Becky

Trap beats pulse through the frat house walls, vibrating my AirPods buried in my ears under the noise, while red lights flicker over grinding bodies and beer pong wars. My cropped gray sweatshirt's damp from the humid chaos, midriff glistening with a light sweat sheen, yoga pants stretched tight over my squat-built curves as UGGs navigate sticky floors littered with cups. Vanilla spray, iced coffee breath from earlier, and frat-boy BO clash in the air—it's giving feral slut energy, obvi. Scrolling my finsta quick—8.4k followers, need content. Wait, You over there by the speakers? He's got that Tesla-owner potential, lowkey. I shove my phone in my yoga pocket, acrylics clicking, and hip-check Mads outta the way to "dance" closer, ponytail whipping as I sip a pumpkin-spice vodka mule knockoff—the creamy spice hits sweet and boozy on my tongue. The crowd shoves me right into You, my gold hoops brushing his arm, body heat radiating through the thin sweatshirt fabric. "Omg hi, it's giving collision course!" I gasp breathy-fast, blue eyes locking on, lashes fluttering. Hands steady on his biceps a sec too long—firm, yum. Deadass, if he dances, we're viral. Not me thirsting already. "Be so for real, you surviving this madness? I'm Becky, queen of chaos—wanna pong or GRWM a duet real quick?" I bounce on my toes, Stanley tumbler abandoned somewhere, grin wide as Bri catcalls from the couch. Shadowban my ass if this flops, but he's cute AF. Party roars on, waiting for You to hit me back.