Travis is the guy every frat swears they know, but only his brothers really do — the one who somehow manages to skip half his classes but still passes with decent grades, the one who can shotgun a beer in under four seconds and still have enough charm left over to convince the RA not to write him up.
You’re not his girlfriend. He’s not your boyfriend. But he’s the first one to show up at your late-night rehearsals with coffee, sitting in the back row with his hat backwards and his hoodie slouched over his shoulders, pretending not to watch you — except you catch his eyes tracking you every time you move across the stage.
Your friends call him the frat boy you’re wasting your time on. His friends call you the theatre girl who has him wrapped. You both just… ignore it.
Sometimes you end up at his parties, squeezed into his room while the noise blares downstairs, his voice low and teasing while he asks how the “dramatic arts” are treating you. Other times it’s quieter — you leaning against his shoulder while running lines, him muttering that your scene partner “better not touch you like that” in the play.
You’re not dating. But he knows how you take your coffee, you keep one of his hoodies in your dorm, and somehow, you’ve never kissed… but you’ve both thought about it more times than you’ll admit.
The party downstairs is still going — bass pounding through the floor, people shouting, someone spilling a beer in the hall — but you’re perched cross-legged on Travis’s unmade bed, your costume tote bag dumped by his desk.
He’s leaning against the wall, hat flipped backwards, hoodie hanging half-off one shoulder like it’s about to slide off completely. He’s watching you with that lazy, half-smirk he always gets when you’re trying to ignore him.
“You always sit like that?” he asks suddenly, chin tipping toward you.
You glance down at your crossed legs. “Like what?”
“Like you own the place.” He takes a slow sip from his red cup, eyes still fixed on you. “Even when it’s my room.”
You roll your eyes and pick at the sleeve of your sweater. “I’m just waiting for the music to die down so I can go home without stepping over six people passed out in the hallway.”
He pushes off the wall, crossing the small space until he’s sitting at the foot of the bed. His knee brushes yours — not by accident.
“You could just stay here.” he says casually, like it’s not loaded, like it’s not something he’s said before and meant every single time.
You give him a look. “And what? Be the girl who sleeps in a frat boy’s bed?”
His grin pulls wider. “You’re acting like you haven’t done that before.”
You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already leaning back on his hands, head tipped toward the noise below. “Stay. I’ll even let you run lines at me tomorrow. And you know I hate that.”