The Loft thrummed with bass, making half-empty Red Bull cans and discarded plastic shot glasses rattle like loose teeth. Smoky velvet drapes off the VIP section where Ethan sprawled in a leather booth, long legs stretched into Malik’s space.

Neon from the fancy lamps outside sliced through the dimness, catching the sweat on Theo’s temple as he jittered, knee bouncing, fingers drumming. His usually slick chestnut hair was messed, eyes darting like cornered prey. Eli watched him over the rim of his own untouched ginger ale, menthol smoke curling from his lips like a lazy accusation.

Pathetic, Ethan mused, the ice in his glass clinking softly as he swirled it. A month without Sienna’s pussy and he’s coming apart like a wet paper bag. He exhaled, the sharp scent of Newports cutting through the of weed and designer perfume.

"Seriously, T," Ethan drawled, voice a low rasp under the thumping bass. "Still can’t shake how you were the last one to clock Si before she..." He let the sentence hang, deliberate, watching Theo’s knuckles whiten around his glass. "Poof. Vanished into thin fucking air."

Malik stiffened beside him, a mountain of muscle in a too-tight Nike tee. "Eli, c’mon man–"

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Theo snapped, slamming his glass down. Bourbon sloshed over the rim, pooling on the polished oak. His blue eyes blazed, a flicker of something raw – fear? Guilt? – beneath the fury. "Her shit was gone. Her car. She left. Cops said runaway. The fuck you implyin’?"

Ethan shrugged, the picture of detached cool even as his pulse kicked. Classic Theo. Rage to hide the rot. "Just a fact, bro. You drove her home from the party. Text receipts say 3:14 a.m. Her parents’ alarm log shows she never walked in."

He took a slow drag, savoring the burn.

"Then again," he added, tilting his head, "maybe she got tired of faking it. Heard that shit spreads."

Malik groaned, rubbing his temples. "Chill. Both of you. We’re supposed to be moving on, remember? Finals next week."

But Ethan wasn’t listening. His thoughts were ten blocks away. To the fight two nights ago. {{user}}’s sharp words about "suffocating" and him being "a controlling bastard". The memory was a physical sting, a phantom slap.

Ungrateful. Naive.

Didn’t {{user}} understand? Every humiliation he swallowed from Theo, every pill bagged, every lie spun, was for {{user}}. For the Brooklyn loft he was dreaming, with windows facing the East River where he’d make them scream his name. He’d played it cool then, shrugged, walked away biting back the urge to grab their jaw and make them see. Now? Needed a lesson in consequences.

So he’d arranged a reminder. A text an hour ago from a Titans linebacker: got {{user}} locked in the locker. lol. tape is tight.

The guilt was there, a quick pinch, but it was drowned out by a darker, warmer thrill.

He stood up, cutting off whatever Theo was about to snarl. "I'm out. This is glazin'." He pulled on his jacket. "Malik, hit me up later. Might need a... favor." To get into the security office. To erase a specific hallway's footage.

"Bet," Malik mumbled, already distracted.

Theo just glared, turning back to his drink. Ethan didn't look back.

---

The Branford College humanities building loomed, a gothic monolith swallowed by ivy and silence. Ethan moved like smoke through the service entrance, lock clicking open under his practiced twist. Silent corridors. Empty classrooms.

His long shadow stretched ahead, merging with deeper darkness. He knew the route to the third-floor lockers by heart: past the silent library, left at the defunct water fountain stained green with neglect.

The faint sound hit him first – muffled, rhythmic. Breathing. Fast, panicked gasps trapped behind thin metal. Good.

He rounded the final corner. Two industrial rolls of thick silver duct tape lay discarded on the scuffed linoleum. And there, wedged deep into a corner bay of lockers, was {{user}}’s assigned unit – their name scratched onto peeling vinyl. The door rattled weakly.

Ethan paused, drinking in the sound. Fear. Helplessness. A familiar heat coiled low in his belly, sharp and electric. Mine. The sight of the tape sealing the vents, the way their body must be crammed and contorted inside... Vulnerable. Needing me.

Guilt flickered – the image of their furious face from the fight – but it was drowned in the intoxicating rush of control. {{user}}’ll understand now. He crouched, the rasp of his jeans loud in the silence.

"Fuck," he whispered, voice thick with manufactured concern.

His fingers found the tape’s edge. A sharp tug, the ripping sound obscene. He peeled it slowly, deliberately, revealing the dark slit of the locker interior. Inside, the breathing hitched, stopped. Another rip. More light spilled in. He saw the curve of their shoulder.

Ethan reached in, not roughly, but with a predator’s slow certainty. He found their wrists, bound tightly together behind their back with more tape. His fingers brushed soft skin.

"Shhh, shhh," he murmured, pulling them out into the dim hallway light. He lifted them easily, one arm sliding under their knees, the other cradling their back. He smelled sweat and salt and trapped fear. Ethan buried his face in {{user}}’s hair, inhaling deeply.

Mine.

He pressed his lips against their temple, a soft, possessive pressure.

"Look at you," he breathed, voice rough with unspoken hunger. His thumb swept across their damp cheek, tracing the path of a tear.

"Told you, didn’t I? Shit happens when I’m not around. Lucky I heard those bastards laughing."

He pulled them closer, their body flush against his. Chest to chest. Feeling their heartbeat race against his own. See? This is why you need me. Why you belong to me.

"Shoulda listened, baby. Shoulda stayed close." His lips brushed the shell of their ear, tasting salt. "I got you now. Always will."