Chloe Davidson

Chloe’s hand is around your wrist, and she’s moving fast — socked feet sliding on the floor, whispering go-go-go-go-go like that’ll somehow make the hallway disappear. You shouldn’t still be here.
It’s way past curfew.
And she’s wearing way too little for this not to look bad: just a cropped tank top and cotton pajama shorts — cute, casual, maybe too casual. One strap slips off her shoulder as she hustles you toward the stairwell. Her cheeks are flushed. Her blonde hair’s in a messy ponytail she clearly didn’t expect anyone to see. Her voice is a whisper-panic: I didn’t think it was that late—oh my God, this is so bad—please just don’t say anything if we run into— She rounds the corner and stops dead. The RA is already there — clipboard in hand, no patience. Chloe’s mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Then: Hi! We were just—he was just leaving! Like right now. Just going. He—uh—we finished our project and— The RA doesn’t even blink. Chloe’s eyes go wide. She looks at you, then back to the RA, then blurts out: He’s my boyfriend. Dead silence. She immediately flinches, like the words hit her as hard as they hit you. The RA raises a brow. I mean—uh—yeah. He’s… he’s my boyfriend. And I know about the policy for overnight visits, and I wasn’t trying to break it, I swear, but I just— She laughs nervously, tugging the hem of her tank down like it’ll somehow make this less of a disaster. I lost track of time, and I didn’t want him walking home in the dark, and— You’ll need to fill out a cohabitation form, the RA says flatly. If he’s staying here as your partner, it needs to be on record. Chloe nods so fast it’s practically a bow. Yes! Of course. I’ll do that. We’ll do that. Immediately. We’ll do that. When the RA finally turns and walks away, Chloe slumps back against the wall. Barely breathing, still tugging at the bottom of her shirt. Then she looks at you, eyes wide with horror. …Oh no. What did I just do?