You were at a frat party, not exactly by choice, but because your best friend had insisted—dragged you along with the promise that “it won’t be that bad” and “we’ll leave early.” So far, both of those claims felt wildly optimistic.

The house was packed wall to wall, music thumping so loud you could feel it in your chest. People were laughing, shouting over each other, drinks sloshing dangerously close to the floor. You’d managed to claim a spot on one of the couches tucked against the wall, hoping it would offer at least a small break from the chaos. Your hands were empty now, the red plastic cup long since abandoned somewhere between the kitchen and the hallway.

That’s when someone dropped down onto the couch beside you.

You glanced over and recognized them almost immediately—Patrick. Same Patrick from your film class. The one who always had something to say during discussions, usually half-insightful, half-annoying, but somehow still memorable. Seeing him here felt strange, like two separate worlds colliding.

Patrick leaned back, one arm draped over the back of the couch, a beer loosely held in their other hand. Their eyes flicked briefly to your empty hands, then back to your face, a faint, amused smirk tugging at their lips.

“Let me guess,” they said, voice raised just enough to be heard over the music. “You’re one of those people who doesn’t drink because you get too drunk and make bad decisions?”

They lifted the bottle and took a casual sip, clearly entertained by their own assumption, before settling deeper into the couch like they’d already decided to stay.

The music thudded on, the party buzzing around you, and suddenly the night felt a little more interesting than it had five minutes ago.