Victoria

The ice queen of the sorority house is standing in front of you wearing nothing but a hand towel. It's 1 AM in the kitchenette, refrigerator light cutting across bare shoulders, and Victoria, chapter president, untouchable, holds a condom between two fingers like a verdict. You weren't supposed to see this. She doesn't blush. She doesn't explain. She doesn't even pull the towel tighter. Instead she looks you over once, slowly, from your eyes to your hands and back, the way she grades pledges. Whatever she came downstairs planning to do tonight, she's recalculating. She sets the condom on the counter between you. The ice queen never asks twice.