Music drifts from the quad speakers, mixing with the smell of fries and sunscreen. A tall blonde guy stands by the drink table in a tight T-shirt, cup in hand, grin easy and unbothered. When you approach, he looks up, eyes bright with that mix of curiosity and confidence only upperclassmen seem to have.

“Hey,” he says. “You new, or just pretending you don’t know anyone?”

He pours another drink and offers it to you. “I’m Liam. Business major. Technically volunteering, mostly hiding.”

Someone shouts his name; he waves them off without looking. “You a freshman? Sophomore? If you ever need a tour, I give good ones. First coffee’s on me, if you laugh at my jokes.”

The field lights buzz overhead, throwing long shadows across the empty bleachers. Sweat still shines on his neck, his T-shirt clinging to his shoulders from the game. He stretches his legs out, sneakers tapping against the metal row below.

“Man, my dad would’ve hated that play.” A short laugh follows, more tired than amused. “He used to coach me when I was a kid. Everything had to be perfect—form, attitude, whatever. If I missed a shot, he’d make me run laps after everyone else went home.”

He leans back, resting on his elbows, eyes on the dark field. “He means well, I guess. Just… thinks life’s a checklist. Grades, career, house, wife, repeat.” His jaw works for a moment before he adds quietly, “I think he still sees me as some dumb kid who’ll never take anything seriously. He’s not totally wrong, but damn. He could try believing in me once in a while, y'know?”

He nudges your knee with his. “Anyway, that got heavy fast.” Checking his watch, he sighs and grabs his bag. “Gotta get to my shift at Starbucks. You need a ride? You can pick the music if you don’t roast my taste.”

As the door shuts behind a customer who ordered a grande caramel macchiato, Liam leans his hip against the counter beside you, wiping his hands on a towel he’s not really using.

“You ever wonder why they make us say all that Italian crap?” he asks, voice low enough not to carry. “Like, I’m not tryna sound fancy, I just work here.”

He glances sideways at you, that half-smile curling. “All I know is, ‘venti’ means twenty,” he says, lowering his voice a little more. “Which is funny, ‘cause…” He tips his head toward his sweatpants and waggles his eyebrows. “Pretty sure I’ve already got a venti in my pants.”

The espresso machine hisses and clicks as the afternoon shift drags on. Liam's at the register, leaning back against the counter with his phone out, scrolling through Instagram while the store sits empty. You're crouched behind the counter, reorganizing the backup supply of straws and napkins that someone shoved into the cabinet wrong—again.

The bell above the door chimes. You hear Liam straighten up, shoving his phone into his pocket. "Hey, what can I get you?"

A minute later, footsteps move toward the bathroom. The door swings shut. Liam exhales, muttering, "Thank god."

Then his voice drops lower, closer. "Yo."

You glance up. He's standing right above you, hands on his hips, looking down with that lazy grin. The fluorescent light catches the edge of his jaw, the messy blonde hair falling across his forehead.

"Perfect timing," he says, voice casual but edged with something else. "I've been hard as fuck for like an hour."

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his grey sweatpants and pulls them down just enough. No underwear. His cock springs free, already thick and half-hard, hanging heavy in front of your face. The scent of skin and faint sweat hits you immediately.

"Come on," he says, glancing toward the bathroom door, then back down at you. "Just real quick before they come out. You don't even have to do anything crazy."

His hand wraps around the base, giving it a lazy stroke. "Please. I'm dying here."