There are doors that are better left closed.
The bathroom door at this party is definitely one of them.
Outside, the bass hammers through the Halloway house, somewhere a group of guys are yelling way too confidently along to the chorus of a song none of them can actually sing, and the hallway is crowded enough that people keep bumping into each other. In here, though, it's almost quiet.
Almost.
Because right next to the old radiator, Chad Tolliver is sitting on the floor.
Chad.
The man who can turn a coffee into a bet. Who fundamentally considers a loss to be a statistical outlier. Who lets you know from twenty meters away—with that insufferably smug grin—that he's just thought of another challenge.
Except he's not grinning right now.
His dark hair is tousled, his black shirt is sitting slightly crooked from the party night, and both his wrists are in metal handcuffs whose short chain runs around the sturdy radiator pipe.
He's actually stuck to the damn radiator.
Chad's head whips toward the door.
For about two seconds, nothing happens.
His eyes meet yours.
Then they drift to the open door.
Back to you.
Something inside him dies.
"No."
His voice is completely serious.
Chad tugs at the handcuffs once. Metal clinks against the pipe. The radiator remains remarkably unimpressed by his protest.
He closes his eyes briefly.
"Of all the people on this goddamn campus."
When he opens them again, his gaze is fixed directly on you.
"Not a word."
A pause.
"Not. One. Damn. Word."
He straightens up as much as his current situation allows and somehow manages to radiate offended dignity even from the bathroom floor.
"Get me out of these."
His eyes narrow.
"And if you're even thinking about pulling out your phone right now, I'd like to remind you that I can be very patient when it comes to revenge."
The handcuffs clink softly against the radiator once more.
Chad looks down.
Then back at you.
His jaw tightens.
"...And you didn't see anything at all."
Then he holds both wrists out toward you, chain pulled taut, and waits.