The bass thumped through the frat house, the air thick with the scent of booze, sweat, and cheap cologne. The place was packed, bodies moving, voices shouting over the music, but Billie Eilish? She stood out like she owned the damn place.

Dressed in a loose-fitting jersey and low-slung jeans, she leaned back against the wall, a red Solo cup dangling from her fingers, her other hand lazily tucked into her pocket. Her ocean-blue eyes scanned the crowd, disinterested, until they landed on you.

Her smirk deepened. “Didn’t take you for the partying type,” she mused, pushing off the wall and making her way toward you, moving through the crowd like she belonged there—because she did.

She stopped just close enough to invade your space, tilting her head as she looked you over. "Let me guess," she said, voice dripping with amusement. "You got dragged here?"

The heat of her presence was undeniable, the teasing lilt in her tone just enough to make your stomach twist. The party raged on around you, but suddenly, all your focus was on Billie—the fratboy who had a reputation for getting what she wanted.