My hands ache from clenching them against my chest, knuckles white, skin stretched tight. I'm waiting for Ethan to come out of the bathroom, every second dragging like an eternity. Since Morgan caught us, Ethan's been locked in there, and the minutes crawl, heavy, while the room's air hums with the echo of what happened. I know what I did, how I moved over him, how my body reacted. And fuck, I don't know why I did it at first. I just wanted to shut down the rumors, make it clear we're a couple for the charade, nail phase one of my scholarship plan.
But… shit! I didn't expect my body to light up like that. When I was on top of him, my groin pressed against his, the heat of his skin burning through me… when he pulled off his shirt, hands shaking with nerves… and I saw his abs, firm, defined, glowing under the sunlight streaming through the window… my heart went wild. I don't know why. All I know is I couldn't stop staring, my pulse racing like I was sprinting a marathon, a weird heat surging through me, settling in my chest, my groin, every damn inch of my body.
My body acted on its own. My hands slid over his pecs, down his obliques, to his abs, feeling every muscle under my fingers. It was different, fuck, so different from a woman. Solid, warm, alive, hitting me like a punch. I don't know how to describe it because I don't even get what I was doing. I know even less why I did it. And I sure as hell don't know why I got so nervous, my breath hitching, sweat sliding down my neck.
When Morgan walked in, it was like a jolt of electricity shot through me. The adrenaline kept me wired, even after he left, with that undeniable pressure between my legs, still pressed against Ethan's. And then, looking into his eyes, seeing that strange glint beneath his nerves, that mix of embarrassment and something else… for a split second, I thought maybe we could… No, fuck, no. It can't be. Maybe it was the heat of the moment, the morning, the closeness. It's normal, right? Just crossed wires. I can't… I'm not sure. I'm just not, damn it.
Fuck. What's wrong with me? I don't like guys. I don't like Ethan. He's a friend, a great friend. But then… am I hurting him? Confusing him? Confusing myself? My head's a fucking mess. When he pushed me to the floor, I felt the nerves burn, like my own skin betrayed me. And then he bolted to the bathroom. I know why. He was turned on, just like me. I saw it, felt it, and that fucks me up more.
I tried to laugh, keep it light, normal, like it was nothing, but I know he's rattled. Ethan's gay. Maybe I make him nervous. Maybe he likes me. But I don't like him. Not like that. I think. Shit, I've never felt anything like this. It feels like a mistake, a stray thought that shouldn't be here, but I know I'm not the only one who's gone through this. The idea haunts me, makes me sweat cold, squeezes my chest like a hammer.
My hands shake, sweat slicking my palms. My heart pounds so hard I feel it in my throat, a knot that barely lets me breathe. My skin burns, but a chill crawls down my spine. Every second in front of that closed door is torture, my nerves humming like taut strings. I wipe my hand across my forehead, but the sweat won't quit. My breathing's ragged, uneven, like my body's at war with itself.
The bathroom door swings open. Ethan steps out, shirtless, skin still damp, his face flushed with embarrassment. His eyes barely graze mine, dodging, and that moment shakes me, a heat rising in my chest I can't control. "You okay?" I ask, forcing a smile, trying to sound normal though my voice wavers.
"Not… not sure," he says, brushing past me, heading to the bed with quick steps, like he's trying to escape.
I watch him pause, scanning the room. Then I spot his shirt crumpled in a corner on the wooden floor. I grab it, sit on the bed's edge, and hold it out, looking away so I don't stare too long. He takes it, and when he lifts his arms to put it on, his body stretches, abs tightening under the sunlight. I have to turn my head, force myself to stare at the wall. Fuck. This has never happened to me. Things were fine with him, even until yesterday. But after that touch, after feeling him so close, after touching him… I'm more lost than ever.
I know this will complicate everything. Maybe he'll misread it. Or maybe I'm the one making a mess. I don't know what'll change between us after this. "Noah…" he says suddenly, his voice pulling me out of the storm in my head.
"What?" I reply, almost a whisper, my throat dry.
"You should go to your room… take a shower, get ready, go to class," he says, his voice shaky, like he's searching for an out for both of us.
"You're right," I say, standing slowly, my legs heavy, like the floor's pulling me down.
I bite my lip, glance at him for a second, and the words spill out, trembling: "You're not mad at me, right? I'm sorry, really. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
He sighs, running a hand through his damp hair. "Maybe it was nothing to you," he says, his voice soft, almost apologetic, but heavy. "And I get that, it doesn't have to be. But for me… having you so close, on top of me, your body pressed against mine, in that position that leaves us so exposed, shirtless… it was complicated. It was impossible not to feel something. Impossible not to imagine things, you and me, in situations… in moments I won't detail because I know they'd make you uncomfortable. I'm not scolding you, I just need you to understand this fucks with my head. That's why I think we need space, at least while we keep up this lie. I don't want my head to be a fucking mess."
His words hit me like a gunshot, each one landing with a weight I didn't expect. That he'd confess, so bluntly, that he imagined having sex with me… I should feel disgust, rejection, something clear and logical. But I don't. Just anxiety, a heat burning my face, a strange fear I can't name. It's not about him, not about what he said, but about something in me I don't understand.
I look at him, unable to hold his gaze for more than a second. He blinks, looking away, like he regrets speaking. "I'm sorry, really," I whisper, shrugging, my voice barely there. "Needing space… that's fine. Let's act like this didn't happen, okay? I get what you're saying. I don't want it to be awkward for you, or me. We can keep going without touching it."
"If that's best…" he says, his voice low, subdued, laced with something that might be resignation or relief, or both.
"Cool… see you later," I say, forcing a calm I don't feel.
He smiles, but it's weak, a clumsy attempt to cover the storm we both feel. I move my feet, a knot in my gut that won't loosen, and leave the room, the echo of the door closing behind me like a final note I don't want to accept.
****
The last few days have been heavy between us, like the air itself carries an invisible weight that I can't shake, a knot tightening in my chest every time I'm near Ethan. The friendship that used to flow easy, clean, almost nice, with shared laughs in the frat house halls or casual chats at work, is now pierced by a tension I don't know how to undo. Ethan stays quiet in moments he used to fill with his sharp voice, his answers short, clipped, like he's keeping me at arm's length, and every word, every dodged glance, reminds me of that morning in his room, haunting me like an echo. I try to reach out, salvage what we had, because fuck, I care about him too much—his sarcastic laugh, his way of facing the world, how he makes me feel like not everything's a competition—and I don't want to lose that over a misunderstanding, over a moment that got out of hand.
One day, as sunlight streams through the Main Quad's windows, I suggest studying together at Green Library, hoping the wooden tables and smell of old books might bring us back to something familiar. He agrees, but without enthusiasm, sitting across from me with his notes open, doodling in the margins like it's a chore, not a shared moment. His eyes barely lift from the paper, and when they do, there's a wall in his gaze, a barrier I don't know how to climb. Another day, while we're working at the coffee shop, surrounded by the noise of students and the burnt coffee smell from the kitchen, I toss out a dumb comment about a Tresidder customer who botched the same order three times, hoping to get a laugh. He smiles, barely, a slight curve of his lips that softens the air for a moment, like the old Ethan peeking through, but then he looks down, shuts himself off, and the moment vanishes like smoke. Sometimes I dare to crack light jokes, about the mess of classes or the bored faces in Dinkelspiel, just to see if I can break that wall, and though I sometimes get a smirk, a flash of his biting humor, it never lasts more than a second, and the distance returns, cold, heavy, marking every word, every gesture, like a reminder that something's changed and I don't know how to fix it.
I keep trying, because I don't want to lose him, because what we built before that morning in his room, before my hands betrayed my head, is real to me, it matters, and every silence of his weighs on my chest like a slab. But it's not just us; the frat house isn't calming down either. The fight with Nichols left a mark Morgan didn't ignore, and as punishment, I spent a week cooking for the whole house, days slogging through pots, plates, and mountains of food, the kitchen's heat sticking to my skin, sweat dripping down my forehead as I chopped onions and endured curious stares, the occasional sarcastic jab about "Ethan's boyfriend" that made me grit my teeth. Nichols has turned into a ghost, avoiding me and Ethan in the halls, at meetings in the living room, in the dining area with its reheated pizza smell, always looking away, slipping off like he's scared to face us. Rumors fly fast in Alpha Centauri, whispers in White Plaza, hushed talks at The Coffee House, saying some guys are fed up with Nichols, his toxic comments, how he's treated Ethan, a shadow everyone notices but no one names out loud.
One morning, my head a mess and my chest tight, I go for an early jog before the campus fully wakes. Stanford's cold air slaps my face, the rhythm of my steps on the Main Quad's pavement drowning out the noise in my mind, and for a bit, I feel like I'm running from everything—Ethan, what happened, the confusion that burns when I look at him and don't know what I feel. Sweat soaks my gray tech shirt, clinging to my chest, my black track pants tight, sneakers dusted with dirt, and as I pass Delta Kappa Delta's house, the door opens, and Chris steps out, in light jeans, a simple white tee, hair messy like he just woke up. I stop, surprised, and he freezes too, our eyes meeting in a silence that weighs more than words, the dawn's chill wrapping around us.
"Don't tell me you're back with her," I blurt without thinking, my voice sharp, almost accusing, sweat sliding down my temple.
"What? With Sarah?" Chris frowns, confused, shaking his head fast. "No, she hasn't even been at the house lately."
"She's not at the house? Then where is she?" I ask, leaning toward him, my breath still heavy from the run.
"I've tried talking to her, but she's keeping her distance, probably rethinking things," he says, lowering his voice, his eyes dodging mine for a second before coming back. "I don't know, she's acting weird."
"So what are you doing here this early?" I shoot, crossing my arms, one eyebrow raised.
Chris scratches the back of his neck, messing up his hair, and stammers, his cheeks tinting red. "I… well… shit, I'm seeing someone from here," he admits finally, with a crooked smile, like he wants to hide behind his words.
"Oh, yeah?" I say, letting a sly grin slip. "And here I thought you were up early for yoga with the neighborhood ladies."
Chris lets out a nervous laugh, giving me a light shoulder shove, his laughter ringing in the cool air. "You're an asshole," he says, but his tone's warm, like he's grateful for the joke.
"An asshole with a sharp eye, you give yourself away," I shoot back, pointing at his eyes, my grin growing. "You blink like you're getting flashed by a camera when you lie."
"No way…" Chris touches his face, realizing he's blinking more, and laughs harder, shaking his head. "Fuck, am I that obvious?"
"Like a smoke detector, I smell a lie and start blaring," I tease, feeling the tension of the past days ease a bit, like this chat with Chris is a breather in the chaos.
"Not sure if that's a compliment or a threat," he mutters, amused, still chuckling as he glances at me.
"Depends on how honest you wanna be with me," I reply, winking, and for a moment, I feel that lightness I've missed, that easy camaraderie with Chris.
"Come on, let's head to Alpha Centauri," he says, stepping forward. "If we stay here, you'll grill me until I spill my first dog's name."
"Deal, but it's a double interrogation," I shoot back, walking beside him, my sneakers crunching on the pavement.
We enter Alpha Centauri together, the hallway buzzing with the guys' voices, laughter spilling from the living room, the mixed smell of reheated food and college mess wrapping around us like a cloud. Chris waves at a few guys as we move, his hand flicking in quick greetings, and my eyes drift to the tutoring board on the wall, crammed with scribbled names, tight schedules, and crumpled papers pinned with messy thumbtacks. I linger on it a second too long, like I'm searching for answers in the chaos. Chris catches me, a wry smile curling his lips.
"What, now you're analyzing the schedule like it's a secret code?" he teases, giving me a light elbow nudge.
"You never know," I say, shrugging, letting a smile slip. "Maybe I'll figure out this place runs like a clock, even if everyone's late."
Chris lets out a low laugh, shaking his head, and we keep moving down the hall, the wooden floor creaking under our steps. For a moment, as we talk, as his laughter mixes with the house's noise, I feel a relief I haven't felt in days, a lightness that reminds me how much I value Chris, his way of making me forget, even briefly, the knot I carry over Ethan, the charade, everything I don't know how to name. But even in that calm, part of me can't help drifting back to him, to his silence, to the distance I don't know how to bridge.
****
The past few days have been a heavy whirlwind, like the air between Ethan and me carries an invisible weight that tightens my chest every time our hands brush while walking hand-in-hand across the Main Quad, pretending to be the perfect couple for Stanford's curious eyes. Ethan keeps helping with the scholarship charade, and we pull it off smoothly, but his shoulders tense when my arm grazes his, his dodged glances betraying a nervousness that infects me, a heat creeping up my neck that makes me wobble, like the campus ground isn't solid enough. But we nail it, fuck, we're killing it, because everyone at the university seems convinced we're real, that our clasped hands and forced laughs at Tresidder are pure love. It's a relief, but also a burden, because the friendship that used to flow easy, with casual chats or jokes in the halls, is now pierced by a tension I don't know how to unravel.
I decided not to push him more after that night we slept together as a "couple," or rather, I decided that, because I don't want to confuse myself more than I already am, don't want my head spinning wondering if it was my masculinity or my heart that raced in a wrong moment, because shit, I love women, I'm crazy about them, and I'm not letting a moment of weakness twist my path. I sound like an asshole, I know, circling the same thought, but at least things with Ethan haven't exploded, we're taking it slow, trying not to let the awkwardness grow. Bit by bit, he seems to relax, his smiles less forced when I joke about tutoring or the chaotic schedules at Green Library, though the tension never fully fades, like a constant hum under every word, every look.
To clear my head, I've been hanging out more with Chris and Joe, seeking refuge in their easy camaraderie, in laughs that don't demand overthinking. Joe's been off lately, head down, shoulders slumped, like he's carrying something he won't let go. I remember he was seeing Julie, but it never seemed serious, never saw them share more than quick chats, and when we try to bring it up, he clams up, changes the subject with a mumble and a distant look. So one Friday night, fed up with the house's weight and the rumors still floating from the Nichols fight, we three hit a bar near campus, a noisy dive where neon lights flicker wildly, the air smells of spilled beer and cheap perfume, and the tables are packed with students shouting over the pop music blaring from the speakers. Screens in the back play basketball games no one watches, and the sticky floor crunches under our sneakers as we order round after round, laughing at dumb shit, letting the alcohol drag us to a place where everything feels simple: friends, drinks, chaos.
The night slips away before we notice, empty glasses piling up, laughter getting louder, the bar's heat sticking to our skin. Joe, face flushed from the booze, climbs onto a table, wobbling, and tries to sing Stanford's anthem to the tune of a trending pop song, his off-key voice making Chris and me cheer like he's a rockstar, yelling "Go, Joe!" while others in the bar laugh or glare. I, in a drunken burst of bravado, decide to prove I can still do pull-ups on a ceiling beam, climbing up clumsily, arms shaking, only to crash on my ass to everyone's laughter, the pain in my butt drowned out by the buzz and Chris choking on his beer. We dodge the waiters, who are done with our bullshit, with lame excuses—"yeah, we're leaving, chill"—and promises no one buys, stumbling into the cold at 2 a.m., the streets around campus filled with students staggering back from parties, the icy air hitting our cheeks, mixing with the buzz and shivers.
We walk to the house, Joe leaning on my shoulder, mumbling nonsense as he tries to stop the world from spinning, Chris a bit ahead, scratching his head like it'll clear his thoughts, the wet pavement gleaming under the streetlights. "So, how's it going with Ethan?" Joe slurs out of nowhere, his weight making me wobble.
"Not… great, I guess," I admit, trying to walk straight, though the alcohol has me zigzagging, the cold biting my fingers.
"What'd you do to him now?" Chris jumps in, turning to me, messing up his hair, his tone a mix of teasing and reproach, eyes glinting under the streetlight.
I smirk, though the buzz makes it look clumsy, and wipe my hand across my face, feeling the cold sweat. "Didn't do anything… I think," I say, hesitating. "Just… a dumb move."
"Heard Morgan caught you guys fucking," Joe says casually, and I nearly trip, my heart lurching.
"What?" I yell, spinning to him, losing balance for a second. "Fuck, no!"
"You had sex with Ethan?" Chris stops dead, staring at me, eyes wide, the drunken haze fading from his face.
"No, damn it, that didn't happen," I say fast, raising my hands, feeling heat flood my face, probably red as hell. "That day, when Morgan was banging on the door, I was… on top of him. Thought if he saw us like that, the rumors would spread on their own, no one would doubt we're a couple, and it'd help the scholarship. It was a stupid idea, but nothing happened, I swear."
Joe nods slowly, leaning harder on me, his gaze cloudy from the booze. "I believe you," he mumbles, tired, and it doesn't surprise me, since he knows how I am with girls, the nights we've ended tangled with someone after a party, and that eases me a bit.
Chris, though, stays quiet, frowning, then asks, more serious, his voice cutting the cold air: "So why say things aren't good?"
"I didn't say they're bad," I clarify, wobbling, the world spinning a bit. "I said… I don't know, maybe they're fine, maybe not. It's complicated."
"Is Ethan getting confused?" Joe steps forward, cutting us off, a crooked smile on his face, eyes gleaming with booze and curiosity.
I swallow, wiping my face, cold sweat mixing with the liquor's heat. "Not exactly," I admit, voice low. "He was cool with me, but… he got nervous when I climbed on him and took off my shirt."
Chris and Joe freeze, staring like I spoke another language, their faces stuck between shock and disbelief. Joe opens his mouth, lost for words, and Chris furrows his brow harder. "Excuse me?" Chris says, his tone mixing mockery and disbelief, like he can't process it.
I raise my hands, rushing to clarify before it spirals. "Nothing happened!" I insist, voice firm though my throat shakes. "It was just… I thought if Morgan saw us like that, he'd buy the act. It was strategic, damn it, nothing else, nothing else!"
Joe stares a few seconds, then lets out a clumsy chuckle, wobbling, like he doesn't know whether to take me seriously or laugh. Chris, though, shakes his head, his expression heavier. "Fuck, Noah, that's playing with fire," he says, sighing deeply, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You should drop that shit."
"No," I snap instantly, with a force that surprises me, the alcohol fueling my nerve. "I can't. If I do, I lose the scholarship, tuition, and give my dad the satisfaction of winning. I'm not letting that happen."
Chris stays quiet, his frown lingering, while Joe looks at me like the booze stole his train of thought. "Then fix it," Joe says, shrugging, nearly falling. "Talk to Ethan, don't leave it half-assed. Or this'll blow up."
I nod, my gut knotted, the night's cold biting my bones as we keep walking, silence falling between us, broken only by distant student laughter. Suddenly, a girl bumps into me, her chest grazing my shoulder, making me stumble. She's tall, with Asian features, curves sharp under a tight blouse, her quick smile sparking an instant heat in my groin, a flash reminding me who I am, that I'm still me, that women still light me up like always. I grab her arm to steady her, her soft skin sending a tingle that makes me want to say something, anything, but before I can, Chris grabs my forearm hard, yanking me forward.
"Don't even think about it," he says, his voice sharp, cutting the air. "If you do that, your charade falls apart. And not just that—how would Ethan look? The gay guy dating the university's 'heartthrob'"—he air-quotes, tone dripping sarcasm—"and that heartthrob cheats with the first girl who passes. How do you think that'd look?"
His words hit like a bucket of ice water, the heat fading, leaving an uneasy void in my chest. I lower my head, no response, the buzz mixing with guilt. We keep walking in silence, heavy steps echoing on the pavement, other students' laughter fading as we reach the house, the knot in my gut tighter than ever.