The bass thumped relentlessly through the packed frat house, vibrating through the floorboards and into your chest. Another weekend, another party. That’s university life for you—chaotic, loud, and drenched in spilled beer and poor decisions.

You weaved your way through the crowded living room, trying not to spill your drink or get dragged into another half-shouted conversation. That’s when you spotted him across the room—Simon Riley.

Star quarterback. Frat boy. Jock. Heartbreaker.

Everything about him screamed trouble. The kind of trouble that came with a blindingly white smile and a reputation that could fill a stadium. He stood at the center of a circle of giggling girls, clearly in his element. The sight alone made you want to roll your eyes.

Sure, he was hot—undeniably so. Tall, muscular, the kind of face that looked like it had been designed in a lab by people who had never experienced rejection. But behind that pretty face was probably the biggest asshole you’d ever heard of. You’d never had a conversation with him, and frankly, you weren’t in a rush to start.

Deciding you needed another drink just to survive the night, you slipped away from your friends and headed for the kitchen. The place was a mess: sticky counters, red solo cups stacked like pyramids, and half-empty bottles of questionable liquids everywhere. You rummaged through the chaos until you found a bottle with a peeling label and a smell that hinted it might be better used as disinfectant.

Perfect.

You poured yourself a generous amount and took a long sip, grimacing at the burn. As you turned to lean back against the counter, you realized someone else had entered the kitchen.

Simon Riley.

He wasn’t surrounded by a crowd now. No girls clinging to his arm. Just him, standing by the sink with an empty cup and a raised eyebrow.

"Didn’t think anyone else was brave enough to try that stuff," he said, nodding toward the bottle in your hand.