𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐒

stay

The event day finally arrives. 

The sun had set down, leaving the sky dressed in deep velvet black, stars blinking faintly as if shyly peeking through. The wind blew at a steady pace, carrying the crisp scent of the evening, making the trees sway and dance in rhythm. The red-bricked university campus looked alive tonight—alive in a way Tate hadn't seen before. Bonfires burned at scattered corners, throwing sparks into the night, while the air was thick with the aroma of food: waffles drenched in Nutella, fried chicken crackling in oil, hotdogs sizzling, the earthy spices mingling with the buttery sweetness of crepes. Every corner smelled like temptation.

We step in—me, Mia, Ethan, Tarren, and Rowan—and it's like walking into a carnival that grew out of our own college grounds.

I tug my blue knit crochet cardigan tighter around me, its sleeves soft against my arms, and smooth down the white wide-leg pants swaying with each step. Simple—that's what I went for tonight. Just me, my initials necklace glinting under the fairy lights, and pearl earrings that swing lightly every time I turn my head. Next to me, Mia looks like she walked straight out of a fashion reel—black wide-leg pants, a fitted turtleneck hugging her figure, and confidence in the way she struts past the food stalls.

The air is thick with the clash of aromas: sweet pancakes dripping syrup, smoky burgers, hotdogs sizzling, paper trays loaded with fries and cheese, and the sudden tang of pizza crusts being pulled from woodfire ovens. Somewhere behind me someone laughs, holding a Nutella crepe folded in half, while another group runs by with bubble tea cups and milkshakes that look straight out of Shake Shack. There's even a stall handing out Starbucks-style frappes, whipped cream peaks catching the fairy lights. My stomach growls before my brain even catches up.

"God, I can smell three different kinds of food in one breath," Mia groans happily, pressing her scarf against her face like she's overwhelmed.

"You're just smelling fries," Rowan teases, pointing to a loaded nacho tray being carried past.

I turn my head toward the main building, its glass walls glowing with neon light, students' cheers spilling out like waves. "Looks so good," I breathe, but the moment I say it, Tarren steps into my view.

All black. Black jeans, black shirt, and that black leather jacket that fits him like a second skin. He looks like he walked straight out of a cliché—the bad boy every girl warns you about but still can't resist.

"I always look this good," he smirks, laughter in his voice. "You just never saw me."

My jaw drops. Heat rushes up my cheeks and before I can stop myself, I smack his arm. "I wasn't talking about you, idiot. Look at the building, dumb."

Tarren chuckles, but then I notice it—the tiniest shift in his expression, like disappointment just brushed across his face before he blinks it away. By the time he glances at the building, his smirk is back, like nothing ever slipped through.

But I saw it.