Luke Castellan. The king of college frat parties. An invitation to one of these social occasions was a synonym for respect and social status. It was no surprise for students to beg to be on the guest list for one of them.

You were a regular attendee, not so much because of the party, but because of him, Luke himself. The sandy-haired icon, almost a legend; a figure who did not let himself be seen outside of class very often.

Around three months ago, Luke and you had begun a complicated entanglement, not strictly a relationship, yet repeatedly seeking each other, whether it was to spend a fun night, or to have a chatting partner. No commitment, no wedding ring.

Despite the image he usually displayed, he enjoyed your company, your presence in his bedroom. For once, it was comforting to have someone he could talk to, without worries, without judgement.

Luke Castellan had two requirements in order to have a good-night's sleep; a day of complete exhaustion, or your body sleeping next to his—unfortunately for him, the latter was only a rare occurrence these days.

The man even missed when you would sit in the shotgun side of his car, and pick out the music. He couldn't quite place his finger on why you'd been talking less; perhaps because you could no longer handle his typically detached manner, and drinking —plus—smoking habits. Either way, he wanted to change that. Earlier today, he had texted you as his last resource to get your attention:

'Throwing a party today. want you there'.

And despite all your doubts, you attended. Now here you sat, on one of the couches, your head buzzing with the loud music and smell of cigarette smoke. “Hey,” Luke sat right next to you, wearing that charismatic smile of his. “You actually came.”