The Sigma Phi house sat at the top of Greek Row like it owned the street. It probably did. The porch lights were strung with fairy lights that blinked in no particular pattern, bass thumped through the walls, and a line of students snaked down the front steps, IDs out and phones in hand.

You were already inside by nine.

And across the room, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen like he owned it, was Tenya Iida.

He wasn't doing anything special. Just talking to someone—a senior from the rugby team, maybe—his glass held loosely between two fingers, head tilted back in a laugh. His shirt was dark navy, sleeves rolled to his elbows, watch glinting under the kitchen light. His hair was messier than usual, like he'd been running his hands through it all night.