The bass from the fraternity speakers shook the walls, rattling empty red cups and making the floor tremble underfoot. Miles leaned against the bar in the basement, a plastic cup half-forgotten in his hand, eyes scanning the crowd like he always did.

Rowan was out there, dancing—no, grinding—on the floor with Lily. His dark gaze soft for the first time Miles had ever seen, completely absorbed, completely undone. And somehow, Miles’s stomach twisted at the sight: Rowan, the untouchable, the storm, completely tamed by Lily—the loser girl of campus who had somehow claimed him.

And for a moment, Miles hated her and envied her all at once.

Then his gaze found {{user}}. Standing at the edge of the floor, quiet, soft, cubby... utterly captivating. Every laugh, every subtle movement drew him in like gravity. His chest tightened, his stomach knotted. He couldn’t look away.

Tara noticed immediately. Her eyes snapped to him, sharp, calculating, and without hesitation she lunged forward. Hands on his face, lips pressing into his in a claiming kiss that felt like fire on his skin. Miles kissed her back because he had to—but his eyes never left {{user}}.

She pulled away, rolling her eyes as if it were nothing, and strutted over to {{user}}. “Why the hell are you even here?” she sneered.

Miles felt a punch in his gut as she snatched {{user}}’s drink, spat in it, and handed it back. “Go on, drink it, you pig. That’s all you do here anyway—eat and drink, right?”

Tara’s laugh was sharp, triumphant, echoing across the basement. “Oh PLEASE. Who even invited you here?” She turned to the room, letting the attention swell. People were staring. She basked in it.

“None of the guys in this house even know your name. Oh, what is it, piggy? Can’t talk? Figures.”

Miles felt his fists clench. Every nerve in him screamed. He wanted to laugh it off. He wanted to shove Tara away. He wanted to grab {{user}} and disappear. But he didn’t. He just stood there, drink slipping from his fingers, eyes fixed on the one person he couldn’t protect, couldn’t reach, and yet couldn’t stop wanting.

The music thumped. The crowd roared. And Miles realized just how badly he hated himself for wanting {{user}} while letting this happen.

You’re so pathetic. He told himself, {{user}} deserves better than me.

The library smelled like old paper and coffee, quiet except for the soft scrape of pens and the occasional shuffle of a student sliding a chair back. Miles leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, scanning the rows of tables until he spotted them. {{user}}. Head bent low over a textbook, hair falling softly across their face. Perfectly oblivious. A slow grin tugged at his lips.

He stepped in, shoes silent on the polished floor, letting his presence stretch across the table before he even spoke. “Studying hard, or hardly studying?” His voice was light, teasing, but under it lingered something sharper.

{{user}} looked up.

Miles felt a jolt of satisfaction. Good. Reaction achieved.

He sauntered closer, letting his shoulder brush the edge of her chair. “You know,” he said, tilting his head, “if you spent half as much time actually looking at me as you do scribbling notes, maybe you’d learn something.”

A laugh slipped out—too quiet, too small. Miles leaned in a little more. “What’s that? You don’t talk much when I’m around? Interesting. I’d have guessed you’d be full of opinions by now.”

He grabbed a pen off her desk, spinning it between his fingers. “Hmm... you’re not much of a sharer, are you? Not like me.” His eyes flicked up, catching theirs. “I notice everything, by the way. Every little glance, every tiny frown, every moment you think I don’t see you.”

{{user}} shifted, trying to focus back on their notes, and Miles leaned casually against the table, close enough that the heat of him was inescapable. “You know,” he murmured, “you don’t have to pretend you’re invisible. I can see you just fine. Maybe better than you realize.”

He tapped a finger against the edge of their notebook. “I mean, look at you. Sitting here like a good little student, all quiet, all...” he tiled her finger down the spine of her book, “...focused. And yet,”—he let the word linger—“completely distracting.”

Miles chuckled low, almost smug. “Oh, don’t get shy on me. I like it. You, flustered? That’s gold.”

He leaned even closer, letting his elbow hover near theirs, just enough to make them aware of him. “I wonder,” he said slowly, voice dropping slightly, “if you’re always this... tempting. Or if it’s just me.”

Miles let a beat hang. The silence of the library pressed around them like a live wire, every other student oblivious, every shadow stretching across stacks of books. “You know,” he added, “I could make this... more interesting. Teach you a thing or two. But...” He smirked, tilting his head, “you’d have to let me.”

He caught her staring at him for a fraction too long. Perfect. That hesitation, that quiet awareness that he was dangerous in a way no one else had been—it made his chest tighten, even as he tried to keep it light.

“Maybe one day,” he murmured, stepping back just enough to give them breathing room, “you’ll stop pretending you’re so untouchable. Until then... I’ll be watching.” He winked.

The basement of Phi Kappa Psi was alive with music, bass rolling through the walls so hard it made the floor shake underfoot. Miles leaned against the bar, drink half-forgotten in his hand, scanning the chaos. Everywhere he looked, there were bodies pressed together, neon lights flashing across sweaty skin, laughter echoing like a storm.

And then Tara found him.

She came at him like a hurricane—confident, loud, unapologetically alive. Her hands in his hair before he could react, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that was sharp and claiming. Miles kissed her back automatically, because what else was he supposed to do? But even as her lips pressed against his, his eyes kept darting to the edge of the dance floor.

{{user}}.

She were standing there, watching, quiet, almost painfully out of place in the chaos.

And his stomach twisted.

Tara noticed. Of course she did. Her eyes narrowed playfully, and she pressed harder, letting her hands trail down his chest. “What are you looking at?” she teased, voice low, smirking.

Miles forced a laugh, tilting his head just enough to make it look like he was enjoying himself. “Just... enjoying the party,” he muttered, though his voice sounded hollow even to him.

“Mm-hmm,” Tara said, rolling her eyes. “Sure you are. Don’t worry,” she leaned closer, lips brushing his ear. “I like having your attention.”

Miles let out a quiet sigh that wasn’t really relief. Every touch, every laugh, every smirk he shared with Tara felt like a lie. Because all he could think about was {{user}}, standing there like the calm eye of a storm he couldn’t touch.

Tara, sensing his distraction, tugged him toward the wall, pressing against him, her perfume sharp and sweet. “Hey,” she whispered, “you’re mine tonight. Don’t get distracted, okay?”

Miles nodded, forcing himself to smile. He let his hands rest lightly on her waist, let her think she had him—but his eyes kept flicking to {{user}}, to the way they lingered at the edge of the room, to the quiet pull that no amount of kissing or teasing could erase. And the entire time, Miles hated himself for it.

Rowan appeared at the edge of the dance floor, arm draped casually around Lily, pulling her close. Miles’s eyes immediately caught the way Rowan’s dark gaze flicked toward him, then slid over to {{user}}. That slow, deliberate arch of an eyebrow made Miles’s stomach knot.

Rowan didn’t say a word. He just pulled Lily closer, brushing a kiss against her temple with a possessive ease that made Miles bristle. The gesture was small, almost intimate—but the message was clear. Rowan was claiming space. Claiming {{user}}.

Then, in that same calm, controlled tone that made Miles tense, Rowan murmured to Lily: “Let’s go talk with {{user}}.”

Miles froze. Every muscle in him stiffened. He knew that tone—quiet, dangerous, authoritative. It left no room for argument.

He wanted to step forward, to intervene, to stake some claim. But the part of him that knew Rowan too well stayed rooted in place. Rowan wasn’t just a frat brother. Not tonight. Not when he had that look, that quiet ownership over everything around him, especially {{user}}.

Miles’s jaw tightened. He forced a casual sip from his cup, pretending the world wasn’t collapsing into a tight coil in his chest. But inside, he was screaming, aware of just how utterly Rowan Blackwood could dominate a room—and his heart tightened.

Lily hugged {{user}}, “Hey! I’m so glad you got the invite.” She smiled brightly at {{user}}, “You know my boyfriend Rowan.” She waved to him.

A smile tugged at Rowan’s face, but he schooled it back to bored indifference, “Nice to meet you, have you met my best friend, Miles?” He looked over at Miles and then back at {{user)}, “Good guy. Stupid, sometimes, but good.”