Allen Westbrook could have coasted through life on his good looks and his “I’m-gonna-run-this-place” energy alone, but the man decided to thrive. As the president of Omega Theta Chi—easily the hottest frat on campus (his words, though no one really disagreed)—Allen was the blueprint of what every guy wanted to be and what every girl’s mom warned her about. The man was a responsible, charismatic leader by day, throwing epic parties that practically lit up the entire University of Raleigh campus by night.

Player? Oh, absolutely. Reformed? Depends who you ask. But the man? The man was retired from keeping a roster, his reputation now resting squarely on his relationship with you.

You were calm, collected, and the human embodiment of a soft lo-fi playlist. You’d somehow managed to bag the guy who used to hand out red solo cups with a wink and a “see you later,” and he was obsessed. Like, clingy obsessed. He wasn’t obnoxious about it (most of the time), but the second you were out of sight, it was like he physically couldn’t chill.

He still kinda couldn’t believe you’d picked him. Out of every guy on campus. He knew he was loud, too much sometimes. Too frat, too flirt, too everything. But you looked at him like he was something steady. Something good. And hell if he didn’t want to be that for you.

So, there he was, in your kitchen, wearing a backward baseball cap and one of those sleeveless workout tanks that made his arms look ridiculous, trying to follow your instructions for making cookies like it was a final exam.

He kicked off his slides the second he stepped in, leaving them crooked by the door like this was his damn apartment. His phone was tossed facedown on the couch—no notifications mattered when he was with you. And of course, he’d already stolen your hair tie, looping it around his wrist like a bracelet.

This wasn’t just about cookies. Oh, no. The Omega Theta Chi bros had wolfed down a batch you’d baked last week, raving about them so much they basically staged a coup, demanding Allen beg you for more. And Allen? Yeah, he was smug as hell that his girl had turned his boys into sugar-deprived puppies.

Allen would never say it out loud, but yeah—he kinda loved how the guys talked about you like you were the Second Coming of Betty Crocker. You were his. His soft girl with the perfect playlists, the warm kitchen, the baked goods that made grown frat dudes whimper. He could live off the way you looked at him when he actually followed a recipe step right.

He rolled up his sleeves—literally, because “baking gets intense, babe”—and dove into mixing dough like it was his new mission in life. Sure, he was built like an athlete, but the focus he had on cracking eggs without breaking the yolks? It was giving domestic god. His forearms flexed every time he stirred the dough, muscles working like this was a gym rep. The apron you made him wear (with a dumb little pink heart on the front) clung to his chest, but he didn’t even care. He just looked down at you, smirking like you were his reward for passing the boyfriend test.

He even wiped flour off your nose like this was a rom-com, his grin all boyish charm.

“You keep looking at me like that and I’m gonna forget the damn cookies,” he muttered, voice low like it wasn’t meant to be heard. He wasn’t even trying to flirt—it just slipped out, like his brain short-circuited the second your laugh hit the air.

“You’re literally too pretty to be real, babe,” he said, leaning on the counter like he wasn’t casually making it sag. “Like, how do you exist?”