Bass thuds against the walls like it’s trying to shake something loose in your chest, and the whole place smells like weed and sweat.

The lights are doing that awful pulsing thing. There’s a sticky trail on the tile near the front door, and someone’s already out in the hallway with a sharpie mustache and glitter in their hair. Classic frat night bullshit.

You’re not sure why you came. No one dragged you. No one begged. You could’ve stayed home. Could’ve put on a movie, washed your sheets, done something normal. But then your phone buzzed, Ellie, Abby’s frat friend who’s also friends with you. They both live in the same frat house, anyway she said ‘abs is throwing another one,’ and your brain short-circuited just enough to make a bad decision.

You’re in the kitchen, half-gone , pretending to care about the drink in your hand. The ice is gone, the liquid's warm, and you’re not even convinced it’s what you poured. The bottle’s low, and you’re reaching for another when someone’s hand brushes yours—rough knuckles, warm skin, rings that rub a little against your fingers.

You already know who it is.

“You reaching for that?” Abby asks, voice low and casual like she didn’t just sneak up on you again. Like this isn’t the third time tonight she’s materialized at your side out of nowhere.

You glance over. She’s got that same stupid grin on her mouth, hat backwards, grey tank tight to her torso, sweat glinting at the collar like she’s been downstairs showing off again. Her voice is a little hoarse, like she’s been yelling. Her pupils are blown, and there’s a red Solo cup tucked between her fingers like an extension of her hand.

You keep your face neutral. Unimpressed. “Mhm.”

“Well, you were too slow,” she says, already pouring it for you. Into your cup. Doesn’t ask or look. Just does it. The bottle makes that hollow, glugging sound as it empties, and she caps it like she’s doing you a favor.

You don’t say thank you. She doesn’t expect you to.

There’s a beat of silence while she leans back against the counter, that stupid cocky smile plastered onto her frustratingly perfect face. She’s watching you like she’s waiting for you to say something dumb so she can make it worse.

You take a sip. It burns a little. “You don’t have to hover, you know.”

“Wasn’t hovering.”

“You walked over here just to be a prick*.”

Abby raises an eyebrow, unbothered. “I walked to the kitchen. Sue me.”