The party was loud, full of people pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, red cups in hand, bass thumping through the floorboards. Your frat had crashed Hanamura's. It was tradition by now—yearly rivalry, playful sabotage, tongue-in-cheek brawls over which house was the best one on campus.

You spot him across the room—Yosuke, leaning against the kitchen counter, grinning too wide as he holds court with a crowd of girls. His eyes catch yours for a split second. You flash him a mock salute.

He chokes on his drink.

When you step over to him, crowd parting slightly, there's that flash of smugness in your smirk. “Nice party, Hanamura. Classy. I give it a six.”

He rolls his eyes, but there's a heat behind them. “A six? That’s pretty good. Though, your view might be a little skewed from how trashy your frat’s parties are.”

The banter escalates. It always does with you two — a cold war built on teasing and challenges, charged with more heat than either of you admit. But tonight? There’s something different. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the way your lip curls when he says something stupid. Maybe it’s the way he hates that he doesn’t hate you.

“You know,” Yosuke says after a beat, voice lower, “you talk a lot of trash for someone who keeps looking at me like that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Looking at you like what?”

“Like you wanna know how my mouth tastes.”

He immediately regrets it — the second it leaves his mouth, he winces internally. Too much, Hanamura. The frat-boy confidence was reflexive, but it hits differently when it's you.