Bodie was easy to spot, since he was a head taller than almost everyone else at the party, save for a trio of basketball players who were off to the side passing a joint between themselves.

It helped, of course, that Bodie had blacklight paint dripping off his chin. He was a beacon of green above the crowd.

He stopped in front of us.

"What happened?" Hanna shouted over the music.

"Andre got paint in my eye," he said, trying and failing to open it through the thick coating of neon green paint that clung to his lashes.

Hanna barked out a laugh.

"Fuckin' Andre."

"Does it sting?" I asked, a bit more sympathetic than my roommate.

"Like a bitch, actually."

Andre popped out of the crowd, his face twisted with guilt.

"You sure you don't wanna use my shirt?" he offered, despite the fact that his shirt was also soaked in paint.

"I'm okay," Bodie told him, despite the fact that he was obviously not.

"Hey," I said, tapping his elbow. "Do you wanna try to go clean up?"

"That'd be great," he said.

I turned to Hanna and said, "I'm gonna help Bodie find some water, or a towel, or something, and don't you dare smile at me like that."

She ignored the warning and leaned past me to clap Bodie on the shoulder.

"You're in good hands," she told him with a suggestive wink I was absolutely going to kick her ass for later.

Bodie turned to me and said, "Lead the way."

I grabbed his hand, weaving our fingers so we wouldn't lose each other in the crowd, and tried not to think too hard about how large and warm his hand was. Together, we dove into the hot crush of bodies and headed back out through the tunnel.

The front door of the Art House was blocked off by a few guys who were in charge of redirecting the constant stream of drunks looking for a place to pee.

"Porta Potties to your left, ladies," one of them called to a trio of girls who had their arms linked for structural stability.

I led Bodie around to the far side of the house, instead. The back door was locked, which meant nothing to me, because Mehri Rajavi had told me she and her roommate kept an emergency key (and, apparently, an emergency bong) behind one of the potted plants on the screened-in porch.

One twist in the lock, and we were in.

Bodie and I slipped into the Art House unseen.

The harsh white glare of the lighting inside was far less flattering than the gentle blue glow of the blacklight. We looked a mess, our hair ruffled and clothes covered in smudged paint.

Under any other circumstance, I might've taken a moment to be horrified by how I probably looked.

But Bodie was half-blind at the moment.

"C'mon," I said, taking his hand again despite the fact that there was no longer a crowd to separate us.

The first floor of the house was empty, save for a few people in pristine white clothes who seemed to be having trouble deciding when to end their pregame. They were gathered on the stairs, yelling up and down at each other as they debated the pros and cons of joining the festivities outside or downing a few more shots, and didn't even blink when I trod past, leaving wet footsteps on the warped wood floor and tugging a half-blind, six-foot-five quarterback behind me.

We made our way through the kitchen, where the peeling paisley wallpaper gave way to tiled backsplash and banged-up cabinets, and down a small set of stairs to the basement (which had been converted to a bright and cozy theater room, thanks to a stolen projector from some poorly-guarded lecture hall on campus).

"I think this is it," I murmured before I pushed open the first door along the wall.

Laundry room.

Bingo.

It was a small, dim room with two washers and two dryers. Music carried in through the open window over the washing machines, which were top-loading and thus sat side-by-side.

There was a sink in the corner with an enormous basin and a bucket of miscellaneous cleaning supplies jammed under the U-bend pipe. Someone had left a laundry basket of folded clothes on the folding table against the far wall.

A salmon-colored towel sat on top of the pile.

I snatched it up and turned to face Bodie.

"Where do you want me?" he asked.

I snorted before I could stop myself.

"Literally any other time, Laurel, I would be all over you, but I'm actually starting to worry I might lose vision."

"Okay, okay, alright."

I ran the corner of the towel under the faucet, wrung it out, and then hopped up on the washing machine next to the sink and beckoned Bodie forward. He stood between my knees patiently as I mopped up the green blacklight paint.

Bodie was stone still until I rubbed the towel over his eye. He winced. His hand shot out, searching for something to brace himself against, and landed on my hip.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," I said.

"S'okay," he grunted. "Just my nose. It's still a little sore."

I kept forgetting he'd broken it, now that it wasn't bruised and swollen. When I brought the towel to his face again to get the last clumps of green out of his thick eyelashes, I was gentler.

I leaned back and gave him a final once-over.

"Ta-dah!" I said proudly.

His eyes fluttered open. Bodie and I stared at each other.

He started to lean forward.

And then his hand slid right off my paint-soaked hip and slammed down on the top of the washing machine with a loud, echoey thunk.

I burst out laughing. He groaned.

"So smooth," I said.

"Not my fault you're—"

"Wet?" I finished.

I had to slap a hand over my mouth to keep from snorting at my own joke. And I'd just wanted to make Bodie laugh, but it wasn't humor that burned in his eyes when he drew back to look at me.

He caught my wrist, tugged it to the side, and covered my mouth with his.

And I couldn't believe I'd been nervous.

Our first kiss had been all adrenaline, but this felt more frantic. Like it was all either of us had been thinking about—in class, in bed at night, in cars or team buses—since that night at La Ventana, and that we half expected Ryan Lansangan to pop out from inside the front-loading dryer next to us and shout, "Yo!"

Bodie's hands were in my hair.

Lips pressing, noses bumping cheeks, tongues touching.

I didn't want to come up for air.

But eventually, it was either pull away or pass out.

I was embarrassingly winded. Bodie had the whole Division I athlete thing going for him, so he wasn't panting nearly as hard as I was, but I took some comfort in the splotchy blush on his cheeks and the thundering beat of his heart where my hand was braced against the side of his ribcage.

I noticed, for the first time, that I liked the Post Malone song playing out in the tent.

I tugged on Bodie's shirt.

He ducked his head again, but didn't go for my mouth. Instead, his lips landed on my collarbone, trailing a slow path up the column of my throat. I tipped my chin up and sighed as he kissed my pulse point.

"I have a request," I croaked.

"Say the word," he murmured against my skin. "I'll do whatever you want."

Heat flooded my face. I laughed breathlessly.

"You don't even know what my request is," I pointed out.

"Doesn't matter."

"I want to dance."

Bodie laughed, low and rough.

"We can dance," he said, his fingers pressing hard into my hip.

Behind him, the laundry room door flew open.

"Oh shit! Sorry," someone cried. They were gone before I could catch anything other than the delighted laughter of friends who were several drinks in and found everything adventurous.

Bodie and I looked at each other.

His cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright. I'd made a mess of his hair. It stood on end, paint clinging to chunks in a way that vaguely resembled frosted tips.

"Seriously, can we go dance again?" I asked.

"Are you sure you want to subject other people to that?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm a great dancer."

Bodie guffawed.

I opened my mouth in mock offense.

"Yeah," he said. "Let's go."

He took my hand and helped me slide down off the washing machine, on which I'd left streaks of pink and orange and green paint that Bodie hastily mopped away with the towel I'd used on his face.

We made our way back into the tent.

It wasn't hard to find friends in the crowd, since Hanna had climbed up onto Andre's shoulders. When she spotted us, she clambered down off of him to throw her arms around my neck and rock from side to side.

"You're back!" she cried, delighted, and then frowned. "Why are you back?"

"Did you find Mehri?" I asked, figuring we should try to say hi.

"Oh, hell yeah, I did," Hanna screamed, and pointed through the crowd.

Mehri Rajavi was on the risers across the tent, her arms wrapped around a girl as they made out like lovers in some kind of artsy zombie apocalypse movie. A pair of pale hands were buried deep in the mass of tight black coils on Mehri's head. Hands that belonged to Olivia Novak.

My group member, Olivia.

It was such a clashing of worlds that for a moment I just stared, open-mouthed, in delighted shock.

"So I take it you and St. James had a good time," Hanna bellowed into my ear.

"What?" I cried, spinning on her. "We didn't—I just helped him clean up."

Hanna's smirk was far too pleased.

"You have a green handprint on your ass, Cates."

I tried to laugh it off and dance. I tried to be cool, and not let my friends know how badly I did not want to be in the middle of a crowd right now.

But after only three songs, I shot Hanna an apologetic look that made her grin. I grabbed Bodie's hand. He ducked so he could hear me.

"Do you wanna go somewhere?" I asked over the music.

Bodie nodded. "I'll follow you anywhere."

I knew he meant it.

And I felt brave.

So I smiled and said, "My apartment?"

_________________

Author's Note: If I weren't having such a shitty week there'd be a lot more capslock in this author's note because they kissed again bless up. But I actually feel like death and I should be getting ready for work right now. So I'll see you same time tomorrow with Chapter 45 (cannot believe this book will be complete by the end of next week).

Your friendly author,

Kate