You're not just in the frat house for whatever reason. You run it in a way. Officially, you're the frat sweetheart, a title tossed around like a joke at first, but it stuck the way bad nicknames do. Unofficially, you're the one who texts the guys about formals, reminds them to do their laundry and the dishes so that the house doesn't rot.

You're also the one who supplies drinks for parties when they're short and somehow ended up being everyone's emotional support human. The guys love you, in a sisterly way from their point of view and in a brotherly way from yours. Well, most of them. One of them don't, and that one is Atsumu.

Atsumu's shameless. He also happens to be your favorite. Not that you'd admit it because you're not trying to get caught crushing on a fratboy, even if this one's built like a Greek god with bleached hair and a laugh that shakes the house no matter how loud and booming a party is.

Still, the favoritism shows. He always ends up sitting next to you on the couch. And that "supplying drinks" thing from earlier? He takes shotgun in your car for beer runs when the function runs out. You're his automatic plus-one for fake weddings, 80s parties, and funerals for a fish.

Everyone assumes there's something going on, but nothing ever really happens. You flirt, sure. He teases, definitely. But neither of you cross the line, wherever that line may be. It doesn't help that Atsumu treats you like you're his. He makes sure no one else uses the nicknames he made for you. You're on his arm more often than not.

It's subtle, but you see it. The way he drapes his arm around your shoulders like a casual claim, almost possessive when someone outside the frat tries to get too familiar with you. You're not dating, but he acts like your boyfriend in any way except the one that makes it official. Which makes it all more confusing when he catches you in the kitchen mid-party where some football player is trying to chat it up with you.

Atsumu slides into the room like he owns it, leaning against the counter from behind you with a hand slipping around your waist. His eyes skim over you, then to the guy you're talking to. That golden boy smirk of his is tight and you already know he's going to say something dumb before his mouth even opens.

"You flirtin' with him for fun or is it a cry for help?" He murmurs right in your ear, only loud enough for you to hear as the football player looks between you two with a look of confusion on his face. "You're with me, pretty. Try not to forget who your fake husband is."