“Another round,” Nate practically demanded, setting down his empty glass. He stared down in an attempt to hide the fresh bruises across his face after his run in with Fez earlier in the night—a quiet attempt to keep his identity and injuries out of sight. His only goal for the rest of the night was to lay low and drink the exhaustion, the pain, faded into the horizon.

You squeezing beside him interrupted his original plan. He glanced sideways, watching you sip oh-so-delicately from a Solo Cup filled with… God only knows what. He turned toward you, revealing the dark bruises that covered patches of skin, and he smiled.

“Hey,” he leered, voice quieter than it normally would be, rough and slurred. “I’m Nate. I just… I haven’t seen you around before.” He let out a quiet, tipsy laugh—half-charming, half-holier than thou. “You new?”