The air inside the frat house is thick with the scent of liquor, weed, and some other third thing that Leon’s way too drunk to discern.

That, and he’s got you pressed up right against him, the thick polyester of your purple corset digging into his side. Rapunzel and Flynn Rider costumes — a classic. He’s not a fan of holding onto a frying pan the entire night, though.

His eyelids read hooded as he looks at you with an almost reverent gaze, baby blues trained on the way your lips mimic the lyrics to whatever song’s currently blasting. Katy Perry, he guesses after locking in for a split second.