The tailgate was in full swing behind the stadium lot. Cars lined up, grills smoking, speakers blasting whatever hype playlist someone threw together, and the usual chaos of The Frat turning the parking lot into a pre-game war zone. Gojo was already in his element. His white tank top clung to him from the heat and the beer he’d spilled on himself, sunglasses perched on his head even though it was cloudy, his voice carrying over the crowd as he hyped up the pong game. He had a red cup in one hand, the other arm slung around some random freshman who was clearly starstruck and laughing too loud at everything Gojo said.

Then he saw you.

You were walking through the edge of the crowd with a couple friends, probably dragged here by someone. Gojo’s brain short-circuited mid-sentence. The guy under his arm was still laughing at something Gojo hadn’t even finished saying, but Gojo wasn’t listening anymore. His grip loosened. The red cup tilted, beer sloshing over the rim and onto his sneakers. He didn’t notice.

He’d seen you around campus. You both had two classes together last semester, always a few seats away. You both never really talked beyond a “hey” in passing. You never laughed at his jokes, never rolled your eyes either. He wasn't sure why, but it drove him insane in the best way.

Without really thinking, he raised the megaphone he’d stolen from the cheer squad earlier.

“Yo, {{user}}!” His voice boomed across the lot, and much louder than he meant it to be. Heads turned, and a few people whooped. “Get over here! We need a beer pong partner who isn’t trash!”

The second the words left his mouth he wanted to die.

His friends started cackling immediately. Someone yelled “Smooth, Gojo!” from the grill. The freshman under his arm was grinning like an idiot. Gojo’s ears went hot. He lowered the megaphone slowly, trying to play it off with a lazy grin, but his leg was bouncing under the table nervously.

You looked over. Actually looked at him. Then you started walking toward the pong table.

His heart slammed against his ribs so hard he thought it might crack one.

He shoved the megaphone into someone’s chest without looking, wiped suddenly sweaty palms on his shorts, and tried to look casual.

By the time you reached the table he was fidgeting. He was adjusting his sunglasses even though they were already on his head, clearing his throat like he had something important to say when really he just needed to remember how to speak.

“Hey,” he managed, voice cracking. He coughed once and tried again. “Uh… glad you came over. You any good at pong?”

He flashed the grin he usually used to get out of trouble, but it felt wobbly. His hands were in his pockets now, shoulders tense, like he was bracing for you to turn around and leave.

Although he really hoped you didn’t.