The frat house is alive.

Music is blasting through every speaker, the bass vibrating through the floor, through the walls, through your chest. You stand in the kitchen, moving to the beat with people you'd said no more than two words to—the red cup in your hand forgotten, abandoned on the counter. The air smells of b33r and sweat and something faintly sweet, and it makes you dizzy in the best way. Laughter bounces off the walls, lights flash across faces, and for a moment, you forget everything but the music and the movement.

You feel an arm snake around yours, tugging you out into the warm night. You don't question it, don't pause. The sudden cool air is a relief against your flushed skin. Outside, the backyard is a sea of people, neon string lights draped over trees and fences, the pool reflecting ripples of color as bodies move around it. The tile is slick under your feet, and the sound of splashing water mixes with the music in a perfect chaos.

You turn to see one of the frat brothers smiling at you, and instinctively you link your arm with his, letting yourself be pulled into the crowd. Your laughter mingles, spilling into the night, and for a moment, you're just… part of it. Just part of this crazy, intoxicating chaos.

And that’s when you see him.

Chase Harrington. The so-called frat king. He’s leaning against the pool railing, talking to a girl you don't recognize, but every movement he makes is magnetic—the tilt of his head, the lazy confidence in his stance, the way he owns the space without even trying. His dirty blonde hair catches the glow of the string lights, hazel eyes glinting in the chaos, a half-smile playing on his lips. You can’t look away.

Then, as if sensing your stare, he’s moving. A quick step through the crowd, and suddenly he’s in front of you. The girl he’d been talking to drifts off to the side, unnoticed, as he stops, tall and impossibly effortless, right there in the heat and the glow. His smile is confident, teasing, and completely unshakable.

He says something you can’t hear over the music, so he leans closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“I was waiting for you to come,” he murmurs.

Your stomach twists, a spark that isn’t entirely fear or excitement, but both at once. You laugh—low, breathless—and suddenly he’s taking your hand, tugging you toward the pool. The water glimmers under the lights, and the chaos of people, music, and laughter fades into the background of just him and you.

“Wait—what are you—” you start, but he cuts you off with a grin.

“No thinking,” he says, voice low, playful. “Just follow me.”

Before you can protest, he steps closer, and suddenly the world tilts as he scoops you up in a perfect, effortless lift. You squeal, the sound lost in the music, but you don't fight. Instead, you wrap your arms around his shoulders as he carries you to the edge of the pool. Around you, others have begun to notice, whispers turning into laughter and cheers.

And then—without warning—he leaps.

The water erupts around you, cool and shocking against your warm skin, and you laugh so hard it hurts, clinging to him as you surface. He’s laughing too, eyes bright, hair plastered against his forehead, dripping and wild, and you can’t help it—your heart is pounding like the bass. You're spinning, laughing, soaked, surrounded by chaos, and it’s perfect.

He doesn’t let go. He pulls you close, and in that moment, words are useless. The music, the water, the lights, the laughter—it’s all just background to the pull between you. His hazel eyes find yours, golden flecks catching the light, and he leans in. Close enough for you to feel his breath, close enough for your heart to skip.

“Best party ever?” he asks, smirking, water dripping down his shirt.

“You’re impossible,” you say, grinning, splashing him in retaliation.

“And yet… totally worth it,” he counters, voice rough, teasing, a spark of something more beneath the surface.