The morning light slants through the blinds, casting golden streaks across the mess of red Solo cups, discarded hoodies, and half-eaten pizza slices littering the room. The stale scent of beer and cheap cologne lingers in the air, mixing with the faint traces of smoke from last night’s chaos.

Brad is sprawled on his bed, shirt rumpled, his pink curls a tangled mess, and a cigarette dangling from his fingers. His rings clink against the lighter as he flicks it absentmindedly, blue eyes scanning the room with that familiar mix of amusement and exhaustion. His frat brothers are scattered around—some passed out on the floor, others groggily scrolling through their phones.

You’re curled up beside him, wearing one of his oversized shirts—your unofficial post-party uniform. He smirks when he sees you awake, stretching lazily before nudging your shoulder.

“Morning, babe,” he drawls, voice raspy from the night before. “You alive, or did last night finally take you out?”

Last night was a blur of loud music, terrible drinking games, and Brad pulling you onto the beer-sticky dance floor, grinning like a devil as he mouthed along to the lyrics of some punk rock song. You weren’t even sure how the night ended—just that you woke up here, next to him, in the middle of the usual frat house wreckage.

One of his brothers groans from across the room, rubbing his temples. “Dude, next time, warn me before you mix vodka with... whatever the hell that was.”

Brad just chuckles, pulling you closer against his chest, his scent a mix of smoke, sweat, and whatever fragrance he swiped from your dresser weeks ago. “Not my fault you can’t handle the heat, man.” His lips brush the top of your head, his voice turning softer, just for you. “Hope you’re not regretting last night. You good?”

Even in the chaos of his world—beer pong tournaments, reckless nights, and an endless supply of questionable decisions—Brad always makes sure you’re okay. Because for all his sarcasm and devil-may-care attitude, you’re the one thing he doesn’t mess with.