The A List 🚬

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[ 1:18 AM // SIGMA DELTA FRATERNITY ]

This was your favorite part of welcome week at UCLA. Flashing lights, a cheap fog machine filling the room with haze, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, the annual Sig Delt welcome-back party. Right in the middle of it all—close enough to the DJ booth to yell song requests whenever you wanted—were you and your friends. 

You'd been there long enough for the crowd to start thinning out, people stumbling off to fulfill their drunk cravings or heading back to their apartments for the night. You'd just cracked open your fifth can of Surfside—a dangerous game considering the room had started tilting just enough to leave you a little cross-eyed—but it was the first party of the school year. Everyone went all out at Sig Delt's welcome-back party, knowing the next campus-wide excuse to get this drunk wouldn't come around until Halloweekend. 

Matt lingered nearby, half invested in a game of Rage Cage with his teammates while keeping you well within his line of sight. He was drunk for much the same reason you were. As an athlete, nights like these were rare, and he was taking full advantage of the chance to let loose.

All night, with every drink he slammed back, his gaze kept drifting to where you danced with your friends. Somehow, your blonde hair looked untouched by the heat and sweat, catching the colorful lights as it flowed effortlessly with every turn of your head. 

But of course, he didn’t know it was you. From where he stood, all he could make out was your back profile through the shifting crowd. 

Nate Doe, his best friend, had expressed his protectiveness over you to his friends multiple times. You could hold your own, of course. But Nate viewed you like a little sister and had this narrative that you were far too trusting of people, ‘collecting friends like pokemons’, he would say. And he would never trust any of his friends with you, ever. 

You and Matt met through Nate your first year of college and he was instantly attracted to you. Your personality was infectious, the kind that made people gravitate toward you without even realizing it. He knew he could never act on it because you were Nate’s cousin, and he respected that. 

He did flirt with girls from time to time, though. It was harmless, never anything serious. So as he watched the mystery blonde from afar, something about the way she moved kept drawing him in. 

Once the number of red solo cups began to dwindle down to just the bitch cup, he was thinking over what he would say to you and how to execute it when he walked up. He watched his teammate chug the last cup, face scrunched as he willed down the mix of burning alcohol. Matt would usually be cheering him on, watching with a mixture of amusement and disgust, but he took that time to break off from his teammates and stumble over to where you were. 

Some girls who recognized him tried to grab at his arm or trailed their hands across his chest, but he paid them no mind. He was determined to get to you, willing the crowd to shuffle him closer. 

You'd always been a little oblivious to how effortlessly you drew people in. Guys approaching you at parties, asking you to dance, had become so normal that you hardly gave it a second thought. It wasn't just your looks that kept people around, though. There was something undeniably free-spirited about you that made people want to stay.

So when Matt came up behind you, leaning in close enough to be heard over the music as he asked you to dance, you smiled and nodded without hesitation. You let him slip into your space, his hands settling gently on your hips as he guided you in time with the music.  

A few of your friends let out cheers. 

“Get it, girl!” one of them called. 

This was nothing out of the ordinary for them to witness. You dancing with some mystery man at any function or while you were out at the bar was basically routine. 

And, whoever this guy was, actually had a good rhythm to him. The two of you moving effortlessly in each other’s orbits like it had been choreographed before. 

You twirled around, wanting to finally put a face to the guy who'd managed to impress you like this. But after your fifth and final Surfside, your vision had gone pleasantly fuzzy, and the colorful lights flashing around the fraternity house only made it worse. No matter how hard your brain tried to catch up, you couldn't quite process who you were looking at.

You grinned.

"You're... really good," you slurred, your hips never missing the beat. 

Matt, on the other hand, was freaking the fuck out.

He recognized those eyes... that nose... those lips.

It was the face he'd been dreaming about ever since Nate had dragged him along to that pregame you happened to be at.

Seeing your face triggered some of his senses, your Chanel Number Five perfume completely overtaking the smell of alcohol, sweat, and that fraternity musk that somehow always lingered. 

He was frozen, his tongue refusing to work, as your hands slid up his arms before settling behind his neck. 

“Y/N?” He finally uttered once he got his brain to work again. He hadn't even realized he'd leaned in, his face now only inches from yours.

When he said your name you blinked up at him, trying to focus on his face and figure out why it was so familiar.  

When you finally managed to cut through the haze, your bleary eyes lingering on his face long enough for it to come into focus, it clicked. 

A hot, pleasant thrill washed over you. “Matt?” 

The little London accent you had when you said his name, now slightly Americanized after your time in the States, confirmed to him that it was you.

You could not deny, Matt was attractive. Your eyes were always drawn to him on the field, ball tucked against his side, legs pumping him towards the endzone, UCLA’s star Wide Receiver. 

Maybe it was because he was one of the few football players you actually knew. Or maybe, somewhere along the way, you found yourself lingering outside the locker room after games with a few of the girls, pretending to be caught up in gossip while secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of Matt—his hair still damp from a fresh shower, falling onto his forehead, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, wired headphones tucked into his ears, and that same focused expression as he strode out of the stadium.

But he was Nate’s best friend. He was completely off-limits. 

Even as you told yourself that, your hips kept swaying, your hands stayed on him, and his remained firmly on you. 

His eyes roamed all over your face, a smile now stretched across his lips. “What the hell are you doing here, trouble?” 

A nickname Matt had given you when you called him drunk one night because Nate wasn’t picking up and asked him to bring you some cheese fries from Fat Sal’s. Naturally, he'd done it, showing up at your apartment with the food in hand, only for you to spend the next twenty minutes trying to convince him to stay and keep you company. 

He was sober then and had half the mind to deny the request, after making sure you were taken care of, of course. But right now, with alcohol buzzing through his system and a packed dance floor swallowing the two of you whole, his inhibitions had all but disappeared.

"Like... in your arms?" you asked with a giggle. "Or at this party?"

“Both?” he echoed, the word coming out more like a question than an answer. His hands slid higher to your waist, holding you a little tighter, his thumbs brushing against the strip of exposed skin beneath the hem of your top. 

The skin-to-skin contact was electrifying, every brush of his thumb sending a spark racing through you. 

"I'm always at a party," you shrugged. “Can't say I'm always in your arms, though. And I think I like being in them.” You said, the alcohol letting the words spill out with ease.

He shook his head at you, subconsciously pulling you closer, “You flirting with me? You must be drunk, trouble.” 

Your hand on the back of his neck went up into his hair, brown locks threading through your fingers. “So are you.” You volleyed back, your smile matching his. 

“So we’re both drunk n’ flirting.” His voice was a smooth rumble, his nose now brushing against yours. 

Your fingers tightened in his hair as his breath ghosted across your lips. While you may have enjoyed dancing with guys at parties and bars, you still had enough decorum to avoid making out with them in the middle of a frat party. 

But with Matt leaning in and the alcohol pumping through your body, your thoughts became jumbled. You were absolutely going to let him kiss you in the middle of the sticky, sweaty floor, your muddy frat shoes brushing against each other as you moved closer. 

Matt didn’t know where he got the fucking balls to do this. Especially in a place where so many eyes could see and report back to Nate. But in that moment, he didn’t give a fuck. He would absolutely take a punch to the face from his best friend if it meant he finally got to act on his long-standing crush on you. 

Before you could bridge that distance, though, you were jolted apart by a startling splash of cold liquid across your chest. The sharp smell of alcohol immediately overpowered your perfume. 

Your head spun around, trying to find who did it and if it was on purpose or not. But the only evidence you could find was nestled under the toe of your dirty Adidas shoe: a crushed Coors Light can staring back up at you.

“Shit.” Matt muttered, springing into action and grabbing your hand. “You alright?” 

You nodded, looking down at the white top you were wearing, now stained and smelling of beer and slowly turning translucent.You carefully pulled your hair away from your chest, which was already starting to feel sticky.

You knew better than to wear a white shirt to a frat party, because shit like this always happened. In fact, Sage—your best friend and basically a veteran when it came to frat parties—had warned you not to wear the white shirt while you were FaceTiming her earlier.

You were more irritated with yourself than whoever spilled their drink on you. 

“Guess that means it’s time to go home.” You grumbled, upset that your fun had come to an end. 

Matt tried not to stare at your soaked top, the wet fabric slowly revealing the outline of your bra underneath. Instead, he focused on figuring out how to fix the situation. 

He tugged lightly on your hand. Once he knew he had permission to touch you, he didn’t want to stop. “I can walk you home,” he offered.

He also didn’t want to stop being near you now that you’d shared that almost-kiss—the way your fingers had tangled in his hair, the way his hands had settled on your waist, the two of you hovering only inches apart before the moment was ruined.

Maybe if he stretched the night on further, it would end up in a kiss. A kiss with you is something he’d pathetically been fantasizing about since he’d gotten to know you three years ago. 

You looked up at him, kicking the can away with your shoe. “You don’t have to. I came with people.” You motioned to the small crowd of girls behind you, completely lost in their own drunken haze. 

Matt laughed at the sight, “Yeah, right. And if they’re not ready to leave?” 

You tilted your chin up, carrying yourself with the same confidence you brought into every room. “I can walk myself home. I know my way around UCLA. And, contrary to popular belief, Brits can read American road signs.”

Matt huffed out a laugh, looking at you fondly. “No shit, trouble.” He played along with the joke. “But I’d rather know you got home safe.”  

You made a show of considering it, letting Matt wait for your answer.

“Guess I can’t really resist an offer like that from a hot football player.” Your words were casual, but your heart was racing. 

Your comment boosted Matt up even more. The flirtatious energy between you two spurred him on.

You said a quick goodbye to your girls, assuring them you were alright when they asked about your top. You made each of them pinky promise to text the group chat once they got home.

Then you and Matt were on your way out of the party, hand in hand, giggling like two teenagers who just discovered their favorite boyband was showing up to their house. 

But Matt stopped you just outside Sig Delt's house.

"Hold up," he said, gently pulling you to a stop.

You turned to look at him quizzically. He didn't say anything else. Instead, he tugged his shirt over his head without a second thought before holding it out to you.

"Here. Before the creeps lurking around Westwood decide to make your night even worse."

You couldn't resist letting your eyes wander over his lean frame, tattoos scattered across his left arm. Part of you wanted to reach out and trace each tricep you could see with your fingertips. You wondered if he’d always had these muscles, or if they grew more prominent with his time on the football team. 

Matt caught you staring and gave his bicep a quick, teasing flex, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You took the shirt from him with a quiet thanks before slipping it over your ruined top. His warm sandalwood cologne instantly enveloped you. 

The gesture would've been sweet under any other circumstances, but right now, it was almost laughable. Matt stood shirtless on the cracked sidewalk outside a fraternity house, empty cans littering the lawn, the smell of weed hanging thick in the air, and people clinging to each other just to stay upright—although you would be doing the exact same thing on your walk home with Matt.

[ 2:02 AM // CHEER!READER'S APARTMENT ] 

Matt walked you all the way to your apartment door. The walk there was nothing short of playful flirting, punctuated by you repeatedly trying to shove him into every sprinkler that sputtered to life along the way. It had everything to do with wanting to see his skin and muscles glisten beneath the water. 

The alcohol buzz was slowly wearing off of you, making you feel less drunkenly dizzy and more tipsy.

“Surprised you didn’t drag me to Fat Sal’s on the way here.” Matt teased as you pushed your door open. 

You turned to face him. He leaned against the doorframe, the same smile he'd worn all night now softened into something a little lazier.

“Don’t put the thought of cheese fries in my head, or I really will drag us to Fat Sal’s,” you threatened, though there was no real venom behind your words. 

Fat Sal's was absolutely your go-to drunchies cravings.

You peeled Matt’s t-shirt off and extended it to him. He didn’t take it right away, his eyes dropping to the shirt bunched up in your hand. 

He didn’t want the night to end here, you shutting the door on him and then what? You two forget about everything that ever happened tonight? 

“You got anything to eat?” he blurted, despite not being hungry. “All this talk about cheese fries is making me hungry.” 

You snorted at the sudden question, stepping aside to let him in. “I’m sure I can find something.” 

Usually, by this point in the night, you’d be crashing straight into bed, fumbling into an old T-shirt just before your face hit the pillow.

But you were feeling a little giddy right now. Your little crush on Matt finally seemed to be going somewhere, and you wanted to bask in it for as long as you could.

You shut the door behind him and tossed him his t-shirt which he easily caught before slipping it back on.

You'd been lucky enough to have your own apartment at UCLA. Most students had roommates, but your dad insisted on getting you your own place after your freshman year. 

But roommates aren't a foreign concept to you. You had one your freshman year here at UCLA when you lived in Deluxe Hall with Sage. Sage was your random roommate turned best friend. The two of you easily bonding over being fun-loving and sharing your inability to sit still for too long. 

You led Matt into your tiny, frugal kitchen. The only actual cookware you owned was a single pot for boiling pasta—one of the few meals you knew how to make. 

You shuffled through the cabinets, searching for something you could throw together. Your movements were lazy, masked with the drinks you've had tonight, your plates clanging against each cabinet you slammed.

Matt lingered by the sink, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed as he watched you. The amused smile he'd been wearing all night gradually faded into something more puzzled... and then quietly concerned. 

“How do you feel about ramen?” You finally asked, pulling out two packs of it. 

Matt couldn't have given less of a shit about ramen right now. He'd only asked because he wanted an excuse to spend more time with you. Truthfully, he'd never understood the appeal of ramen anyway. There wasn't a shred of nutritional value in it. Then again, he could say the same thing about alcohol. At least alcohol came with a good night. Ramen just came with fucking nothing. 

“Seriously, kid?” he muttered. “Don’t you have, like, all the money in the world? And you buy fucking ramen?”

The smile slipped from your face, and Matt immediately regretted the joke.

“I don’t really know how to cook,” you admitted quietly, the ramen packets crinkling between your fingers.

He pushed off the counter with a sigh, crossing the kitchen to your fridge. “Let’s see how we can improve tonight’s meal.” 

He pulled the fridge open, only to find a half gallon of milk, yogurt, and some fruit to be staring back at him. God, you weren’t fucking kidding. 

He straightened up and shut the fridge door. “Ramen it is, then.” He looked over at you with a smile before taking the packets from your hands. “I’ll cook them. I think they taste better made in a pot anyway.” 

You pointed toward the cabinet beside the oven—an appliance you'd never actually used. “The pot's in there.”

He grabbed the pot and began cooking the ramen for you two. You appreciated him not making you feel bad or judged about not being able to cook. 

You’ve just never had a reason to cook. Most of your friends at UCLA treated cooking like it was a basic life skill—something everyone should know by now. Maybe they were right. Eventually, you wouldn't be able to live off takeout or rely on someone else to cook for you. But every time you thought about learning, you had no idea where to begin. 

You watched Matt stir the noodles and seasoning packet together like it was some sort of foreign chemistry. You'd been so fixated on him the entire time, wanting to stay in this moment with him, that you'd completely forgotten to change out of your ruined shirt. You didn’t really care now. 

“You only have one pot and one wooden spoon?” He observed, adjusting the heat on the stove. 

You shrugged. “Yeah. Like I said, I’ve never really cooked. The only thing I’m an expert at is pasta.” 

He raised his eyebrows in faux surprise, “Wow. We have a real culinary chef on our hands.” 

You rolled your eyes at him. “Hey! I’ve never had a reason to cook.” 

He watched you for a moment, an affectionate smile creeping onto his face at your whiny voice and slight pout. “Well, you’re gonna have to learn, trouble.” 

“I’ve tried!” you huffed. “But I never know where to start, and then it gets so complicated.”  

He couldn't help the laugh that escaped him, his eyes never leaving yours. “I can teach you how to cook.”

You smiled up at him, your own expression softening as your eyes met his. “So you're offering to willingly hang out with me?” 

He set the wooden spoon down on the counter and turned to face you, his hands already reaching for your waist. “I’ve been dreaming of hanging out with you.” 

Warmth bloomed across your chest—still sticky with beer—at his quiet admission. But maybe you were reading too much into it. You'd never assumed someone liked you that way unless they made it painfully obvious, the words coming straight from their mouth. 

“Have you?” you crooned, closing the distance between you as his hands settled on your waist, right where they'd been for most of the night. 

“Oh absolutely.” He rumbled, eyes drifting to your lips. 

You both leaned in again, your heart fluttering at the thought of finally finishing what you'd started. Your hands slid up his arms, your fingers curling around the biceps you'd been trying not to stare at all night. 

His firm muscles flexed under your fingers, his nose knocking against yours. Just as your lips finally grazed each other's, Matt's phone began ringing in his pocket. At the same time, the pot boiled over, water hissing as it spilled across the burner. 

Matt groaned under his breath before reluctantly letting you go. He lunged for the stove, yanking the pot off the burner while fishing his phone out of his pocket. His eyes flicked to the caller ID.

“Should I still trust you to teach me how to cook?” you teased, still a little breathless from your second interrupted almost-kiss.

Matt stared at the name lighting up his screen before setting the pot in the sink.

“It's Nate,” he muttered, silently cursing to himself as he answered the call.

Something unpleasant settled in the pit of your stomach, guilt prickling beneath your skin until you felt almost clammy.

Matt answered the phone, his voice immediately shifting into something lighter. “What’s up?”

You stood frozen a few feet away, watching the conversation unfold. The quiet of your apartment made it easy to hear Nate's voice crackling through the speaker.

“What are you doing at Y/N’s place? I was looking at your location.”

Oh, shit.

Your heart dropped.

Matt's did too, though you'd never have known it from the way he kept his expression carefully neutral.

“Someone spilled their drink on her at the Sig Delt party, so I walked her home,” he replied evenly. It was the truth... just not all of it.

“Okay?” Nate drawled, suspicion creeping into his voice. “But you’ve been there for a while, Matt.”

A crease formed between Matt's brows.“Why are you watching my fucking location anyway?”

“I was checking Y/N’s location, and yours popped up right next to hers,” Nate explained, his tone still edged with suspicion. 

You couldn't tear your eyes away from Matt. You watched the way he shifted his weight, the way one hand rested on his hip while the other held the phone to his ear. If someone didn't know him, they'd think he was completely calm.

“Dude, I was just making sure she got home safe, and then I made her something to eat. Apparently she can't cook for shit.”

His eyes flicked toward you, the corner of his mouth lifting into a teasing smile.

You scrunched your nose at him, bringing your hand up to flip him off. 

Despite the joke, your heart still sat somewhere in your throat. You weren't sure what scared you more—that Nate would be angry with Matt or disappointed in you.

Nate barked out a laugh, and you watched some of the tension leave Matt's shoulders.

“Yeah,” Nate snorted. “She really fucking can't.”

He paused, and your heart beat a little faster. You weren't sure what Nate was going to say next—whether he'd keep grilling Matt or if his explanation had been enough to satisfy him. 

“Anyway, you need to get home. I just tried to take the trash out, and the fucking squirrel is back.”

Matt grinned, shaking his head.

Ever since the boys had moved into their off-campus house, they'd been terrorized by a squirrel that insisted on making a home in their trash cans. Every attempt to take the garbage out usually ended with someone yelping and running back inside.

Somehow, Matt had earned the nickname Squirrel Whisperer, mostly because he was the only one who could scare the little menace away without getting scratched. 

“Alright, man. I’m on my way,” Matt said before ending the call. 

He slipped his phone back into his pocket and glanced between you and the stovetop, where ramen broth had boiled over and was already beginning to crust around the burner.

“I can help you clean up,” he offered, feeling guilty that he had to leave so abruptly.

You waved him off with a small smile. “No, it's alright. I may not know how to cook, but I know how to clean. And I don't want Nate lighting your arse on fire.”

The little hint of your accent on "arse" made something warm settle in his chest, and he couldn't help but grin.

“Thanks for tonight.”

You looked up at him, tilting your head. “What did I do?”

“Fulfilled all my fantasies.” He admitted bravely, the alcohol adding to his courage.

One of your brows arched, your heart fluttering somewhere between nerves and excitement. “All of them?” 

He caught the implication immediately, his grin turning devilish.

“Okay... some.” He took a small step closer. “But I've got a feeling you'll take care of the rest soon enough.”

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// @BRUNETTEDOTCOM

no, i'm speaking: first semi-healthy relationship fic. kinda nervy.