CHAPTER 3 ~ FINN'S POV

By the time I made it back to campus later that evening, my mother’s voice was still ringing in my ears like tinnitus. “Your type is fictional.” It was unfair, mostly because it was true.

I parked my beat-up sedan in the student lot, grabbed my duffel bag, and trudged toward the dorms. The campus was alive in a way that always made my skin prickle. It was Sunday night, which meant everyone was either frantically finishing assignments or loudly recounting their weekend mistakes. Groups of students clustered on the quad, laughing, smoking, and practically vibrating with social energy.

I kept my head down, pulling the hood of my sweatshirt up. It was a reflex. If I couldn't see them, maybe they wouldn't see me.

"Finn! Hey, Finn!"

I winced. The strategy had failed.

I turned to see Sarah jogging toward me, her curls bouncing with every step. Sarah was one of the few people on this campus I could tolerate for extended periods. She was loud, opinionated, and had absolutely no filter, but she was loyal. David was trailing behind her, looking typically exhausted.

"Hey," I said, shifting my bag on my shoulder. "What’s up?"

"We were just betting on whether you’d actually come back or if your mom finally held you hostage," Sarah said, hooking her arm through mine. "You look traumatized. Did she bring up the wedding?"

"She brought up the wedding," I confirmed grimly. "And she asked if I was on Grindr."

David choked on his coffee. "Your mom said 'Grindr'?"

"She pronounced it 'Grinder,' like a spice mill, but yes. The intent was there."

We reached the entrance to the dorms, and the warm, stale air of the lobby hit us. I scanned the room instinctively. It was a habit I hated—checking corners, watching faces. Over by the vending machines, a group of guys from the soccer team were loud and taking up too much space. A couple was making out aggressively near the elevators.

As we walked past the front desk, I felt it. A gaze. A whisper.

Two girls from my Art History class were sitting on the worn-out leather sofas. As I passed, their conversation dipped into that hushed frequency that screams “we are talking about you.”

I stiffened.

"Did you hear that?" I muttered to Sarah once we were in the elevator.

"Hear what?"

"Them. The whispering."

Sarah sighed, leaning her head back against the metal wall. "Finn, you have got to stop being so paranoid. Not everyone is talking about you."

"They were looking right at me," I insisted. "I heard one of them say 'monk.' I swear to God, Sarah. 'The Monk.' That’s what they call me."

David winced. "Okay, to be fair, Tyler in psych 101 did call you that last week. But he’s an idiot."

"See?" I threw my hands up. "It’s a thing. I have a reputation. And not even a cool reputation like 'mysterious bad boy.' I have the reputation of a asexual hermit crab who hates fun."

"You don't hate fun," Sarah argued. "You just... prefer fun that involves zero risk and heavy blankets."

The elevator dinged at the fourth floor. We stepped out into the hallway, which smelled faintly of burnt popcorn and cheap body spray.

"It’s just frustrating," I admitted, my voice dropping lower as we walked toward my room. "My mom thinks I’m wasting my youth. The campus thinks I’m a weirdo. And the worst part is, I don’t even want to date anyone. I just want people to stop speculating about why I’m not dating anyone."

I unlocked my door and pushed it open. My room was exactly how I left it: tidy, quiet, and safe. My desk was organized, my books were color-coded, and my bed was made. It was a sanctuary, but for the first time in a long time, it felt a little bit like a cell.

Sarah lingered in the doorway while David headed to his own room down the hall.

"Look," she said, her voice softer now. "If it bothers you that much, just put yourself out there. Come to the mixer on Friday. Talk to someone who isn't me or David."

"I can't just 'talk' to people, Sarah. I freeze up. I say stupid things about the weather or medieval architecture."

"You are cute, Finn," she said firmly. "You have that whole 'tragic poetic' vibe going on. Guys like that. You just need to... I don't know. Break the seal. Rip the band-aid."

"I'll think about it," I lied again.

"No, you won't. You're going to put on pajamas and read until 2 AM." She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "Night, Finn."

"Night."

I closed the door and locked it. The silence rushed in, instant and heavy. I dropped my bag on the floor and flopped face-first onto my bed.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I groaned and pulled it out.

Mom: Just sent you a link to a blog about how to flirt. Read it! Love you!

I let the phone drop from my hand onto the mattress. I stared up at the ceiling, tracing the water stain that looked vaguely like a map of Florida.

The pressure was coming from both sides now. My family wanted a show pony for the wedding. The campus wanted a spectacle to dissect. And all I wanted was to be left alone to get my degree in peace.

I rolled over and looked at the pile of romance novels on my nightstand. The cover of the top one featured a brooding billionaire in a suit, looking confident and untouched by the world.

Must be nice, I thought bitterly. To have all the answers. To have the money to make problems disappear.

I didn't have money. I didn't have confidence. But as I lay there, listening to the muffled bass of music thumping from the room next door, I realized I did have one thing: desperation. And desperation, as the books always said, was a dangerous motivator.

I didn't know it yet, but my quiet, invisible life was about to end. And it wasn't going to be because of a blog post about flirting. It was going to be because of a deal with the devil.

Or, at least, the closest thing our campus had to one.