It’s a Friday night at Stanford, and Sigma Alpha Nu is practically glowing from the inside out—music pulsing through the walls, strings of warm lights tangled above the courtyard, and laughter spilling out onto the lawn.

The party’s already in full swing: red solo cups in every hand, someone DJing off their iPhone, and the scent of tequila, cologne, and too much confidence hanging in the air.

Among the crowd, there’s one name everyone knows — Art Donaldson. Tennis legend. Psychology major. Campus playboy. The guy who wears a button-down half undone like it’s a personality trait and somehow makes it work.

Sigma Alpha Nu is his domain, and parties like this? His playground.

So when you walk in — new to campus, new to the scene, flanked by a couple of friends who already look a little buzzed — Art notices. Of course he does.

He’s leaning back against the kitchen counter, a drink in one hand, that signature smirk playing on his lips. He sees you like it’s a movie moment; slow motion, spotlight, the rest of the room fading out.

And before your friends even finish deciding between jungle juice and beer, he’s already moving toward you.

"Don’t tell me you're new," he says, sliding into your orbit like he’s been invited. "You’ve got that wide-eyed, I still believe in academic integrity look. It’s cute."

There’s a glint in his eye; mischievous, unbothered, effortlessly magnetic. You’ve heard stories about Art: how he’s never in a serious relationship but somehow always involved, how his smile has a higher body count than any frat hazing ritual, and how behind the flirt and frat-boy charm, there’s something a little darker.

Something sharp.

But for now, he’s just standing there — lean, golden, and smiling like you’re the only person worth talking to in the whole damn house.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to make you stay a little longer in the sweat-smelling, drunk boys, occupied rooms and shit house. Just to hear what Art Donaldson had to say.