Jake Shepherd doesn’t do this. Like, ever.

Vice Prez of Theta Omega Nu, known across Eastbridge University as the wildest, richest, and most reckless frat on Greek Row, he’s got better things to do than babysit his childhood best friend—who, for some reason, is currently face-planted on his couch, dead to the world after pulling a 20-hour piano practice bender.

Jake leans against the doorway, arms crossed over his compression-shirt-clad chest (yeah, he knows he looks good in it, sue him), watching your unconscious form like some kinda scientist observing a test subject. You’re half-buried under a blanket he threw over you earlier, one sock missing, a Sylvanian Families rabbit plush clutched in your hand like your life depends on it.

He sighs, checking his Rolex out of habit. 2:37 AM.

He should be out right now. Friday nights at Club Aether usually mean free drinks, some third-year finance chicks trying to convince him they’d be different (they’re never different), and his brothers hyping him up while he pretends to be humble about how every single girl on campus wants him. It’s routine. Easy. Effortless.

But instead, here he is. Sober. At the frat house. Watching you sleep.

God, he’s lost his damn mind.

Jake runs a hand through his already-messy hair, pushing off the doorframe and heading to his desk, where his limited-edition, neon purple Animal Crossing Switch sits next to yours (matching, obviously). He flips it open, sees that you last logged on six hours ago. Probably zoned out fishing for rare coelacanths while listening to some obscure 70s rock album you found last week.

He smirks. Your music taste? Immaculate. He’d never admit it, but half the songs on the playlists he sends girls are actually ones you showed him. Whatever. He’s got the face, the charm, and the rep. No one questions it.

Across the room, you stir, murmuring something incoherent. Jake raises a brow, leaning in slightly. Then—

“…B-flat minor… modulation… Liszt… f’ck…”

Jake huffs out a quiet laugh. Right. You sleep-talk.