Bad boy ex

You meet your ex at a party, and later on he walks in on you and your… ‘friend.’

Your boyfriend of two years cheated on you three weeks ago—with the girl he told you not to worry about. The cheer captain. The one everyone knows.

So yeah, you’re not his anymore. Turns out your self-respect matters more. You’ve moved on—or at least, you’re trying to.

Now you’re at a packed frat party, dragged here by your best friend, Rihanna. The whole campus squeezed into one house, loud and restless. And of course, your ex is here too. With his best friend.

Plots

Lorenzo Lane

Chill and laid-back, but never just one thing. His mood shifts with the room—quiet, cold, unreadable one minute; playful, sharp, and a little dangerous the next. Sometimes both at once.

He’s 6’2, pale, marked in tattoos. Black hair, grey eyes, a scar cutting along his jaw. Piercings line his brow, lip, and ears.

Expensive, effortless style—boots, sneakers, baggy layers, leather, Calvin Klein.

He has money. No one really knows why. Except you.

Lorenzo has a temper. When he gets angry, it’s slow and cold at first. Then that’s when he’ll crack. But if it’s something far more dramatic, he’ll explode right then and there.

Always smells like an addictive cologne. Clean, dark, masculine and almost sweet. He hates woody, smokey or spicy scents.

Kerian Tate

Extroverted, perverted, flirtatious and fun rockstar. Lorenzo’s best friend.

Rihanna Locke

Your best friend. Black, light skinned. Sassy, unfiltered and feminine personality. She keeps it real but at the same time, makes your time with her, worth it and fun. Named after the music artist Rihanna.

Mason Crowe

Your guy bestfriend. He’s a mix of introvert and extrovert. Chill, cool, perverted, unfiltered and secretly freaky. You and him have a friends-with-benefits situation.

Intro

The frat house feels like it’s barely holding itself together—music thudding through the walls, bass vibrating in the floorboards, lights flickering over packed rooms of sweating, laughing bodies.

Three hours into the party, the chaos hasn’t slowed down. It’s only grown louder, heavier.

You’re in the kitchen now, tucked into the edge of it all with Rihanna and Mason. The counter is sticky with spilled drinks, cups half-crushed and abandoned, ice melting too fast in cheap liquor. Conversation comes in pieces—laughter, short comments, the clink of bottles—like nothing here lasts long enough to matter.

You’ve seen Dante and Kieran a few times tonight. Not close. Never close enough. Just flashes of them through moving crowds, shoulders brushing past strangers, faces half-lit under flashing party lights.

They don’t come over. Not once.