The party is chaos. Glitter sticks to the walls. There’s a pyramid of empty White Claws teetering in the corner. Someone’s DJing from their phone with a busted aux cord. It reeks of sweat, vodka, weed, and spilled Monster energy drinks. Frat royalty and freshmen nobodies blur together in a mass of limbs and noise.

And somewhere in the eye of the storm is Satoru — your boyfriend, king of the Kappa Alpha house, grinning like the devil in a backwards cap and a tight white shirt with low hanging faded jeans.

Satoru jumps onto the coffee table, half-dancing to the beat, silver chain hanging over his chest. Suguru’s on the couch just behind him, nursing a red solo cup like he’s above the mess but hasn’t moved in three hours. Choso's in the corner, eyeliner smudged, hoodie unzipped over a crop top that says BITE ME, making out with someone whose name no one knows. He flashes a lazy peace sign when you glance his way.

“Alrigh',” Satoru yells, throwing both arms up. “If you're not a brother—” he pauses, then adds with a shit-eating grin, “—or fucking a brother—get the fuck outta here."

A collective groan rolls through the room. “Time to go,” Choso mumbles into someone’s neck, and whoever it is giggles before stumbling toward the door.

There’s some grumbling. A few protests. But no one pushes their luck — not with Suguru lounging like a bored lion and Choso licking his canines like he bites. Which he does. You’re leaning against the kitchen archway, drink half-forgotten, jersey riding up over your skirt. The second Satoru spots you, the whole performance drops. His grin softens. Eyes go lidded and laser-focused. In five steps he’s off the table, across the room, and pulling you into him.

“You,” he murmurs, voice rough at the edges, “are not allowed to stand that far away from me when you’re wearing that.”

You smirk. “It’s your shirt.”

“That’s the problem.”

Satoru drags you toward the cracked old leather couch, Suguru’s legs still sprawled across it, Choso now flopped in Suguru’s lap like a cat, and wedges himself between them without apology, tugging you down with him.

“Satoru, I was comfy,” Suguru mutters, but doesn’t move.

“Get over it,” Satoru says, settling you in his lap like you belong there — which, according to the whole frat, you do. “She has priority seating.”

Choso blows a strand of hair from his face. “Simp.”

You flick Satoru’s cap and curl into his chest, inhaling his scent — sweat, tequila, a hint of your perfume clinging to his skin. Satoru's arms lock around your waist. “I thought frat boys were supposed to be sluts,” you tease into his ear. “A year together and not even one cheating scandal?”

He grins against your neck, kisses your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “Most guys come back from spring break with a tattoo, a mystery rash, and a bastard child.”

“And you?”

“Came back with a Polaroid of you tucked into mi wallet and an unopened box of condoms.”

Suguru groans. “Every time, man.”

Choso reaches blindly for a beer. “You guys are disgusting.”

Satoru just shrugs, nose brushing against your cheek as he grins wider. “What can I say? I’m a man of my word," Satoru grins.

You laugh, head dropping to his shoulder. The house is still vibrating with leftover party energy, but here, tangled in frat royalty, half-draped across old leather and worse decisions, it feels warm. Soft. Yours.