Page 11 of Seeds of Friendship (University of Mountain Springs)

The morning light is a personal attack.

I crack one eye open, immediately regretting every life choice that led to this moment. My mouth tastes like something died in it, possibly my dignity. The room spins gently, which would be concerning if I gave a shit.

There's warmth pressed against my side. Soft, naked warmth.

Oh fuck.

I turn my head slowly, like I'm diffusing a bomb. Dark hair spilled across my pillow. Smooth shoulder peeking out from my sheets. A face that's somehow even prettier in the unforgiving morning light.

Brianna. The girl from my Business class. The one who gave me that look when Troy mentioned we were throwing a party.

How the fuck did this happen?

Fragments from last night float through my brain fog.

The party exploding beyond our wildest expectations.

Every room packed. People spilling onto the lawn.

Someone doing body shots off the kitchen counter while Alfie looked on in horror.

Troy crowd-surfing—actually crowd-surfing—in our living room.

Ethan leading a group rendition of “Mr. Brightside” that probably woke half of Oak Street.

And Brianna, appearing at my elbow sometime after midnight, pressed close in the crowd, whispering something about how she'd been hoping to get me alone.

The rest is... athletic. And enthusiastic.

But now, in the harsh morning light, her arm draped across my chest, her leg tangled with mine, she's doing that thing where she nuzzles closer in her sleep—and all I feel is trapped.

This is why I have rules. No sleepovers. No cuddling. No morning-after breakfast like we're something we're not.

I extract myself carefully, but she stirs anyway, those brown eyes fluttering open with a soft smile that immediately fades when she sees me already half-dressed.

“Morning,” she murmurs, reaching for me.

“Hey, yeah, morning.” I'm hunting for my shirt, not meeting her eyes. “You should probably—the guys will be up soon and—”

Her face hardens. “Right. Of course.” She sits up, sheet clutched to her chest. “God, you're exactly like I thought you’d be.”

“What?”

“Freddie Donovan. Great for a night, useless for anything more.” She's gathering her clothes now, movements sharp. “My friend warned me. She said she knows your type. Said you'd be charming as hell until you got what you wanted.”

“I told you what this was—”

“Yeah, you did. Multiple times. Even during.” She pulls on her dress. “Really sets the mood when a guy reminds you mid-hookup that 'this doesn't mean anything.'”

Did I say that? Fuck, I probably did.

She leaves without another word, and I stand there in my boxers feeling like I didn't really win anything. The party was a success. We're not social pariahs anymore. I hooked up with a hot girl. Everything went according to plan.

So why does my chest feel hollow?

The house looks like a hurricane hit it. Solo cups everywhere. Someone's bra hanging from the Einstein poster. What appears to be an entire pizza stuck to the wall. How does that even happen?

But underneath the destruction, I can smell something amazing. Eggs. Bacon. Coffee.

I follow my nose to the kitchen where Troy, looking disgustingly functional, is manning the stove. And he's not alone.

There's a girl—not Jessica from last night—sitting at our disaster of a kitchen table, wearing one of his engineering shirts, laughing at something he's saying. She's got paint under her fingernails and a genuine smile, nothing like the party girls from last night. Where did he find her?

“Morning, sunshine,” Troy says, noticing me. “This is Sam. She's an art major. We met when she was sketching Einstein through the window at like 3 AM.”

“You were drawing our poster?” I ask.

Sam grins. “It looked so absurd with the bra hanging off it. Like a statement about the intersection of intellectualism and debauchery.”

Troy's looking at her like she hung the moon. “She's staying for breakfast. That cool?”

“Your house, man.”

But watching them—the easy way she steals bites off his plate, how he automatically refills her coffee without being asked, the inside jokes they've somehow already developed—something twists in my gut.

Ethan stumbles in wearing only boxers and one sock. “Food. Please. Dying.”

Troy passes him a sandwich without comment.

“Morning, lovebirds.” Ethan nods to Sam. “Freddie, saw your girl storm out earlier. She looked pissed.”

“Not my girl,” I say automatically.

“Egg sandwich?” Troy asks me without turning around.

“Yes, and I would marry you right now.”

“Get in line. I've had three proposals this morning alone.” He slides a plate across the counter.

“Where the fuck are my pants?” Ethan asks through a mouthful.

“Lawn,” I supply.

“What?”

“You declared pants were a construct of the patriarchy around 2 AM.”

“That... sounds like me.”

“Good night?” Troy waggles his eyebrows at me.

I take a massive bite, moaning at how good it tastes. “Brianna from my Business class was naked in my bed this morning. Then she shouted at me. So... yeah.”

Troy whistles. “The brunette? Nice. She seems cool. Could be something there.”

“There's nothing there,” I say automatically. “There never is. That's the point.”

“Must get lonely. I love being in love,” Ethan offers through his hangover.

“It's not lonely. It's uncomplicated.” I grab the egg sandwich, but it sits heavy in my stomach. “No one expecting shit I can't deliver. No one depending on me for their happiness. No one getting hurt when I inevitably have to choose my family over them.”

Troy and Sam are back in their bubble, him explaining something about structural engineering while she sketches on a napkin.

They're building something already, even if they don't know it yet. A connection.

My phone buzzes.

Text from Brianna: don't text me again

Fair.

She will 100% text me again.

Ethan’s quiet. I clear my throat.

“Anyway, what about you? I saw you with that blonde—Jessica?”

“Turns out she's more interested in our friend Alfie.” He shrugs, but he's smiling. “But her friend Kate and I had a very enlightening conversation. And by conversation, I mean—”

“I get it.”

“Oh! I gotta shoot. Bye, guys. Nice to meet you all.” Sam gives us a small wave, and kisses Troy's cheek before leaving, promising to text him. He watches her go with a dopey expression.

Alfie appears, fully dressed and looking like he didn't stay up until 4 AM like the rest of us. The bastard probably has some rich person hangover cure. Stem cells or virgin blood or something.

“That was...” he starts, then stops, looking around at the destruction. “Actually successful.”

“Successful?” Troy laughs. “Dude, we had over two hundred people here. Someone called us 'the party house.' Multiple girls asked me when the next one is.”

“Miranda Walsh wants to go on a date,” Alfie says, sounding vaguely horrified and pleased at the same time.

“Did you say yes?” Ethan asks.

“God no. But still.”

We sit there, four disasters eating egg sandwiches in our destroyed kitchen, and it hits me—we actually did it.

We're not the rejects anymore.

We're the guys who throw the parties everyone talks about.

“So,” Troy says, that dangerous planning gleam in his eye. “When do we throw the next one?”

“Never,” Alfie says immediately.

“Next weekend,” Ethan counters.

“End of the month,” I compromise. “Give people time to build anticipation.”

But the thought of another party, another night with an empty hookup makes me feel tired. But, what else is college for? Besides, this is what I want, right?

“And...” Troy pulls out his phone, probably already making lists. “We could make it a thing. Like, massive start-of-year party. Every September.”

“That would mean staying in the house next year,” Alfie points out.

We all look at each other. Three weeks ago, we couldn't wait to get away from each other. Now...

“I mean,” Ethan says slowly, “the house is pretty sick.”

“And dealing with housing applications is a pain,” I add.

“The commute to campus is reasonable,” Troy offers.

“Plus, we already know each other's worst habits,” Alfie says. “Better the devil you know.”

“So... we're doing this?” I ask. “Another year?”

“Fuck it!” Ethan grins. “These are my boys. We are the four lover boys! The UMS lads!”

“Never say that again,” Alfie warns, but he's almost smiling.

“One condition,” Troy says. “The Einstein poster stays.”

“Obviously,” we all say in unison.

I look around at these idiots. Troy already planning our next party. Ethan trying to construct some unholy breakfast sandwich. Alfie pretending he's not part of this while actively participating.

Four guys who couldn't handle basic adult tasks, living in a house we got by accident, with a vandalized Einstein poster as our mascot.

“Hey,” I say, and they look up. “We're gonna be legends, aren't we?”

“We already are,” Troy says.

“The Anti-Frat,” Ethan adds reverently.

“The biggest idiots on campus,” Alfie corrects.

But we're all grinning now. Because somewhere between that first awkward day in the housing office and this trashed kitchen, we became something. Not just roommates. Not just friends.

Brothers, maybe. If brothers were this dysfunctional.

“Same time next year?” I ask.

“Same time every year,” Troy confirms.

“Until we graduate,” Ethan adds.

“Or get expelled,” Alfie finishes.

And just like that, our reputation is sealed. The house on Oak Street. The Anti-Frat. Four guys who turned housing rejection into social revolution.

I escape to my room, stepping over party debris. My bed still smells like Brianna's perfume and regret. Through my window, I can see the street—normal people living normal lives, probably with normal relationships where people stay for breakfast and mean it when they say “I'll text you.”

We won. We threw the party of the year. We're not losers anymore.

So why do I feel more alone than ever?

My phone buzzes. Dad calling.