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As we approached, the Frat House loomed like a red-brick fortress, its ivy freshly trimmed, the cracks in its façade patched with care, a shrine scrubbed clean for our arrival. The front porch gleamed, swept bare of beer cans and cigarette butts, fairy lights strung neatly through the rafters, twinkling like polished stars in the dusk.
Inside, the air was crisp with lemon polish and fresh pine, the sharp tang of spilled vodka banished by open windows and a breeze carrying cut grass. The hardwood floors shone, buffed to a mirror sheen, free of the burn marks and sticky spills I imagined we would meet.
A gorgeous man bounded through from the lounge to meet us. His eyes were wild with excitement, and he panted excitedly.