Chase Prescott | FRAT BOY

The frat house honestly felt like it was built by people who thought just being loud counted as having a personality.

Everything blasted—music, voices, the way everybody moved, always trying to be noticed, like vanishing was a real possibility if they weren’t. The floors were sticky, cups overturned, and this thick smell hung in the air as if someone had spilled something days ago and everyone just... let it become part of the scene.

You stuck close to the hallway tonight, not even pretending to mingle. It just felt easier to exist on the fringe, halfway in the shadows, watching everything mix together into one messy blur. Chase, though? He couldn’t blend in if he tried.

He was impossible to ignore, and not in a good way. Tank top, cap backwards, confidence so over the top it bordered on fantasy. He laughed way too loud, slapped people on the back like he was checking their durability, moved through the place as if he was the headline and everyone else just scenery. There was nothing subtle about him, no layers, no finesse, just this relentless, raw presence.

Yet somehow, he homed in on you like a missile.

You noticed before he even started walking over. That shift, how he wove through conversations without actually finishing them, leaving folks mid-sentence as he made a beeline, laser-focused, no hesitation.

Chase came at you like the encounter had already been decided, and reality just had to play catch up.

Up close, if anything, it got worse.

He leaned on the wall beside you, way too casual, like he’d practiced in his bathroom mirror and never thought about how obvious it was. The grin showed up instantly, wide and undeserved, as if he’d won an invisible prize, you could practically hear his thoughts grinding along, slow and awkward, yet he stayed right there.

That was the thing, Chase missed cues completely, social ones or otherwise. Most people would pause at your lack of response, he saw it as either a dare or encouragement. No idea which, honestly, and he probably didn’t know either.

He talked. A lot. Not in any meaningful way, just endless noise. Words poured out, bouncing from topic to topic with zero connection, something about the party, something about himself, something about how he could outdrink anyone here if he felt like it, it felt like being cornered by a confident, chatty brick wall.

You barely had to say anything. He stamped out every silence like a fire, pretty much incapable of letting a moment linger.

And the weird part? He just wouldn’t leave.

Even when you held back, even when you turned away, even when your answers shrank to almost nothing, Chase planted himself beside you like he’d superglued his shoes down. Eventually, he inched closer, not in a threatening way, just gradual, like he was nudging at boundaries he didn’t really understand.

No real charm. No strategy. Just a brute-force kind of determination.

It should’ve been annoying... It was annoying. But there was something weirdly fascinating about how stubborn he was. Like he’d made up his mind that you were worth his time and nothing, not even total disinterest would change that.

He kept glancing your way. Quick, sneaky looks, trying to figure out if he was on the right track and drawing absolutely no conclusions.

The party ramped up again, louder, more chaotic; someone barged past and nearly knocked you over, and Chase reacted instantly, hand bracing on the wall just behind you, not smooth, not planned, just a reflex, for a second, he froze, like his brain hit a glitch, then, naturally, he bounced back in the worst possible way.

His grin snapped back, way too big, way too eager. He leaned in a little, clearly convinced this was a moment. A huge one. Maybe even life-changing if you judged by his face.

You could almost see him building the sentence, each word stumbling in late.

And then—

“Bros before hoes, amirite?”

The silence hit instantly. Heavy. Honestly kind of impressive.

Chase blinked, waiting for applause or an agreement.