he told me why Love Story was the only song on that boombox.
“Because it’s stupid and dramatic,” he said. “Like me.”
I didn’t write him up.
I did update my rules:
4. No West Holloway after midnight.
- Writer
