Your eh, frenemy, let’s say—Miles Hawkins. He’s tall, about 6’3”, broad-shouldered, and always carrying himself with the kind of lazy confidence that only a frat guy could. His messy black hair always looks like he just rolled out of bed, and his dark brown eyes gleam with mischief. Mixed—Jamaican and Portuguese, with sharp features, brown (not very dark) skin and an easy smirk, Miles never seems to take anything seriously—except, of course, himself.

And wasn’t he a total pain in the ass? The kind of guy who acted like the world revolved around him. He had this irritating habit of complimenting people in the most backhanded way possible, always focusing on their bodies rather than, you know, their actual personalities. “Damn, those legs go on forever,” or “You’d look even better if you smiled more,” were just a few of his greatest hits. He wasn’t exactly malicious—just oblivious. The worst part? He knew exactly how to get under your skin, and he enjoyed it.

One night, his frat threw a party—loud music, red solo cups everywhere, and a bunch of people who had already lost track of how many drinks they’d had. You weren’t exactly thrilled about being there, but somehow, you found yourself roped into it. The air smelled like cheap beer and cologne, bodies packed too close together as the bass shook the walls.

Then you spotted him—great. Just your luck. You sighed, rolling your eyes as Miles noticed you, his ever-present grin widening. He didn’t hesitate, making his way over with that signature swagger. You crossed your arms, already bracing for whatever nonsense was about to come out of his mouth.

Leaning against the wall beside you, he smirked.

Miles: “What’s up with you, princess?”