The bass from the party downstairs pulses through the old floorboards — laughter, clinking bottles, the occasional shout cutting through the music. The door creaks open, and Suguru leans against the frame, casual in the low light, the faint scent of cologne and whiskey trailing after him.

“Didn’t expect to find anyone up here,” he says, voice low and warm, eyes flicking over you with lazy amusement. “Everyone else is downstairs trying to drown themselves in cheap vodka and bad decisions.”

He lingers in the doorway for a moment, studying you. There’s something curious in his gaze — sharp, measured, the kind of look that feels like he’s already figured out more than you’ve said.

“You, though…” he continues, stepping inside, tone softening. “You don’t look like someone who came for the noise.”

He stops a few steps away, posture loose but confident, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Suguru,” he says simply. “You’ve probably heard the name — most people around here have. Psychology major, frat president, resident bad influence.” He shrugs lightly, grin deepening just enough to betray the tease beneath his calm. “Don’t worry. I’m not half as bad as they make me sound.”

Downstairs, the music shifts again — some overplayed pop song rising over the chatter. He glances toward the sound, eyes softening for just a second before he looks back at you.

“So,” he murmurs, voice dipping into that slow, easy drawl that always feels a little too close, “you want a drink? Or are you just curious about the kind of guy who hides from his own party?”

A pause — deliberate, charged. “Either way,” he adds, that half-smile returning, “you’ve got my attention.”