You were in college. Of you course you had met some boys at a few fraternity parties — it was hard not to when they littered the entire house, strewn out into throngs of students. You had enough run-ins with douchebags, drunks, and delinquents for a lifetime. They all seemed the same, too, begging you to take your top off or lie down on the kitchen counter so they could do body shots against your skin. They were loud, boisterous, with breaths that smelled entirely too much like cheap beer and warm tequila, and didn’t know a thing when it came to keeping their hands to themselves. Some you had kissed, others you had ignored completely after a minute or two of a one-sided conversation, but they were all the same.
So when you first walked into the house party and were immediately drawn to a laugh that seemed to drown everyone else out, you rolled your eyes at the red solo cup in his hand and even more so by the fact he was playing beer pong.
“No,” you emphasized to your friend when you caught them looking at you, a waggle to their eyebrows. “Absolutely not. I have sworn off frat boys.”
"He doesn’t belong to a fraternity," they explained, swinging an arm around your shoulders before steering you towards the beverage cooler, "They tried getting him to rush, but that boy only plays football during the week and gets drunk on the weekends."
"You know him?"
Your friend shot you an unbelievable look. “That’s Niall, captain of the football team. Are you sure you even go to this school?”
Completely ignoring their statement of who he was, you filled your cup to the brim and turned so you were facing Niall’s direction again, watching his body language as he lobbed the ping pong ball across the table. “He looks like a douchebag with terrible form.”
"He was in my biology class last semester. I only talked to him once to ask for a pencil, but he seemed nice enough. Very cute."
The next time you were going to open your mouth, it was to say something ridiculous, like you were sure he was awful in bed or had the attention span of a four year old, but at the moment when your lips stared to part and your body was going to angle back to your friend, he turned, and his entire fucking face glowed and a row of straight, white teeth bared into a grin.
Maybe he wasn’t looking at you, not necessarily, but no matter who he was attentive to, everyone’s gaze seemed to be caught on him — including yours. His biceps bunched when he rolled the sleeves of his shirt up, his body still shaking with laughter and light. His hair was messy, a slight sheen of sweat coated around his hairline, but when he ran a large hand through it, the brunette was more prominent on either side of his head. He was broad in the shoulders and incredibly skinny in the legs, but his height was average and his build was amazing. He captured everyone’s eyes with his smile, drew them in with his laugh, and you’re sure that if you were close enough, you could see just how much those blue eyes twinkled.
So, when he turned his head and you caught the working of his strong jaw, you were distracted for only a moment, not reading his eyes. When you tilted your head back up, heart hammering beneath your chest, you saw. You saw that he was looking straight at you.
(That’s how the beer spilled down the front of your shirt and what made him offer you his sweatshirt by the end of the night.)