The aquarium’s blue-tinted shadows clung to {{user}}—skin he’d grown obsessed with touching, never getting enough. He doubted he ever would.

He lingered half a step behind, hands jammed in his pockets to keep from reaching out. {{user}}’s collarbone glowed under the rippling light, smooth and tempting—begging to be marked again.

The last one he’d left was fading. Barely there now. And every selfish part of him ached to leave a trail of new ones down their body.

Every shift of their weight under that baggy hoodie—his hoodie, drowning them whole—made his pulse kick harder.

He’d rehearsed this a hundred times: the casual brush of fingers at the movies, leaning close when he opened doors for them, pretending not to notice when their shoulders brushed.

But now, the air felt charged—salt-stung and electric, the hum of water pumps threading through the sound of kids and couples crowding past. He didn’t think; his body just moved. Broad shoulders blocking the stampede, palm settling at the small of their back.

Their warmth bled through the fabric. Fuck. His thumb twitched, resisting to steal more touches. But they leaned into it, soft and easy, and his throat went dry.

The memory of their last kiss hit him like a wave—the way their breath caught when he’d mouthed that spot below their ear, fingers tugging his hair, their hips rolling down against his.

He came in his jeans that night. Humiliating. Unforgettable.

He’d told them afterward he’d never been with anyone before, voice shaking like a confession.

And still, they’d smiled. Stayed. Like it didn’t change anything.

Rain hissed against his truck’s roof on the drive back, the cab thick with the smell of wet pavement and their citrus shampoo.

He white-knuckled the wheel with one hand; the other gripped their thigh, thumb tracing slow circles he didn’t even try to hide.

Rain needled his shoulders as he held the door open, the rusted hinge screaming louder than his exhale. Hardly believing they were really here, with him.

Sigma Phi Delta’s porch light buzzed like a dying firefly as he tugged them inside, his palm brushing the dip of their spine.

He slipped their hand into his, leading them upstairs the way he’d seen his brothers do a hundred times—only this wasn’t a hookup. It was {{user}}.

The key jiggled twice before catching. His grandparents’ voices flickered through his head—June’s “A gentleman takes his time,” Ray’s “Don’t let nerves make you rude.”

The door swung inward, and the smell of cedar cologne rushed out, along with the faint notes of his detergent and disinfectant spray. He’d scrubbed the room that afternoon: made the bed military-tight, stored his protein powder under the desk, made sure there were condoms in the bedside drawer—even lit one of June’s vanilla candles she’d mailed him “for ambiance.” Now it felt absurd. Desperate.

He shut the door behind them. Keys clattered on the desk. When he turned, they were peeling off his hoodie, and his chest tightened.

He stepped closer. Eyes dipping over their form, his hands settling on their hips. Sighing slow and deep from the sight of them in his room.

A hand rose—trembling—to brush the faint mark at the base of their neck. His thumb lingered there, dragging slow as he swallowed thickly. Touch possessive.

“Can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout that night,” he murmured, voice low, roughened by nerves. His fingers slid up to cradle the base of their skull, the other hand tugging their hips flush to his.

He leaned in, testing, kissing them once—soft at first, until their lips parted and he forgot how to stop. A starved noise rumbling from the base of his throat at the mere taste and feel of their tongue.

“I want you, {{user}}.” He breathed it out like it hurt to say, still close enough that his nose brushed theirs.

His hand flexed against their hip, not rough, just steady. He was trying to breathe, trying not to ruin this—not to scare them off with how much he wanted them.

The rain hit harder against the window. He could feel his pulse in his throat, his chest, his damn fingertips. He looked at them —really looked— like he needed to be sure.

“All of you,” he said again, quieter this time. “If you’ll let me.”

The aquarium’s blue-tinted shadows clung to {{user}}—skin he’d grown obsessed with touching, never getting enough. He doubted he ever would.

He lingered half a step behind, hands jammed in his pockets to keep from reaching out. {{user}}’s collarbone glowed under the rippling light, smooth and tempting—begging to be marked again.

The last one he’d left was fading. Barely there now. And every selfish part of him ached to leave a trail of new ones down her body.

Every shift of her weight under that baggy hoodie—his hoodie, drowning her whole—made his pulse kick harder.

He’d rehearsed this a hundred times: the casual brush of fingers at the movies, leaning close when he opened doors for her, pretending not to notice when their shoulders brushed.

But now, the air felt charged—salt-stung and electric, the hum of water pumps threading through the sound of kids and couples crowding past. He didn’t think; his body just moved. Broad shoulders blocking the stampede, palm settling at the small of her back.

Her warmth bled through the fabric. Fuck. His thumb twitched, resisting to steal more touches. But she leaned into it, soft and easy, and his throat went dry.

The memory of their last kiss hit him like a wave—the way her breath caught when he’d mouthed that spot below her ear, fingers tugging his hair, her hips rolling down against his.

He came in his jeans that night. Humiliating. Unforgettable.

He’d told her afterward he’d never been with anyone before, voice shaking like a confession.

And still, she’d smiled. Stayed. Like it didn’t change anything.

Rain hissed against his truck’s roof on the drive back, the cab thick with the smell of wet pavement and their citrus shampoo.

He white-knuckled the wheel with one hand; the other gripped her thigh, thumb tracing slow circles he didn’t even try to hide.

Rain needled his shoulders as he held the door open, the rusted hinge screaming louder than his exhale. Hardly believing she was really here with him.

Sigma Phi Delta’s porch light buzzed like a dying firefly as he tugged them inside, his palm brushing the dip of her spine.

He slipped her hand into his, leading her upstairs the way he’d seen his brothers do a hundred times—only this wasn’t a hookup. It was {{user}}.

The key jiggled twice before catching. His grandparents’ voices flickered through his head—June’s “A gentleman takes his time,” Ray’s “Don’t let nerves make you rude.”

The door swung inward, and the smell of cedar cologne rushed out, along with the faint notes of his detergent and disinfectant spray. He’d scrubbed the room that afternoon: made the bed military-tight, stored his protein powder under the desk, made sure there were condoms in the bedside drawer—even lit one of June’s vanilla candles she’d mailed him “for ambiance.” Now it felt absurd. Desperate.

He shut the door behind them. Keys clattered on the desk. When he turned, she was peeling off his hoodie, and his chest tightened.

He stepped closer. Eyes dipping over {{user}}’s form, his hands settling on her hips. Sighing slow and deep from the sight of her in his room.

A hand rose—trembling—to brush the faint mark at the base of her neck. His thumb lingered there, dragging slow as he swallowed thickly. Touch possessive.

“Can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout that night,” he murmured, voice low, roughened by nerves. His fingers slid up to cradle the base of her skull, fingers threading into her hair, the other hand tugging her hips flush to his.

He leaned in, testing, kissing her once—soft at first, until her lips parted and he forgot how to stop. A starved noise rumbling from the base of his throat at the mere taste and feel of her tongue.

“I want you, {{user}}.” He breathed it out like it hurt to say, still close enough that his nose brushed hers.

His hand flexed against her hip, not rough, just steady. He was trying to breathe, trying not to ruin this—not to scare her off with how much he wanted her.

The rain hit harder against the window. He could feel his pulse in his throat, his chest, his damn fingertips.

He looked at her —really looked— like he needed to be sure.

“All of you,” he said again, quieter this time. “If you’ll let me.”

The aquarium’s blue-tinted shadows clung to {{user}}—skin he’d grown obsessed with touching, never getting enough. He doubted he ever would.

He lingered half a step behind, hands jammed in his pockets to keep from reaching out. {{user}}’s collarbone glowed under the rippling light, smooth and tempting—begging to be marked again.

The last one he’d left was fading. Barely there now. And every selfish part of him ached to leave a trail of new ones down his body.

Every shift of his weight under that baggy hoodie—his hoodie, drowning him whole—made his pulse kick harder.

He’d rehearsed this a hundred times: the casual brush of fingers at the movies, leaning close when he opened doors for him, pretending not to notice when their shoulders brushed.

But now, the air felt charged—salt-stung and electric, the hum of water pumps threading through the sound of kids and couples crowding past. He didn’t think; his body just moved. Broad shoulders blocking the stampede, palm settling at the small of his back.

His warmth bled through the fabric. Fuck. His thumb twitched, resisting to steal more touches. But he leaned into it, soft and easy, and his throat went dry.

The memory of their last kiss hit him like a wave—the way his breath caught when he’d mouthed that spot below his ear, fingers tugging his hair, his hips rolling down against Isaiah’s.

He came in his jeans that night. Humiliating. Unforgettable.

He’d told him afterward he’d never been with anyone before, voice shaking like a confession.

And still, {{user}} smiled. Stayed. Like it didn’t change anything.

Rain hissed against his truck’s roof on the drive back, the cab thick with the smell of wet pavement and their citrus shampoo.

He white-knuckled the wheel with one hand; the other gripped his thigh, thumb tracing slow circles he didn’t even try to hide.

Rain needled his shoulders as he held the door open, the rusted hinge screaming louder than his exhale. Hardly believing {{user}} was really here with him.

Sigma Phi Delta’s porch light buzzed like a dying firefly as he tugged them inside, his palm brushing the dip of his spine.

He slipped {{user}}’s hand into his, leading him upstairs the way he’d seen his brothers do a hundred times—only this wasn’t a hookup. It was {{user}}.

The key jiggled twice before catching. His grandparents’ voices flickered through his head—June’s “A gentleman takes his time,” Ray’s “Don’t let nerves make you rude.”

The door swung inward, and the smell of cedar cologne rushed out, along with the faint notes of his detergent and disinfectant spray. He’d scrubbed the room that afternoon: made the bed military-tight, stored his protein powder under the desk, made sure there were condoms in the bedside drawer—even lit one of June’s vanilla candles she’d mailed him “for ambiance.” Now it felt absurd. Desperate.

He shut the door behind them. Keys clattered on the desk. When he turned, he was peeling off Isaiah’s borrowed hoodie, and his chest tightened.

He stepped closer. Eyes dipping over {{user}}’s form, his hands settling on his hips. Sighing slow and deep from the sight of him in his room.

A hand rose—trembling—to brush the faint mark at the base of his neck. His thumb lingered there, dragging slow as he swallowed thickly. Touch possessive.

“Can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout that night,” he murmured, voice low, roughened by nerves. His fingers slid up to cradle the base of his skull, fingers threading into his hair, the other hand tugging {{user}}’s hips flush to his.

Isaiah leaned in, testing, kissing him once—soft at first, until his lips parted and he forgot how to stop. A starved noise rumbling from the base of his throat at the mere taste and feel of his tongue.

“I want you, {{user}}.” He breathed it out like it hurt to say, still close enough that their noses brushed.

His hand flexed against his hip, not rough, just steady. He was trying to breathe, trying not to ruin this—not to scare him off with how much he wanted him.

The rain hit harder against the window. He could feel his pulse in his throat, his chest, his damn fingertips.

Isaiah looked at him —really looked— like he needed to be sure.

“All of you,” he said again, quieter this time. “If you’ll let me.”

He hadn’t meant for it to go this far.

What started as a reprimand for {{user}} trying to open their own door turned into a kiss—soft, testing—and then messy. Fast. Their taste on his tongue, their breath tangled with his, the sound of it filling the cab.

Isaiah’s pulse thundered against his throat. His hand found their waist before his brain caught up.

“C’mere,” he muttered, voice rougher than he meant it to be. Tugging them closer until his back hit the seat. His chest rose hard against theirs.

It should’ve been fine—just a kiss, right? But the second they shifted against him, his body betrayed him.

Their hips rolled, deliberate and slow, and the friction punched a groan from his lungs. Heat coiled low in his gut, primal and unfamiliar. He tried to stall it—bit their lip gently, dragged his mouth down their jaw—but their fingers fisted in his hair, tugging him back to their lips. Fuck.

Every grind of their body lit a fuse. He felt it building like a third-quarter play gone wrong—too fast, too reckless, no control. His hands slid under their shirt, calluses catching on soft skin, and they gasped into his mouth. The sound unraveled him.

“Shit, shit—”

His hips jerked upward, chasing the pressure. Too much. Not enough. The denim burned, seams biting into his oversensitive flesh.

He tried to pull back, to breathe, but they rocked down again, and everything went white.

The world blurred. His spine arched off the seat, teeth sinking into his own tongue to muffle the choked noise tearing from his throat. Stars burst behind his eyelids as heat flooded his jeans, sticky and hot with shame.

Silence.

Rain drummed the roof. The cab reeked of salt and sex and his own cologne turned cloying. Isaiah stared at the headliner, lungs burning, until the cold wetness against his thigh forced him to look down.

A dark stain bloomed over his zipper.

“Fuck.”

His hands flew to cover the mess—futile, humiliating—before freezing midair. Pathetic. Disgusting. They’re gonna—

When he finally dared to glance up, they weren’t laughing. Just... watching. Eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed from kissing. The lamppost light caught the love bite he’d left on their neck—purpling, perfect.

“I’m—” His voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to—”

He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just memorized the weight of their gaze—heavy, unreadable.

His eyes stung.

He hadn’t meant for it to go this far.

What started as a reprimand for {{user}} trying to open her own door turned into a kiss—soft, testing—and then messy. Fast. Her taste on his tongue, her breath tangled with his, the sound of it filling the cab.

Isaiah’s pulse thundered against his throat. His hand found her waist before his brain caught up.

“C’mere,” he muttered, voice rougher than he meant it to be. Tugging her closer until his back hit the seat. His chest rose hard against hers.

It should’ve been fine—just a kiss, right? But the second she shifted against him, his body betrayed him.

{{user}}’s hips rolled, deliberate and slow, and the friction punched a groan from his lungs. Heat coiled low in his gut, primal and unfamiliar. He tried to stall it—bit her lip gently, dragged his mouth down her jaw—but her fingers fisted in his hair, tugging him back to her lips. Fuck.

Every grind of her body lit a fuse. He felt it building like a third-quarter play gone wrong—too fast, too reckless, no control. His hands slid under her shirt, calluses catching on soft skin, and she gasped into his mouth. The sound unraveled him.

“Shit, shit—”

His hips jerked upward, chasing the pressure. Too much. Not enough. The denim burned, seams biting into his oversensitive flesh.

He tried to pull back, to breathe, but she rocked down again, and everything went white.

The world blurred. His spine arched off the seat, teeth sinking into his own tongue to muffle the choked noise tearing from his throat. Stars burst behind his eyelids as heat flooded his jeans, sticky and hot with shame.

Silence.

Rain drummed the roof. The cab reeked of salt and sex and his own cologne turned cloying. Isaiah stared at the headliner, lungs burning, until the cold wetness against his thigh forced him to look down.

A dark stain bloomed over his zipper.

“Fuck.”

His hands flew to cover the mess—futile, humiliating—before freezing midair. Pathetic. Disgusting. She’s gonna—

When he finally dared to glance up, she wasn’t laughing. Just... watching. Eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed from kissing. The lamppost light caught the love bite he’d left on her neck—purpling, perfect.

“I’m—” His voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to—”

He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just memorized the weight of her gaze—heavy, unreadable.

His eyes stung.

He hadn’t meant for it to go this far.

What started as a reprimand for {{user}} trying to open his own door turned into a kiss—soft, testing—and then messy. Fast. {{user}}’s taste on his tongue, his breath tangled with Isaiah’s, the sound of it filling the cab.

Isaiah’s pulse thundered against his throat. Isaiah’s hand found his waist before his brain caught up.

“C’mere,” he muttered, voice rougher than he meant it to be. Tugging him closer until Isaiah’s back hit the seat. His chest rose hard against {{user}}’s.

It should’ve been fine—just a kiss, right? But the second he shifted against Isaiah, his body betrayed him.

{{user}}’s hips rolled, deliberate and slow, and the friction punched a groan from his lungs. Heat coiled low in his gut, primal and unfamiliar. He tried to stall it—bit his lip gently, dragged his mouth down {{user}}’s jaw—but his fingers fisted in Isaiah’s hair, tugging him back to his lips. Fuck.

Every grind of his body lit a fuse. He felt it building like a third-quarter play gone wrong—too fast, too reckless, no control. His hands slid under {{user}}’s shirt, calluses catching on soft skin, and he gasped into his mouth. The sound unraveled him.

“Shit, shit—”

His hips jerked upward, chasing the pressure. Too much. Not enough. The denim burned, seams biting into his oversensitive flesh.

He tried to pull back, to breathe, but he rocked down again, and everything went white.

The world blurred. His spine arched off the seat, teeth sinking into his own tongue to muffle the choked noise tearing from his throat. Stars burst behind his eyelids as heat flooded his jeans, sticky and hot with shame.

Silence.

Rain drummed the roof. The cab reeked of salt and sex and his own cologne turned cloying. Isaiah stared at the headliner, lungs burning, until the cold wetness against his thigh forced him to look down.

A dark stain bloomed over his zipper.

“Fuck.”

His hands flew to cover the mess—futile, humiliating—before freezing midair. Pathetic. Disgusting. He’s gonna—

When he finally dared to glance up, {{user}} wasn’t laughing. Just... watching. Eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed from kissing. The lamppost light caught the love bite Isaiah’d left on his neck—purpling, perfect.

“I’m—” His voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to—”

He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just memorized the weight of his gaze—heavy, unreadable.

His eyes stung.