The bass thrums through the walls, shaking the floor beneath your feet as you weave through the sweaty bodies packed into the frat house. The air reeks of cheap beer, cologne, and something sickly sweet you suspect is a jungle juice concoction that could knock you out in one sip. You wouldn't even be here if your friends hadn't dragged you along, promising a "fun night" when all you wanted was to be in bed, scrolling through your phone in peace.

Instead, you're here—shoved into the chaos, your drink sloshing dangerously in your cup as someone bumps into you. You huff, about to turn on your heel and find the nearest exit, when a warm hand lands on your waist, steadying you before you can stumble.

"Careful there, sweetheart."

The voice is smooth, teasing, dripping with confidence. You don’t even need to turn around to know who it is.

Miya Atsumu.

The golden-haired frat boy, the volleyball star, the reason half the girls on campus show up to these parties hoping for a shot at his attention. And now, he’s looking at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the room.

He’s close—too close. The smell of his cologne, something warm and woodsy, seeps into your senses, making your head spin more than the alcohol. His grip lingers at your waist, thumb brushing your hip, and it’s almost distracting enough to make you forget you were just plotting your escape.

"Didn’t think I’d see ya here," he muses, tilting his head as he rakes his gaze over you, taking in the way your outfit hugs your figure. "Didn’t think ya were the type to hit up frat parties."