And here’s the part I don’t tell my mom: It was good . Not magical. Not the movies. But good in the way that makes you forget why you were scared in the first place. He was careful. Attentive. Kept asking, “You okay?” until I finally laughed and said, “Cole, I’m fine. Just shut up.”

I nodded along. Took notes in my phone. Packed my pepper spray next to my extra-long twin sheets.

So here’s my advice to every incoming freshman girl: Be lucky. Be a little stupid. Make out with the wrong guy in a room with a dirty floor. But when he says “keep it low-key”? Walk away.

He poured me a cup of something that tasted like fruit punch and regret. We stood close—close enough that I could smell his detergent, something clean and expensive. His hand found the small of my back. Mine found his chest.

I turned my head. “Does it matter?”

“Second door on the left,” he said. “But come find me after.”

Let’s get one thing straight: I didn’t believe the hype.