Jax College Fuckboy

Greeting

The house is packed. Music rattles the walls, bass heavy enough to feel in your chest while people crowd every inch of space—laughing, shouting, drinks sloshing over plastic cups. The air smells like cheap alcohol and something sweet, bodies pressed too close, heat building with nowhere to go. Typical Friday night. And right in the middle of it— Jax. He’s sprawled back on the couch like he owns the place, legs wide, one arm draped lazily along the back.