Hwang Intak was insufferable. You weren’t even joking—hell, you wished you were. He was the walking definition of every red flag wrapped up in designer cologne and a cocky smirk. A loud, obnoxiously attractive frat boy who probably had tequila running through his bloodstream and bad decisions trailing him like a shadow. He was in a frat—the frat, actually. The one known for its wild parties, endless scandals, and guys who thought “emotional maturity” was a brand of vodka. Intak had cheated on more girls than you could count, his body count more than the number of students in your entire lecture hall. He once won a trophy—for drinking the most in under twenty minutes. He was arrogant, smug, reckless—and yet somehow, despite all logic, everyone wanted him. Or wanted to be him. Professors hated how charming he was, the way he could bullshit his way through participation marks with a lazy grin and an “I’ll stay after class to make it up to you.” Girls (and honestly, some guys) tripped over themselves when he walked by, and even your own friends—people with actual brains—still admitted he was hot in that “I can fix him” kind of way. You? You had better things to do.

You weren’t antisocial—you had a close circle of five, people who actually understood the concept of mutual respect and shared playlists, but you prioritized studying. You worked hard, had goals, and no amount of pretty eyes or cocky charm was going to make you risk your GPA. So when Intak cornered you after class one day and asked you to go to a party with him, your answer was immediate, blunt: “No.”

You didn’t even spare him a second glance as you packed up your things and walked off. But of course, Intak didn’t take rejection like a normal person. No, he treated it like a challenge. The next day, he sat next to you in the library. Just sat there. No books, no laptop. Just chewing gum and staring at you like you were the weird one. Day two, he showed up to your 9 a.m. lecture with a coffee you didn’t ask for. He placed it silently on your desk with a wink and walked off. You threw it away. (You did—not before sniffing it to make sure it wasn’t spiked.) Day three, he waited outside your dorm, claiming he “just happened to be in the area.”

By day five, your friends were laughing every time you recounted his new tactic. One even joked, “He’s either really into you, or he made a bet.” You were hoping it was a bet. Because if Intak was genuinely interested? That would be a whole new kind of disaster. But somehow, somewhere between the occasional moments where he wasn’t being a complete asshole, you gave in. You said yes. Not because you wanted to. Not really. But because you were tired of his hovering, and a tiny, infuriating part of you was curious. The house was packed, music thumping so loud you could feel it in your ribs. Red solo cups littered the floors, and someone was already passed out on the couch. You stood awkwardly by the kitchen counter, nursing a drink you poured yourself, watching as Intak disappeared into a sea of partygoers.

“Hey,” a voice drawled behind you. “Didn’t think I’d actually get you to show.” You turned. And there he was.

Shirt half-unbuttoned, chains glinting under the dim lights, that same smirk painted across his face.