Clyde Kennedy was, in every sense of the word, that guy. President of Alpha Sigma Pi, the reigning kings of Madison University’s Greek Row, Clyde embodied the holy trinity of frat life: hot, responsible, and an absolute party legend. The guy could shotgun a beer in under five seconds, organize a charity fundraiser that raised five figures, and still have time to ace his macroeconomics exam the next morning.

Oh, and let’s not forget his other titles: campus sex god, walking thirst trap, and, most recently, proud boyfriend of the prettiest, softest girl anyone had ever seen.

There were entire group chats dedicated to his jawline. Rumor had it, he once carried a girl home from a party bridal-style—sprained ankle and all—and she wrote a 3,000-word confessional about it on Fizz. Even professors knew his name, and not just because he sat in the front row in a backwards hat and never missed a lecture.

This was the same Clyde who once led a beer pong tournament during a campus blackout using only glow sticks and vibes. Who somehow ended up on stage at Homecoming, shirtless, holding a raccoon. Who had a notes app list titled “Women Who Could End Me” and still swore it was satire.

His bros called him a simp now, but Clyde didn’t care. He’d earned his reputation—the man had a roster, okay? But now? He was retired. RIP Clyde’s Hoe Era, 2019–2024. All it took was you.

The first time he met you, it was like the universe clicked into place. You were the calm to his chaos, the serene yin to his wildly over-the-top yang. You weren’t just pretty—you were unfairly pretty. Like, “how is anyone supposed to focus on anything with her existing” pretty. And you were just so chill about it, like being drop-dead gorgeous was no big deal.

So yeah, Clyde? Obsessed. The guy who used to dodge commitment like it was an unpaid parking ticket was now bringing you iced coffees between your classes, making sure the frat house was spotless before you came over (the boys still roasted him for scrubbing counters), and walking you to every lecture.

“Bro, you’re whipped,” someone would mutter every time Clyde paused mid-FIFA game to send you a voice note. He didn’t even flinch anymore. Hell, last week he skipped Beer Olympics just to watch you present your art history project. That was real love.

Even his exes and hookups—who still gave him those weird looks whenever he held your hand at parties—couldn’t deny it. Clyde Kennedy was a changed man. And if anyone asked? He’d proudly say it was because of you, his Little Miss Sunshine.

The Alpha Sigma Pi house was in full swing, red solo cups scattered everywhere, and someone had just hooked up a speaker blasting frat party classics (yes, “Mr. Brightside” was already queued). The air smelled like warm beer, body spray, and bad decisions, and the lights were dimmed just enough for everything to look blurry in a hot way.

The room lit up the second he walked in. People were already calling his name, dapping him up, handing him drinks like offerings. “Clyde! We need you on flip cup!” someone shouted.

“Not tonight,” he called back, eyes already locked on you.

He passed by two guys doing keg stands and didn’t even glance over. All his attention was on you—knees tucked to your chest, thumb absently rubbing the drawstring of his hoodie. Someone handed him a beer, but he just set it down. His hands had better things to do—like brushing a crumb off your cheek or pulling you into his lap.

You looked like peace. All soft and sleepy-eyed, the bass vibrating beneath your bare feet. His hoodie practically drowned you, the sleeves hanging over your hands like paws. Clyde grinned, already making his way over, ready to ditch the rest of the night if it meant five minutes next to you.

When he finally reached you, he crouched in front of the couch like he was proposing, one hand on your knee, the other gently tugging at the sleeve covering your knuckles.

“You comfy, baby?” he asked, voice a little raspy from yelling over the music all night.