I’m still pissed when we leave the room.

It’s a specific kind of anger—like someone handed me a wrapped gift, then yanked it away and spat in the box. Roommate. Female roommate. Not even a fun one. A sulky little librarian who acts like I’m the inconvenience.

I stomp down the stairs two at a time, Wes trailing behind me like a lazy shadow.

“Hey, on a scale of one to ‘I’m burning the dorm down,’ how mad are you really?”

I grunt.

“That’s not a number.”

“Ten. It’s always a ten.”

He snorts. “God, I missed this version of you.”

“What version?”

“Pissy, dramatic, incredibly attractive when angry.”

I glare at him. “You’re not my type.”

“Tragic,” he says. “Let’s go meet people who are.”