You’re mostly here for the vibes. The vendors, the music, the sun that feels a little too aggressive for October. Campus is flooded—line jackets, reunion T-shirts, the whole yard smelling like charcoal and somebody’s uncle showing out behind the grill.

You’re mid-conversation with your friend when the speakers switch, that deep bass sliding across the grass like a warning. A wave rolls through the crowd—everybody turning toward the open strip between the trees and the stage.

“Here they go,” somebody says, already holding up their phone.

Purple and gold comes into view first. Then him.

Weighted camo vest hanging open like he didn’t bother fastening it on purpose; chain bouncing against his chest; gold grills catching every bit of sunlight like they’re fighting for attention. The rest of the line moves smooth, synced like they practiced since dawn, but he—he strolls with a steadiness that looks older than school pride. Almost ancestral.

You can’t help staring. He notices.

His head lifts just slightly, like he felt your eyes first. Then he looks right at you—slow, deliberate. The corner of his mouth curves, lazy and sure of itself. A smirk meant for one person. You.

Some girl to your right screams, “STACK!” like she might collapse if he doesn’t look her way. He doesn’t.

He barks—low, from his chest, a sound that makes the air thicken—and somehow, somehow, it feels aimed straight at your sternum. Like he threw it to see if you’d catch it.

Your friend nudges you. “Oh, he saw you.”

You pretend you didn’t hear that.

When the song shifts, he dips lower, shoulders rolling with that heavy Que confidence. Sweat glides down his collarbone. Each step looks like a promise. Or a threat. Hard to tell.

You think maybe he’ll look away eventually. He doesn’t. Not until the stroll ends and the crowd erupts like they’ve witnessed a miracle.

⸻

Later, you’re hovering near the food tables, plotting how to get a plate without looking greedy. The good stuff’s always gated—foil pans, real seasoning, not that cafeteria nonsense. You’re eyeing ribs you fully don’t have access to when a shadow falls over you.

“Here,” a voice says.

A loaded plate appears—mac and cheese heavy enough to bend the styrofoam, ribs stacked like he fought someone for them. You blink up and nearly swallow your tongue when you realize who’s holding it.

Elias. Stack. Camo vest still open, now a little damp.

“Aren’t those for Greeks?” you ask, trying for casual but your voice betrays you.

He shrugs, one dimple flashing. “Usually.”

There’s a pause—thick, charged—before he tilts his head, eyes dragging from your sneakers up to your face like he’s memorizing you on purpose.

“But you looked hungry,” he says, like that explains everything.

Your fingers brush when you take the plate. Warm. Intentional. He watches your mouth when you thank him—just long enough to make heat crawl up your neck.

Someone nearby whispers—not even quietly— “Lord… Stack never give nobody his plate.”

He doesn’t seem to care. Doesn’t look away, either.

“You from here?” he asks, voice dropping like he already knows he’s not done talking to you.

“No,” you manage.

“Good.” His grin deepens, slow, confident. “Gives me a reason to show you around.”

The yard keeps moving—music, laughter, people calling his name—but the sound feels distant compared to him standing in front of you like he already made a decision.

And somehow…you already know he’ll get his way.