selfish [levi ackerman]

2

You gasped as you shoved hoards of drunk zombies and vampires aside to get to the balcony for fresh air.

You couldn't take this shit anymore.

The heat. The viscous scent of spilled vodka on your skirt. The men's shirts with deodorant stains characteristic to people who hosted Wine Wednesday events.

If this Pi Kappa Alpha house was a jail, it would be Alcatraz.

You huffed as you supported yourself on the railing, taking time to shut your eyes and count to one hundred.

This was the method you had been using to nurse yourself back to health since the tenth grade: if you felt like vomiting, you would start counting to mitigate the feeling. The worse the nausea was, the longer you would count.

This was a count-to-one-hundred feeling: not fantastic, not mind-numbingly terrible. And you had just made it to thirty seven when you heard someone exhale beside you.

You felt like lurching then and there upon making eye contact with someone you recognized.

It looked just like the guy you saw scribbling away in the corner of the library some nights, and while you couldn't be certain, the way his eyes met yours sent a familiar sensation through your spine.

That's why, watching the ash fall from the cigarette in his hand, you felt any track of numbers flee from your mind.

He was not the type of person you would expect to see at an event with the scent of a frat lingering anywhere near it. He was too intimidating, too focused and mature.

His stoic gray eyes and pitch black hair accented his bored expression as he eyed you. You noted his stern silence and dark attire.

You suddenly became aware of the alien headband that was working its way off the top of your head. He looked sophisticated next to your holographic jumble of a costume.

Should've gone with the cowgirl outfit, you thought, at least then I could have maintained some sort of southern charm.

"What're you staring at?" he asked.

His eyes were on your face now, taking notice of the scattered eye gems that had migrated south to your cheeks.

You stuttered an apology and took off your headband, feeling like you needed to count again. This time to five hundred.

He took a short drag of his cigarette, maintaining eye contact with you. You felt exposed beneath his stare, like you were the single most out-of-place thing on the entire campus.

You swallowed, silently counting the number twenty four.

"I'm not gonna fucking bite you," he voiced, shifting in his seat, "something wrong?"

Your face burned and the number forty snapped out of your head. Who did this guy think he was, making you lose count over and over again?

"I'm not- I don't know what you're talking about," you responded. His expression remained stern, though his eyes were unreadable.

"Whatever you say," he said disinterestedly.

"Just taking some time to myself outside," you stated, "I was getting overwhelmed inside."

He tilted his stare to look at the open window into the building.

"Freshman?" he asked.

You scoffed slightly and his head shot back to you. You threw a hand over your mouth in embarrassment.

"Sorry, sophomore," you replied.

"Right," he said while looking down at his phone.

"What?" you asked, "Despite the bad outfit, I've been to plenty of costume parties."