The high-pitched squeak cuts through the quiet, sharp and sudden, bouncing off the cinderblock walls. All three of them freeze.
Chloe's head lifts from where it was nestled against Zoe's shoulder, her eyes tracking the sound to its source—the red latex sphere bobbing gently against the lampshade, its ribbon trailing across the desk like a question mark. The balloon shifts in a current none of them can feel, rotating lazily, its surface catching the lamplight in a dull sheen.
Liam's ears go pink first. Then the flush spreads down his neck, disappearing into the collar of his t-shirt. The sound was unmistakable—a squeak, yes, but the kind of squeak. A finger dragged across tight latex. An intimate friction, the kind that happens in the dark, when no one is supposed to be listening.
Zoe lets out a short laugh, breaking the tension like a needle through stretched rubber. "Guess we're not the only ones who want attention tonight."
The words hang in the air, warm and teasing, and Chloe feels the corner of her mouth twitch. She shifts, the mattress creaking beneath her, and the balloon's ribbon catches her eye again—a thin white line curling across the desk, ending in a loop that lies loose and waiting.
None of them have said it. Not aloud. Not yet.
The silence stretches, fills with something that isn't quite comfortable, isn't quite awkward—a third thing, nameless and warm. Chloe watches the balloon drift, watches its shadow shift across the wall, and feels the weight of two bodies beside her, pressed close in the narrow bed.
Then the knock.
Sharp. Insistent. Three quick raps on the door, and a muffled voice follows: "Room check in ten."
The spell shatters.
Zoe's hand slips from Chloe's—her fingers sliding away, leaving a trail of warmth that disappears too fast. Liam nearly rolls off the narrow mattress, catching himself on the edge with a grunt, and cold air rushes into the space where their bodies were pressed together, three different kinds of heat dissipating into the stale dorm air.
Chloe sits up, her hair wild and tangled, the honey-blonde strands catching the light. She meets Liam's wide-eyed panic in the mirror across the room—his gray-blue eyes blown wide, his chest heaving, a blush still crawling up his neck. Behind her, Zoe is already moving, pulling on jeans from last night with practiced efficiency.
"Shit," Zoe mutters, hopping on one foot, yanking the denim over her hips. "Shit, shit, shit."
Liam scrambles, his long limbs suddenly everywhere, bumping into the desk, the chair, the edge of the bed. The red balloon wobbles on its tether, swinging in the disturbance. He freezes, staring at it for a half-second too long.
Chloe sees it. Sees his hand hovering, sees the way his throat works.
Then he's moving again, following Zoe's lead, dropping to his knees and sliding under the bed in a tangle of limbs and muffled curses. Zoe follows a heartbeat later, her dark hair with its purple streaks disappearing into the shadow beneath the frame.
Chloe is alone.
She takes a breath. Runs her fingers through her hair, trying to flatten the chaos. Her heart is hammering—not from fear, exactly, but from the suddenness of it all, the shift from warmth to scramble, from intimacy to cover-up.
The knock comes again. Less patient this time. "Chloe? You in there?"
"Yeah, one sec!" Her voice comes out steady, practiced. She pulls on the first shirt she finds—Liam's, she realizes, oversized and smelling like him, clean soap and something warmer underneath. She tucks it into her jeans, buttons, moves toward the door.
Behind her, under the bed, she hears a muffled sound. A breath held, released. The faint rustle of two bodies pressed together in the dark.
She opens the door.
The RA stands in the hallway—a senior with a clipboard and tired eyes, her blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. She glances past Chloe into the room, her gaze skimming over the familiar chaos: the unmade bed, the pile of clothes, the scattered notebooks.
And the balloon.
It bobs gently, catching the hallway light, its red surface gleaming like a warning.
"Just a quick check," the RA says, her voice flat. "Making sure everyone's good. No fire hazards, no candles, no—" She pauses, her eyes lingering on the balloon. "—pets."
Chloe laughs, bright and easy. "No pets. Just me."
She steps to the side, letting the RA take in the full room. The bed, still warm. The desk, cluttered. The balloon, swaying.
The RA nods, checks something off on her clipboard. "You have a roommate?"
"Visiting family for the weekend." Chloe's voice is smooth, practiced. She's done this before, lied through her teeth with a smile. "Just me and my study materials."
The RA snorts, a small sound that might be amusement. "Right. Well, keep it down—some of us are trying to sleep." She turns, already walking toward the next door. "And maybe pop that balloon before it pops on its own. Latex gets brittle when it's been sitting."
Chloe's smile holds. "Will do. Thanks."
She closes the door. Leans against it. Lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding.
Under the bed, a muffled whisper: "Is she gone?"
"Yes." Chloe's voice cracks, just a little. "Get out from under there. I think I have latex dust in my hair."
Zoe emerges first, rolling out from under the bed with a groan, her purple-streaked hair full of dust bunnies and what might be an old granola bar wrapper. She picks a piece of foil off her shoulder, holding it up like evidence of a crime. "Your cleaning habits are an offense to God."
"My cleaning habits are an offense to everyone who has to share air with me," Chloe says, brushing at her own hair. "Liam? You alive?"
A pause. Then Liam's voice, muffled: "I'm stuck."
"You're what?"
"I'm stuck." A rustle, a thump. "My shirt caught on something."
Zoe collapses onto the bed, laughing—a real laugh, bright and unguarded. Chloe feels her own mouth twitch, the tension bleeding out of her shoulders.
She kneels, peering under the bed. In the dim light, she can make out Liam's shape, twisted awkwardly, his shirt hooked on a loose spring in the box spring frame. His face is flushed, his eyes wide, and for a moment, he looks less like a shy boy caught hiding and more like a kitten tangled in a curtain.
"Don't laugh," he says, his voice strained.
"I'm not laughing." She's not. She's biting the inside of her cheek so hard she tastes copper.
"You're lying."
"Professionally."
She reaches under, her fingers finding the caught fabric, working it free from the spring. Her hand brushes his side—warm, bare skin where his shirt has ridden up—and she feels him tense, feels the sharp intake of breath that follows.
She doesn't pull away.
She works the fabric loose, her fingers moving slowly, deliberately. The spring gives, and his shirt comes free with a soft rip.
"There," she says, her voice lower than she intended. "Fixed."
Liam slides out from under the bed, his hair a mess, his shirt now sporting a small tear at the hem. He doesn't seem to notice. His eyes are on her, wide and dark in the low light.
Zoe watches from the bed, her cat-like grin spreading slow and knowing. "Well. That was fun."
Chloe stands, brushes off her knees. "Room checks are always more exciting when you have something to hide."
"I don't think we were hiding anything," Zoe says, stretching out on the mattress, her arms above her head. "I think we were just... not done yet."
The words hang in the air, heavy and warm.
Chloe's eyes drift to the balloon again. It's still there, bobbing against the lampshade, its surface tight and gleaming. She reaches out, her fingers finding the ribbon, and pulls it gently. The balloon comes to her, trailing its string like a confession.
She looks at it. At its redness, its roundness, its perfect tension.
Then she looks at Liam, still standing there, his shirt torn, his face flushed. At Zoe, sprawled on the bed, watching her with those honeydew eyes.
The balloon squeaks as she squeezes it, a soft, high-pitched sound that fills the silence.
"Ten minutes," she says. "They said ten minutes until the next check. But they usually take fifteen."
Zoe's grin widens. "That's an awfully specific observation."
"I notice things." Chloe steps closer to the bed, the balloon held loosely in one hand. "Like how Liam's been staring at this balloon since we sat up."
Liam's ears go scarlet. "I haven't—"
"You have." She turns to face him fully, the balloon between them. "You want to touch it?"
The question is not just about the balloon. It never is, with her.
Liam's throat works. His eyes dart between the balloon and her face, between the red latex and the hazel eyes that see too much.
"Can I?" he asks, his voice soft.
Chloe holds out the balloon.
And he takes it. His fingers wrap around the neck, just below her own, and for a moment, they're both holding it, connected by the thin barrier of stretched latex.
Under the red surface, his hand shakes. Just slightly.
Chloe feels it through the balloon. Feels it in the way the latex quivers, the way the pressure shifts.
Zoe sits up, her eyes on them, her grin softening into something more genuine. She says nothing.
The balloon squeaks again as Liam's fingers tighten, searching for the right grip, the right pressure. His blush spreads down his chest, disappearing under the collar of his shirt.
"I like making things," he says, so quietly Chloe almost misses it. "Blowing them up. Holding them." He pauses, swallowing. "Hearing them."
Chloe nods slowly. "I know."
The silence that follows isn't empty. It's full of everything they haven't said, haven't confessed, haven't admitted out loud. The balloon hangs between them, a witness, a confession, a question.
Zoe breaks the silence, her voice light but her eyes serious. "Guess we're all in this together, huh?"
Chloe's eyes meet hers. Then Liam's.
"Yeah," she says. "Guess we are."
The balloon shifts, catching the light, and for a moment, no one moves. Then Liam's fingers relax, and the balloon settles into his grip, and something in the room changes.
A door closes somewhere down the hall. Footsteps pass.
The three of them sit in the quiet, the red balloon held between them, the night stretching long ahead.