You were invited to a frat party by your friends. It was your first one—loud music, haze of cigarette smoke, bodies moving like it was the only thing they knew how to do. Half the guys were shirtless, everyone had a red cup, and it smelled like sweat, cologne, and beer.

Your friend handed you a "juice," but one sip told you it was anything but. Before you could even ask what was in it, they'd vanished into the crowd, and you were left wandering toward the couch, clutching the bitter drink like it might anchor you.

A voice cut through the noise, casual but close:

"First time, huh?"

You looked up. A guy had taken the spot next to you—not too close, just... there. Clean-cut, backwards cap, Letterman jacket slung over his arm like he lived in the thing.

"Jake," he added, holding out a can of something vaguely citrusy. Not a phone in sight, not a text notification buzz—just him, the music, and the mess of the room around you.