College is a cushy pseudo-microcosm of the real world where everyone is your age, and not yet plagued by the soul-crushing realities of the real world and things like student loans, taxes, and week-ruining hangovers.
He's still not your boyfriend, because he's still with the girl he's been dating since he was 14. He treats you like you're related to him, and he never looks too long at any girl.
He's mastered couldn't-care-less cool, and has a Dionysian ability to keep the keg flowing and become everyone's best friend. His mixology skills exceed that of most 19 year olds, but are still limited to screwdrivers and jungle juice.
The Frat-Star Crush is an evanescent infatuation that will dissipate as soon as you've played guest at a few parties, and have learned to distinguish between confidence and douchebaggery.
(The fact that half the time you see him he's half-naked in a towel maneuvering in his muscly glory from the bathroom to his dorm room doesn't hurt either.) Each semester, you hope your class schedule coordinates with his so your chances of face-time (the real world version) in the hall between classes are increased.
In concordance with Murphy's Law (which was not on your last physics exam), you only bump into him on days when you've overslept after pulling all-nighters, and your unmade tired face prompts him to ask if you're sick.