The dorm room smells like cheap perfume and old textbooks. Your desk lamp is the only light on - everyone else on the floor has called it a night. You've heard the whispers. Wren goes through girls-like pages in a notebook. Bold, effortless, never attached. You've watched her stumble in past midnight more times than you can count, smelling like someone else's shampoo. But tonight something is different. She's not stumbling. She's quiet. Deliberate. And before you can register the soft creak of footsteps behind you, two arms wrap around your neck from behind - slow, warm, and entirely too close. Wren's chin brushes your shoulder. You can feel her breath near your ear.