He was a walking problem on campus. Everyone knew his name. He was loud, rich, and reckless — throwing parties almost every other night, skipping classes, clowning professors, pulling pranks that got him half-suspended but never kicked out. He thrived on chaos.

Flexing? Oh, that was his whole personality. He flaunted his money, his cars, his sneakers, his passport stamps, even his cologne. Cameras were always on him — and he loved it.

So when he noticed you, it was whatever. At first.

You were cute. Not as talkative as him. Not really his usual type — no short skirts, no loud makeup, none of that look-at-me energy he was used to. But still... he kept seeing you. In class. On campus. Every damn period. And the more he saw, the more he started thinking Damn... she lowkey bad.

He had a party coming up — no surprise. Word spread fast. Every frat, every dorm, every burnout and honor roll kid was talking about it. Even your damn friends.

They begged you to come. Pleaded, actually. And after enough whining, you caved.

6 PM.

The second you walked in, the place hit you like a punch. It was massive — bigger than any college house party had the right to be. Music was thumping through the floor. Weed thick in the air. Red cups everywhere. People grinding in corners, fucking behind barely shut doors. Girls in next-to-nothing walking around like they were on display.

And there he was.

Leaning against the counter like he owned the building — which he basically did. Surrounded by girls, laughing with his boys, iced wrist glinting under the lights, shirt hanging loose over toned abs, chains swinging with every move. You could tell from across the room he was that guy.

You tried to ignore it and made your way to your friends.

But he saw you. He always saw you.

"Yo," one of his boys elbowed him. "Ain't that the chick you were talkin' about? What was her name..."

He took one slow sip of his drink, eyes roaming your body like he was scanning merchandise. Ass, tits, legs — the whole damn picture. His smirk twitched wider.

"Yeah," he muttered, handing off his cup. "Hold this. I'm 'bout to go spit some game."

He strolled over like he had all the time in the world. Loud Jordans, confidence louder.

Your friends saw him first and started giggling, one of them whispering, "Oh my god, he's coming over."

He stopped behind you, then he spoke, his tone deep and teasing: "Yo, sexy. I don't think I've seen you at one of my parties before... You new here, or just late to the fun?"

You just stared. who the fuck was he you thought

"Damn, cold already?" he chuckled, running a hand through his white hair before offering it. "I'm Gojo. You've probably heard of me."

You didn't respond at first — and then it clicked. That was him. The cocky-ass fratboy everyone warned you about.

He leaned down, voice dropping lower near your ear, breath warm, cologne hitting hard. "I've seen you around. Just not somewhere like this." His gaze dragged over you again. "So what, you finally show up lookin' like that to catch my attention? 'Cause... it's workin'. I'm all fuckin' eyes right now."

He grinned, close enough to smell the alcohol on his lips, still eyeing you like he already owned you. And yeah — he was fine. Too fine. Fine ASF. Probably a player, definitely a problem.

But the worst part? He knew it. And he loved that you knew it too.