Rosi's thumb hovered over the screen, the notification glaring up at her: *"Dare you to step into the river. Right now. No backing out."*

She tightened the zipper of her jacket, teeth catching her lower lip as she eyed the water's edge. The morning air was sharp, damp grass crunching under her sneakers. The dare was stupid--she had lectures in an hour, no spare clothes, and the idea of sitting through class soaked made her stomach twist.

Her breath fogged in front of her as she hesitated, one foot tapping impatiently. The phone buzzed again--*"Chicken?"*--and she groaned, shoving it into her pocket. Fine. Just the toes first. The water lapped at her sneakers, icy seep already curling through the fabric.

A full step in. The denim clung instantly, heavy and cold against her thighs. Rosi hissed, fingers gripping the jacket's hem like a lifeline. This was worse than she'd imagined. Worse, and weirdly thrilling. The dare pulsed in her head, half-regret, half-adrenaline, as the river climbed another inch.

Her jeans darkened, knees now submerged, fabric suctioning tight as the water swallowed her calves. Her sneakers squelched, weighed down, and she shuddered. The sweater sagged against her stomach, already damp where she'd splashed. *Fuck.* Lectures in wet clothes--no way--but she couldn't stop now.

Mid-thigh, she froze. The cold bit deep, nipping through layers to her underwear, her skin prickling. Her breath came fast, shallow. This wasn't just uncomfortable; it was reckless. Teeth gritted, she twisted toward the bank--too late. The current tugged, insistent, and she stumbled, hands flailing.

Water slapped her hips, her jacket floating for a second before surrendering to the soak. Rosi gasped. Every inch of her screamed--wet, exposed, stupid--but beneath it, something hotter flared. The dare was winning. And so was the dark, creeping thrill of what came next.

Her ponytail slapped her cheek as she righted herself, the river now waist-high. The sweater clung like a second skin, the fabric dragging her nipples stiff under its weight. She could feel every seam, every stitch, plastered obscenely against her. Her jeans were worse--heavy, constricting, the denim glued to her thighs. She shifted, and the wet fabric rasped between her legs, deliciously rough.

One more step. The water licked at her ribs, her jacket ballooning with trapped air before collapsing wetly against her chest. Rosi's breath hitched.
Then logic kicked in. Her phone. Her lecture. The squelch of her sneakers as she turned, frantic, toward the bank. Too late--the damage was done. Every movement was a slick, weighted reminder: she'd have to walk home like this, dripping, exposed, with the whole campus watching. The thought sent a jolt straight to her core.

She scrambled onto the grass, water cascading from her clothes in dark rivulets. The morning wind bit instantly, her sweater translucent and clinging. Her ponytail dripped onto her collarbones, the chill making her nipples ache under the sodden fabric. Her jeans felt like wet canvas, stiffening against her thighs with every step. She shuddered--part cold, part something else entirely.

Rosi dug her phone from her pocket, fingers slipping on the wet screen. The message was still there: *"See? You're welcome."* She exhaled sharply, squeezing her thighs together as the soaked denim rubbed. First, she'd have to navigate the walk of shame--every step a delicious torment.

Her sneakers squished as she hurried toward the path, the wet fabric of her underwear bunching uncomfortably.

The lecture hall loomed ahead, its doors like a judgment. Rosi hesitated, glancing down at herself, jeans darkened to near-black with water. A group of students passed, their laughter sharp in the morning air, and she caught the way their eyes flicked to her chest before darting away.

Inside, the air conditioning hit like a slap. Her nipples tightened further under the sweater, the damp fabric chafing with every step. She slid into the nearest empty seat, the wooden surface instantly slick beneath her soaked jeans.

The professor droned on about Kant. Rosi's phone buzzed in her pocket--another message. She didn't need to look to know what it said. The dare had been a trap. And she'd walked right into it, squelching all the way.

Her sweater clung to her ribs, the weight of it dragging, the wet wool itching against her skin. Every shift in her seat made the denim squeak against the plastic chair, a sound too loud in the quiet lecture hall. She crossed her legs, and the seam of her jeans pressed wetly against her crotch, the friction almost unbearable. Almost.

A droplet slid from her ponytail down the back of her neck. She shivered. The lecture was endless.

Her phone buzzed again--persistent. Against her better judgment, Rosi tugged it out. The screen blurred slightly with moisture. The message read: *"Still wet?"*

She typed back, fingers slipping on the screen: *"Fuck you."*

The reply came instantly--*"Prove it."*--and Rosi's thighs clenched, the soaked denim rasping against her skin. Her breath hitched. The lecture wasn't halfway done, but every minute in these clothes was torture.

She bolted during the next lull in the professor's monotony, her sneakers leaving damp prints on the tile. The outside air was worse now--wind slicing through her wet clothes, turning her nipples into sharp points under the wool. She walked fast, arms crossed over her chest, the squelch of her jeans loud in her ears.

Her apartment door clicked shut behind her. Rosi peeled off her jacket first, the weight of it slapping wetly to the floor. The sweater came next, sticking as she yanked it over her head, her hair catching in the sodden fibers. Her jeans were the worst--clinging like a second skin, the zipper cold against her fingertips. She shivered, standing there in dripping underwear, the dare still buzzing in her veins.