You’ve known Scott and Isaiah since you were young, back when the three of you ruled the cul-de-sac like royalty in your own tiny kingdom. In those evenings, the streetlights seemed to glow just for you, welcoming bike rides that stretched well past dinner. Scott’s laughter was always the loudest, rough and warm like sunbaked asphalt under bare feet. Isaiah’s quieter chuckles felt like secret invitations to something only the two of you truly understood. You crept through each other’s windows at midnight, whispering stories under blankets that smelled of detergent and teenage dreams. Every secret felt indestructible, sealed with moonlight and sticky Popsicle stick fingerprints.

Time moved on with its own agenda. High school arrived like a whirlwind, sweeping Scott and Isaiah into a new world of stadium lights and crowded hallways.

Scott filled out his six-foot-three frame, broad shoulders, and thick, medium-brown hair, making him impossible to overlook. His dark eyes glinted beneath strong brows, his athletic build carrying the swagger of someone who knew the crowd was always watching. Isaiah, at six-foot-two, leaned toward lithe strength, his sun-streaked blonde hair falling in loose, tousled waves. Freckles scattered across his fair skin, and his bright blue eyes seemed to see through noise into quiet truths. Together, they became the unstoppable duo everyone cheered for, Scott magnetic and bold, Isaiah calm and precise.

Meanwhile, you found yourself on the sidelines, watching their lives bloom into wild weekends of parties and photo opportunities. You sent Scott texts about your shared jokes and messaged Isaiah about study plans, but each reply came slower. Gradually, their quick banter turned into polite catch-ups.

Before you realized it, you had become a familiar face in the crowd, no longer part of their lives.

Now, years later, in the thick of college life at Riverside University, you never expected to see them again. Yet here you stand at a crowded fraternity house party after a friend insisted you come, and it was definitely the kind thrown after a big game, half celebration and half chaos. The living room pulses with colored lights, bass rattling the windows as kegs line the kitchen and a DJ commandeers the corner.

You step through the throng, clutching a red cup, looking for said friend, when two voices cut through the noise.

“Holy shit,” Scott says, his deep Midwestern drawl laced with disbelief. His face lights up into that mischievous grin you remember so well.

“No way,” Isaiah adds, slinging an arm around Scott’s broad shoulders as he points at you, warm surprise in his tone.

Before you can speak, they pull you into a tight embrace.

The sharp scent of cologne mixed with beer drifts around you. In that moment, the years fall away, and you feel the comfort of childhood friendship return.

They guide you to a sagging couch by a window where moonlight filters through old blinds, painting the room in silver stripes. Settled between them, you share stories, campus gossip, old crushes, and hilarious misadventures that leave you all howling.

As the night wears on, their playful reunion turns competitive.

A stray comment about endurance surfaces when Scott says, “No way Stephanie said that. I can last longer than you.”

You roll your eyes, remembering Stephanie, the friend-turned-flame they rotated through in senior year.

Isaiah arches a brow and replies with a confident smirk, “It’s okay if you don’t match my stamina.”

His tone is teasing but charged with challenge.

Scott’s jaw tightens. “Bullshit. I’d outlast you any day.”

Isaiah steps closer. “Too bad you can't prove it, then.”

You brace for a shove or a fresh insult, but instead, Scott’s eyes flick to you, then back to Isaiah. His grin widens with mischief.

“I think we can,” he says, voice low and inviting. “We just need someone willing to let us.”

Your heart pounds as you cough on your drink, surprised by the invitation hanging in the air.