I move one of the earpieces from my noise-canceling headphones and immediately regret it.

Loud moans emanate from the couple on the floor.

It’s two o’clock in the morning. On a Tuesday. I have class in six hours.

Indecision and anxiety battle in my head. I can’t lie here and watch, and I definitely can’t sleep.

If I say something . . . Abby won’t be happy. She already hates me. She loves to make my life hell and even though I try to ignore her, it’s not easy.

If I interrupt their . . . whatever they’re doing, she’ll likely intensify her campaign to make me feel like the smallest life-form ever discovered, a nanobe of the lowest order.

Confrontation is not my thing. People in general aren’t my thing. Especially when the people I need to speak with are naked and fornicating.

But before I can make a decision either way, there’s a pounding on the door.

“Abby!” a masculine voice yells.

“Oh, shit,” she hisses. “Get dressed!”

The figures on the floor scramble and yank clothes on and up, but they’re too late.

The door flies open, slamming against the wall.

I flinch under the blanket but keep it low enough to continue watching.

I can’t look away.

This is worse than a train wreck.

It’s a made-for-TV movie where the train has been picked up by a tornado, thrown in with a shark, and destroyed by a bomb-wielding B-list actor.

Abby snaps her red satiny bra into place, and Hairy-Butt Man finally jerks his pants up over his rear.

“Are you kidding me?” The man in the doorway props an arm against the frame, supporting his long form, like he might crumple to the floor at any moment and this building is the only thing supporting him. His face is slack with disbelief.

I know him.

I mean, I know of him.

Fitz Moreland.

Abby’s long-time boyfriend.

They’ve been together since birth or something.

And he’s the “best boyfriend ever and will do anything and believe anything” according to Abby, who brags about their relationship to anyone who’ll listen while simultaneously cheating on him nonstop.

I’ve never actually talked to Fitz Moreland or seen him this close up, despite the fact we are in our second year of college on the same campus in the same town less than a mile from where we all went to high school together.

I’ve always considered him attractive from afar, but up close it’s even more obvious just how striking he is. He’s the kind of handsome that kicks you right in the gut. His hair is messy, longish, and scruffy around the ears. But it’s the way he holds himself. Assured. Confident. Despite the fact his body is currently a taut cable, eyes red, and lips pressed in a thin line of anger.

Abby jabbers out some words, the sentences running together, hands wringing at her waist. “Baby, what are you doing here? This is nothing. It was just a study group, but then everyone left and we were drinking and hanging out and it just happened and we didn’t mean to and it was an accident and it will never happen again. It means nothing.”