The music was too loud, the floor sticky, and the air thick with cheap perfume and beer — a typical Friday night at Delta Sig. She hadn’t wanted to come, but her roommate begged, promising it’d be fun, that maybe she’d even “meet someone cute.”
She didn’t expect that someone to be Walker Scobell.
He wasn’t supposed to be there — at least not the way frat parties usually went. He didn’t have a drink in his hand, didn’t shove through the crowd yelling over the bass. He was just… there. On the couch, hoodie half-zipped over a worn gray T-shirt, talking to a few people from their film studies class.
She recognized him instantly — same messy blond hair, same laugh that somehow managed to sound both awkward and confident. He looked up just as she glanced his way, and it was one of those movie moments that made time slow for no good reason.
His friend elbowed him. “Yo, isn’t that the girl from your Lit elective?”
Walker tried to play it cool. “Uh—yeah. I think so.” He knew so. He’d noticed her weeks ago — sitting two rows ahead, tapping her pen against her notebook when she was thinking, eyes focused, always answering questions with that half-smile that made him forget what day it was.
But now, she was walking toward the kitchen, brushing past people who didn’t move fast enough, and his brain short-circuited.
“Go talk to her, man.”
Walker rolled his eyes, muttered something about needing water, and totally didn’t follow her. Except he did.
The kitchen was quieter, lit by the soft hum of the fridge light. She was reaching for a red cup, trying to figure out if the punch was safe, when a voice behind her said, “I’d avoid that if I were you.”
She turned. “And why’s that?”
He grinned. “Last time someone drank that, they ended up thinking a traffic cone was their soulmate.”
She snorted. “Good to know. You’re in my Lit class, right? Walker?”
He nodded, leaning against the counter. “Yeah, and you’re the one who actually does the reading.”
She laughed, pouring water instead. “Someone’s gotta carry the team.”
They talked for a while — about classes, music, how weird campus could feel at night. He wasn’t what she expected: quieter, thoughtful, a little self-deprecating but in a charming way. Every time she smiled, he looked like he forgot how to breathe for a second.
Then the lights flickered. Someone yelled, “karaoke time!” and chaos returned.
Walker tilted his head toward the back porch. “You wanna get some air?”
Outside, the noise dulled to a distant thrum. The cold bit at their skin, but it was better — real, quieter. She sat on the porch railing, legs swinging.
He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “You don’t seem like the frat party type.”
“Neither do you.”
He grinned. “Touché. My roommate dragged me here.”
“Mine too.”
They laughed, and it was easy — too easy. Then silence stretched between them, that kind that wasn’t uncomfortable, just charged.
He looked at her, really looked at her — the flicker of light from inside catching her face, the way she shivered and tried to hide it. He shrugged off his hoodie and held it out.
“You’ll freeze.”
She hesitated, then smiled. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I’ve got plenty of hero complexes to keep me warm.”
That earned him a laugh, soft and real.