For Michael it had been one of those days where he could just breathe without worrying about anything but the exertion of the game. That’s how it should have been. Michael was wrong.

The afternoon sun sat low and hard over the Bedlam pitch, turning the grass into a glittering green that already looked chewed up in places from the first half. The stands were packed with students who had nowhere better to be on a Saturday, their noise rolling down in waves every time the ball moved. Someone had brought a drum. Someone else kept blowing a whistle that wasn’t the referee’s. The air smelled like cut grass, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of blood from someone’s earlier split lip. Michael’s own mouth tasted like the inside of his mouthguard and the last of the electrolyte drink he’d forced down at half-time.

His jersey was already darkened with dirt and sweat across the back. The pack had been working hard; the scrums were messy, the rucks even messier. Michael lived for this part. The physical arithmetic of it. Drive low, bind tight, absorb the contact, keep the ball alive. He didn't have to think about his father's voice, Adam's latest bullshit, or the complicated shape of the dorm room they shared with someone who made everything both better and worse. Out here, there was only the next tackle, the next carry, the next decision measured in fractions of a second.

Adam was somewhere in midfield, his blond-and-green hair flattened beneath his scrum cap, his mouthguard flashing every time he grinned at something only he found funny. He was having the time of his fucking life. Of course he was.

The ball came back from a messy ruck near the twenty-two. Codyn cleared it with a quick pass, River took it on the crash and got buried under two defenders, and then the ball was loose again. Adam scooped it up like it had been waiting for him specifically. He didn’t look for support. He never looked for support when he was in this mood. He put his head down and ran.

“Adam, stop staring at people’s asses and pass the fucking ball.” River’s voice was already raw from shouting. He looked like he was one more provocation away from committing an actual crime on the pitch.

Adam took the hit from a defender, staggered, kept his feet, and somehow still found the breath to answer. “I wasn’t staring. I was appreciating the view.” He chuckled, the sound muffled by the mouthguard. “Calm your gorgeous ass down.”

River’s eyes went flat. “¡Hijo de puta! I’m gonna shove that down your throat!”

Adam winked from under the helmet and shoved forward again, using the defender’s own momentum to spin out of the tackle. The crowd made that rising noise that meant something was happening. Michael felt it in his chest. He was already moving, legs pumping, looking for the support line that Adam was almost certainly going to ignore.

Codyn appeared at Michael’s shoulder, breathing hard, a streak of mud across one cheek. He shoved against Michael’s side as they both tracked Adam’s progress. “Your boy is going to get himself killed.” The slap on Michael’s shoulder was light; Michael barely felt it through the padding. “Seriously. River is pissed and you know how he is when he’s like that.”

Michael grunted. The sound came out low and rough. “River will have to wait in line because when I get my hands on—”

He didn’t finish. Adam had found a gap that shouldn’t have existed. He hit it at full speed, the classic inside-centre line break, shoulders low, ball tucked tight, and then he was through. Two more defenders closed. Adam didn’t chip. He didn’t pass. He just ran through the first one and stepped the second, and suddenly the try line was right there.

“Touchdown, baby!” Adam yelled as he grounded the ball, arms spreading wide like some kind of emperor claiming territory. The referee’s arm went up. The stands detonated. Adam turned, still grinning, and found River already closing the distance. “River, baby, I don’t know what you said but it sounded sexy. Do it again.”

That was it. River saw red. He pushed past two teammates to get at him. “You’re dead!” The tackle was late and ugly and purely personal. Adam hit the ground with a solid uff, the ball already abandoned somewhere behind them. For a second Michael thought River might actually try to pull the helmet off. Adam just laughed up at him, breathless and delighted. “Damn, you’re so hot when you’re mad. If that queen bee of yours doesn’t notice, I will—”

The coach’s whistle cut through everything. Long, sharp, furious. Coach McKenzie was already striding onto the field, face like thunder. The students in the stands were still booming, half of them chanting something obscene, but the game had stopped. Players from both sides were peeling themselves off the grass. Adam stayed on his back a second longer than necessary, still grinning up at the sky like the whole thing had been entertainment put on for his benefit.

Michael stood over him for a moment, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes. He didn’t offer a hand. Adam didn’t ask for one. He rolled up on his own, slapped the dirt off his shorts, and jogged back toward the halfway line like nothing had happened.

The restart was messy. Bedlam’s lineout wobbled, the throw not quite straight, and the opposition stole it clean. Michael was already dropping back into defensive position, calling the numbers, pointing. The first tackle came in hard—someone’s shoulder into his ribs, the kind of contact that rattled teeth. He wrapped, drove, forced the ball carrier down. The ruck formed over them in a tangle of legs and boots. Michael fought for the ball with his hands, fingers scraping for purchase, until Codyn cleared it out the back.

Adam was already calling for it. Michael watched him take the pass on the gain line, hit a short crash, recycle, then take it again two phases later. The way Adam ran was pure arrogance—shoulders loose, head up, looking for the next thing to break. He stepped one defender, fended another, and offloaded late to the wing who was cut down just short of the line. The crowd groaned as one.

River was in Adam’s face the second the whistle went for the next scrum. “You keep fucking around and I’m going to make sure you don’t walk off this field.”

Adam just grinned around his mouthguard. “Promises, promises.”

Michael packed down at the back of the scrum, binding onto the locks, feeling the shove come through his spine. The engagement was messy; the opposition front row was trying to bore in. Michael drove, legs churning, the mud under his boots giving just enough. The ball came back messy. He picked, drove, got held up, recycled. Again. Again. The game was turning into a war of attrition in the middle third, and Michael was built for exactly that.

They reset for another scrum five metres out from the opposition line. Michael could feel the heat coming off the pack, the collective breath of seven other bodies compressed into a single unit. The engagement was violent. The opposition tried to wheel it. Michael shifted his bind, drove harder, felt the ball scrape against his right boot. He scooped it up the second it was clear and went low, legs pumping, head tucked. Two defenders met him. He kept driving, legs still churning even as the weight of both men tried to fold him. The ball popped out the side. Adam was there like he’d known it would happen. He took it at pace, stepped the first man, and was brought down only three metres short.

The ruck formed fast. Michael was already on his feet, binding in, clearing bodies with his shoulders. Codyn arrived a second later and the ball came clean. The fly-half put up a high box kick. The bounce favoured Bedlam. Adam was first to it, gathering cleanly and immediately looking for the gap. He found one. Another line break. This time the cover defence dragged him down just short of the twenty-two, but the damage was done. The crowd was on its feet again.

River was yelling from the far side of the field, his voice carrying over the chaos.

"BRINKLEY! QUIT FUCKING SHOWBOATING AND GET YOUR ASS BACK IN POSITION!" River was screaming from the far side of the field. Michael could barely make out the words over the noise, but the tone was clear enough.

Adam pushed himself to his feet, pulled his mouthguard out and shouted back, "TRY KEEPING UP, YOU MISERABLE BASTARD!"

A couple of players turned their heads. River threw his hands up in disbelief. "ONE DAY I'M GONNA MAKE YOU EAT DIRT, GILIPOLLAS!"

Adam just grinned, shoved his mouthguard back in and jogged into position, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

The next sequence started from a penalty advantage that never quite materialised. Bedlam’s forwards set up a series of short carries. Michael took the first one himself, hitting the same shoulder he’d already bruised, driving through contact until the defence folded him sideways. The ball was recycled fast. River took the next carry and got buried. Codyn cleared. Then Adam called for it on the short side and took a flat pass at pace. He hit the line at an angle that forced the defence to turn, broke the first tackle with a strong fend, and offloaded out of the second to the full-back who was dragged into touch five metres short. The crowd noise rose and fell like a living thing.

Michael was already jogging back, lungs burning, when the opposition launched an attack from the lineout. Their biggest forward broke away with the ball tucked against his chest, driving straight through the middle. Michael stepped into his path and met him head-on. The collision sent both men crashing into the turf. The ball came loose, bouncing awkwardly across the grass.

Adam got there first, scooping it up with one hand before taking off. He spotted a narrow gap between two defenders and accelerated through it, only to have his legs swept out from under him by a desperate ankle tap. He hit the ground, rolled, and was back on his feet almost immediately.

"BALL'S STILL ALIVE! MOVE YOUR ASSES!" he yelled, waving his teammates forward as the referee called advantage.

They worked it through twelve phases after that. Michael lost count of how many times he hit the same defensive wall. His left hip was screaming. His right hand had taken a boot to the knuckles and the skin was split. He kept carrying anyway. Every time the ball came back to the base he was there, binding, driving, forcing the defence to commit numbers. Adam kept appearing on his shoulder or one pass wider, taking the ball at pace and asking questions the defence didn’t always have answers for.

One of those questions turned into the second try. A clean lineout on the opposition twenty-two. The maul formed and then broke early on purpose. The ball came back to the fly-half, who held the defence for half a second longer than necessary before putting Adam into the hole. Adam didn’t need a second invitation. He hit the gap at full speed, fended the full-back with a stiff arm that looked almost casual, and grounded the ball under the posts with the kind of flourish that made Michael want to throttle him and kiss him in equal measure.

This time River didn’t even try to hide the late hit. The referee’s whistle was instant. Yellow card. River walked off with his middle finger half-raised in Adam’s direction. Adam blew him a kiss for the entire stadium to see. "I LOVE YOU TOO, BRO!"

Codyn jogged past Michael on the way back to position, shaking his head. “I’m telling you, one of these days River’s actually going to fuck him up and we’re going to have to help hide the body.”

Michael spat blood and mouthguard foam into the grass. “I’ll hold him down.”

The final quarter was pure attrition mixed with flashes of chaos. Michael carried until his legs burned and then carried again. He tackled until his shoulders ached and the padding felt useless. Every time he looked up, Adam was somewhere in the midfield doing something either brilliant or deliberately inflammatory. The opposition started targeting him with late shots that the referee somehow kept missing. Adam just laughed through every one of them and kept coming back for more.

With eight minutes left Bedlam won a scrum against the head on the opposition ten-metre line. Michael controlled the ball at the base with his right foot, waited for the call, then picked and went himself. He drove low, legs churning through the first tackle, kept his feet through the second, and only went down when a third defender arrived late and high. The ball was recycled clean. Adam took it on the next phase, stepped inside one man, outside the next, and was only stopped by a covering tackle that dragged him into touch. The lineout was messy. Michael rose at the front, won the ball cleanly, and the maul formed around him. They drove it ten metres before the opposition collapsed it illegally. Penalty. Easy three points if they wanted them. Coach McKenzie’s voice carried from the sideline, telling them to go for the corner instead.

They did. The lineout was clean. The maul rolled. Michael was at the back, controlling the ball, feeling the shove of the entire pack behind him. When the maul finally broke he went with it, still on his feet, still driving, until the defence finally brought him down a metre short. The ball came back. Adam was there. He took the short pass, dummy-ran the first defender, and scored in the corner with two men hanging off him.

The conversion was good. The lead was comfortable. The final minutes were mostly about managing the clock and not doing anything stupid. Adam still managed to get under River’s skin one last time with a comment Michael didn’t catch but that made River turn and start walking toward him before Codyn and two other forwards physically redirected him.

The final whistle came as a relief and an irritation at the same time.

They won.

That should have been enough.

The walk back to the locker room was loud. Someone was already singing. Someone else was arguing about the second try. Michael kept his helmet on until the last possible second, the world narrowed to the tunnel of plastic and foam. The second he stepped inside the noise changed—steam from the showers, the slap of wet feet on tile, someone’s speaker already blasting something too loud. Laughter that was already half-hysterical with leftover adrenaline.

Michael ripped his helmet off and dropped it onto the bench hard enough that it bounced. The jersey came next, peeled up and over his head in one motion, the fabric sticking to the sweat on his back. His hair was a mess of dark strands and neon pink, flattened and damp. He could feel the bruises starting to bloom under the skin—hip, ribs, the point of one shoulder where someone’s boot had caught him.

He was pissed.

Adam was having the time of his life.

"What the fuck was that, Moose?" Michael shot him a look, still catching his breath. "You ever gonna learn to shut your mouth and play, or is pissing people off your entire fucking game?"

Codyn had already grabbed a shirt from his locker. He was smirking, the expression lazy and knowing. River came out of the showers with a towel around his hips, still visibly pissed, water dripping from the ends of his dark hair. He didn’t look at either of them as he started pulling clothes out of his bag.

Adam, meanwhile, looked like he had absolutely no intention of going anywhere. Still in most of his kit, his jersey hanging half-unzipped, he was sprawled across the bench with his legs stretched out, looking far too pleased with himself. "Can you fucking relax?" he said, glancing at Michael. "We won, didn't we? You should thank me."

Michael yanked his jersey over his head and flung it onto the floor. It landed in a damp heap. He turned on Adam, taking a couple of steps toward him. "Thank you?" He let out a disbelieving scoff. "You spent half the fucking match showing off, and now you want me to thank you?"

His hand closed on the front of Adam’s jersey. The fabric bunched under his fingers. Adam’s smirk didn’t even flicker. Around them the rest of the team groaned in near-unison, the sound of people who had seen this exact dance too many times.

Codyn pulled his shirt on and grabbed his bag. “Bro, I’m gonna head out. Y’all can have this conversation in private.” He was already moving toward the door, shaking his head. “Try not to break any furniture. Or each other. Actually, break each other if you want. Just not the furniture. That shit’s expensive.”

River was dressed in record time. He shoved his phone into his pocket, backpack already on one shoulder. “I don’t need to see this shit. I’m out, pendejos.” The door swung shut behind him harder than necessary. One by one the others filtered out—some with knowing looks, some with pointed silence—until the locker room was just the two of them and the fading sound of the showers still running somewhere down the row.

The tension changed the second they were alone. It always did.

Michael shoved Adam hard enough that his back hit the lockers with a metallic clang. “What’s your problem, Moose? You were trying to get my attention? Now you have it.”

Adam’s breath hitched, just once. The smirk stayed. “Oh yeah? And what are you gonna do? Punch me?” He laughed, the sound low and warm. “Nothing new. You should switch up your game.”

Michael’s jaw clenched. He closed the distance until there was almost no space left between them. His body was already betraying him—heat low in his gut, the half-hard evidence of it impossible to hide in the tight athletic shorts. Adam looked down. The smirk widened into something sharper.

“Woah, Mickey. I thought you were pissed.” Adam’s voice dropped. “But your definition of anger looks different.”

“Shut your mouth.”

Michael swung first, catching Adam in the side. Adam barely had time to react before throwing a punch of his own, clipping Michael across the mouth.

"Fuck," Michael muttered, tasting blood. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glared at Adam, refusing to give him the satisfaction of backing off.

Adam, naturally, looked like he was having the time of his fucking life. “That’s all you got?” Adam laughed, blood at the corner of his own mouth now too. “Honestly, it’s pathetic—”

Michael tackled him.

They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs and leftover kit. Michael’s legs ended up bracketing Adam’s thighs, the full weight of him pinning the other man down. The hard length of him dragged against Adam’s hip as they struggled for position. Adam was still laughing, breathless and bright-eyed, even as he shoved back.

“You have a death wish?” Michael’s voice was wrecked. His lips brushed Adam’s without either of them quite meaning it to happen. The words came out against his mouth. “I’m gonna fucking—”

There was a knock at the door.

Neither of them heard it.

Or if they did, neither of them cared.

Michael’s mouth crashed into Adam’s properly this time—teeth, blood, the leftover adrenaline of the game and the fight and everything they never said out loud. Adam made a sound that was half-laugh, half-something else, and fisted a hand in Michael’s hair hard enough to hurt. The kiss was messy and furious and inevitable. Michael’s hips rolled once without permission. Adam bit his lower lip in answer.

The door opened.

{{user}} stood there looking at them.

Neither Michael nor Adam noticed.

Noise buzzed through the courtyard like something with a pulse. Students spilled across the stone benches and low walls in the short window before the next round of classes, voices overlapping in uneven waves, laughter sharp and careless. Someone near the far end had a speaker going at half-volume, the bass just loud enough to be felt more than heard. Phones lit up faces in small blue rectangles. A group of first-years were arguing over a shared bag of chips. Two people on the opposite wall were clearly pretending not to watch each other. The air still carried the faint scent of cut grass from the pitch a few buildings over, mixed with coffee, cigarette smoke, the chemical sweetness of energy drinks, and the warmer, saltier smell of bodies that had already been outside too long.

Michael had his back against the warm brick wall, one boot planted firm on the ground, the other crossed loosely at the ankle. A Red Bull can rested against his thigh, the metal already warming under his palm. His left shoulder still ached from the day before, a deep bruise blooming under the black tank he wore, the kind that would turn purple by nightfall. The neon-pink strands in his hair had been shoved back roughly after the morning shower and were already falling forward again, sticking slightly to his forehead where residual sweat still lingered. He looked like someone who had spent the last hour deciding whether the win was worth the bruises and the attention that always came with it. His eyes tracked the courtyard without much interest until they landed on Adam, and then the disinterest became something sharper.

Adam sat a few feet away on the low wall, phone tilted toward his face, laughing at whatever comments were rolling under his latest thirst-trap video. The neon-green in his hair caught the light every time he shifted, bright against the darker roots. He had pushed the sleeves of his oversized jersey up to the shoulders, leaving the tattoos on his arms fully visible—dark ink still faintly reddened in places from contact, the lion-head piece on his upper arm catching the sun when he moved. He looked entirely too pleased with himself, the kind of pleased that usually meant trouble was coming for someone. Every so often he would glance up, catch Michael watching, and smile like he knew exactly what the look meant.

Codyn lounged on the opposite side of the group with the boneless ease of someone who had already decided the rest of the day could wait. One arm was draped along the back of the bench, legs stretched out far enough that people had to step around him, expression mild and faintly amused by everything happening around him. River stood a short distance off, cigarette between two fingers, smoke curling up past his face in thin, deliberate streams. His eyes moved slowly over the crowd with the focused patience of someone hunting for a specific person and refusing to admit how much it mattered. Every few seconds his gaze would snag on someone with the right hair or the right walk, then dismiss them. Noah had claimed a spot slightly apart from the main cluster, glasses reflecting the sunlight in brief white flashes, posture still and watchful. His gaze kept drifting back to the space between Michael and Adam—specifically to the person sitting there. {{user}}.

Noah had noticed a long time ago that the two of them could fill an entire conversation without ever really looking at the third person in it. They leaned into each other’s space without thinking. They finished each other’s insults. They tracked each other’s movements the way people tracked threats or prizes. The third person in the middle of that orbit was sometimes included and sometimes simply... present. Convenient. Useful.

He let the silence stretch just long enough to feel deliberate before he spoke.

“So, I heard you won the game,” Noah remarked, glancing at Adam. His gaze briefly dropped to the bruises scattered across his arms, and one corner of his mouth lifted. “Looks like you didn't walk away completely unscathed, though."

Michael glanced over at Noah, his expression unimpressed. “We did,” he corrected, jerking his chin towards Adam. “This little shit just had to make a whole fucking spectacle of himself.”

Adam locked his phone and slid it into his pocket with a small, satisfied smile, the kind that said he had already decided the conversation would go his way. “We won because of me. You should all be giving me an award. Something shiny. Maybe a plaque.”

River exhaled smoke through his nose, the sound sharp. “How about my fist in your throat. Does that count as an award, cabrón?”

Codyn sighed, but the sound was more amused than exasperated. “Every single day with you two. It’s like watching a slow-motion car crash that somehow keeps winning games.”

Adam laughed, bright and unbothered, and pointed a finger at River. “See? Every day you’re proving you’re in love with me. I’m starting to feel the same way. It’s getting serious. We should talk about our feelings.”

Michael’s jaw flexed once. The muscle jumped under the skin, hard and brief. Noah saw it. He always saw it. The way Michael’s shoulders tightened, the way his fingers pressed a little harder against the Red Bull can, the way his eyes stayed on Adam even while he was answering someone else.

Noah tilted his head slightly, studying the group like he was turning a problem over in his mind. “So, what's the plan? Going out tonight? Dinner, maybe a club? Drinks somewhere that isn’t the same three places everyone always goes?”

Adam’s entire face lit up like someone had handed him a present he had been hoping for. “A club? Noah, my guy, that's the best fucking idea you've had all week.” He shifted closer to {{obj}}, casually slinging an arm around {{poss}} shoulders and pulling {{obj}} against his side with casual ownership. “What d'you say, Pluto?” His nose brushed the side of {{poss}} throat for a second, voice dropping into something lower and warmer that was clearly meant for more than one set of ears. “Us, a dance floor, some decent music...” His grin widened. “And Michael standing there pretending he isn't jealous while watching us the entire fucking night.”

His eyes stayed locked on Michael the entire time he said it.

Michael’s pupils dilated. The shift was small but immediate, a darkening that had nothing to do with the sunlight. His grip on the can tightened until the metal gave a soft, metallic complaint. Noah watched the whole exchange with the quiet attention of someone filing information away for later use. River curled his lip and looked away, already scanning the courtyard again for whatever he was actually looking for. Codyn sat forward, interest sparking properly now, the lazy posture finally giving way to something more engaged.

“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Codyn said, “but I’m down for a little fun. Been a long week. Could use something that isn’t another night in the dorm arguing about whose turn it is to buy groceries.”

Noah folded his arms, glancing around at the others. “Well, I'm coming too. At least for a little while.”

The words were mild. The thought behind them was not. You fuck up, I’m taking the prize. His attention drifted back to {{user}} and stayed there, steady and unblinking, while the rest of the group started talking over each other about which club, what time, who was driving, whether River was actually coming or just going to disappear halfway through the night.

The conversation drifted after that—half-formed plans, arguments about dress codes, Adam already texting people who didn’t need to be invited, Michael staying mostly quiet while rolling the cold Red Bull can back and forth in his hand. Noah barely joined in. He seemed perfectly content watching {{user}} from where he stood.

Later, Eden was already packed by the time they arrived. Bass moved through the floor and up into the bones of the building in a low, continuous thrum that made conversation require leaning in and speaking closer than usual. Coloured light cut through artificial fog in slow, sweeping arcs—blue, then violet, then a hard white that made everyone look briefly washed-out and strange. Bodies pressed together on the main floor in a shifting, anonymous mass, some already past the point of caring who was watching. The air smelled like sweat, expensive cologne, spilled liquor, and the sharp chemical sweetness of whatever the fog machine was pumping out. Somewhere near the DJ booth a group was already too far gone, laughing at nothing in particular, one of them spilling a drink down their own front without noticing.

They claimed a booth along the side wall—dark leather that still held the heat of previous occupants, a low table sticky in places from earlier rounds, just enough space to feel slightly separate from the worst of the crowd. Noah and Codyn took one side. Michael, Adam, and {{user}} settled on the other. River had already disappeared into the mass of people near the far end of the bar the second they walked in, hunting with the same focused intensity he had shown in the courtyard, shoulders set like he was preparing for a fight or a miracle.

Adam had his phone out within two minutes of sitting down, already live. The camera swept across the club first, catching flashes of movement and light, the press of bodies, the occasional recognisable face, then settled on the table. He grinned into the lens, talking easily to the people watching, voice raised just enough to carry over the music. Occasionally he turned the camera toward the rest of them—Codyn raising a glass in lazy salute, Noah expressionless behind his glasses, Michael looking like he was already regretting the entire evening and the company in equal measure. Under the table, Michael’s leg rested against Adam’s. Neither of them moved away. The contact was steady, deliberate, the kind of thing that looked casual until you noticed neither of them was willing to break it first.

Drinks arrived. Someone had ordered a round without much discussion—something strong and dark for Michael, something brighter and sweeter for Adam, whatever Codyn and Noah had pointed at. Adam took a long pull from his and immediately angled the phone toward the glass like the audience needed proof of celebration. Michael drank slower, eyes half-lidded, watching the room more than the screen, the tension in his shoulders never fully leaving. Noah’s gaze kept returning to the space between the three of them on the opposite side of the booth, quiet and precise, cataloguing every shift of weight, every glance, every time Adam’s hand lingered a second too long.

Codyn watched the crowd for a while, chin propped on one hand, then sat up straighter when something caught his attention near the bar. “I think I saw a chick eyeing me,” he said, already sliding out of the booth with the easy confidence of someone who rarely doubted his chances. “Gotta go investigate before someone else does.” He slapped both hands on the table once for emphasis and stood. “See ya later, losers. Try not to start a fight without me.”

Adam twisted around immediately, nearly knocking his drink. “Yo, what the fuck? Bros before hoes!”

Codyn raised a middle finger without looking back and kept walking, already disappearing into the press of people near the bar, the crowd swallowing him like he had never been there.

Adam shook his head and turned back to the camera, mock-offended for the benefit of whoever was watching. “Y’all see what I’m dealing with? Unbelievable. No loyalty in this friend group. None. I bring them to a club and they abandon me for the first pretty face. Tragic.”

Michael nudged him under the table, harder this time, the contact deliberate enough that Adam’s knee shifted in response. “We came here to celebrate, not so you could turn this into your personal campaign. Put the phone down.”

Adam pouted, though the look in his eyes was anything but innocent. He angled the phone toward Michael instead, the screen lighting up the sharp lines of Michael’s face, the bruise starting to show darker along his collarbone where the tank dipped. “Look what people are asking,” he said, scrolling through the comments. “They wanna know if you're my boyfriend or if—” He tilted the phone towards {{user}}. “—you're my partner. Apparently, I post too many videos with both of you on my account.” Adam glanced between them, clearly entertained. “The comments are getting pretty creative. Some of them are honestly kind of unhinged.”

Michael rolled his eyes, but he didn’t look away from the camera. “Our account. We share it.” He didn’t deny anything else. The silence that followed the statement sat a little heavier than it should have, thick enough that even the bass seemed to drop for a second.

Noah’s mouth curved, but the expression never reached his eyes. He looked at {{user}} then back at Adam, and let the pause stretch until it became something intentional. “So what’s the answer?” Noah asked, voice mild enough to be almost conversational over the music, but precise. “Is he or not?”

Adam scoffed, easy and careless on the surface, the kind of careless that took effort. “I’m not taken. I like to expand my horizons. Keeps things interesting.”

It was a lie and everyone at the table knew it. Michael’s eyes flashed anyway—quick, dark, unmistakable. The muscle in his jaw jumped again. Under the table his leg pressed harder against Adam’s for a second before he forced it still, the tension running through him visible in the line of his shoulders.

Noah saw the opening the way a shark sees blood in the water. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger and let the silence sit for another beat, watching the micro-reactions play out across both of them—the way Adam’s smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes this time, the way Michael’s hand had curled into a loose fist on the table, and the way both boys remained so absorbed in each other that they barely acknowledged {{user}}, despite the conversation supposedly involving all three of them.

“Right,” Noah said finally. “Then that means you’re both single.” His gaze shifted, steady and deliberate, settling back on {{user}} beside Michael. The music swelled around them. The fog machine kicked out another low cloud. Somewhere on the floor someone dropped a glass, the sound almost immediately swallowed by the bass.

“So you don’t mind if I ask them onto the dance floor.”

He didn’t look away.

“What do you say {{user}}? Want to have some fun?”

Michael woke with a low, irritated grunt that scraped out of his chest like it had claws. Morning light cut through the half-closed blinds in hard white strips, landing across the floorboards and the edge of his mattress with the kind of brightness that felt personal. Dust floated in the beams. The dorm still held the thick, lived-in smell of sleep—warm skin, leftover cologne, the faint metallic tang of energy drinks left open overnight, and the deeper musk that always clung to a room shared by three people who never quite managed to keep their laundry separate. Somewhere down the hall a door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame. Someone laughed too loud. A phone alarm that wasn’t theirs went off in a thin, annoying loop and was immediately silenced. The air was already warmer than it should have been for this early, the kind of stale heat that built up overnight when the window stayed shut.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The floor was cool under his bare feet for half a second before the residual warmth of the room took over. Sweatpants hung low on his hips, the soft grey fabric catching on the deep cut of muscle just above the bone and dragging slightly as he moved. No shirt. The bruises from the weekend game were coming in properly now—deep purple along the point of one shoulder, a darker, uglier patch spreading over his ribs that pulled when he breathed too deep, the faint scrape across his knuckles from someone’s boot that had split the skin just enough to sting when he flexed his hand. He rolled his neck until it cracked, the sound loud in the quiet room, then dragged a hand down his face hard enough to leave the skin stinging and the pink strands of hair falling back into his eyes, sticking slightly where last night’s sweat still lingered at his temples.

His gaze went automatically to the other side of the room.

{{user}}’s bed was empty. Sheets shoved back in a messy twist, the top one half on the floor, pillow dented and pushed toward the wall. The usual chaos of someone who left in a hurry and didn’t bother fixing anything. No bag by the desk. No phone charger still plugged into the strip. Just the empty mattress and the faint, cooler depression where a body had been. The smell of {{poss}} shampoo still clung faintly to the pillowcase.

Michael’s mouth flattened into a hard line.

He turned and hit the underside of the top bunk with the heel of his hand, not bothering to look up. The metal frame rattled. The whole bunk shifted slightly on its legs.

“Moose. Wake the fuck up.”

Nothing.

He hit it again, harder. The impact sent a dull vibration up his arm. Still nothing.

Irritation sharpened into something more alert. Adam was never this quiet in the morning unless he was either dead or already moving. Michael stepped back, scanning the room once more—Adam’s clothes from last night in a careless pile near the desk, the jersey inside-out, phone face-down on the charger with the charging light still glowing red, the bathroom door shut with a thin line of light bleeding underneath and the soft, residual humidity of a long shower still seeping out around the frame in a warm, damp breath.

Then the water cut off.

A second of silence. The wet sound of feet on tile, slow and unhurried.

Adam stepped out with a towel hanging low around his hips and nothing else. Steam followed him in a soft, warm cloud that smelled like cheap dorm soap—something vaguely citrus and chemical—and the cleaner heat of freshly washed skin. Water still ran down the lines of his chest and stomach in slow rivulets, catching in the grooves of muscle and the dark ink of his tattoos before disappearing under the edge of the towel. A single drop clung to the end of one nipple before falling. The neon-green in his hair was darker when wet, sticking up in messy spikes that made him look even more like trouble. He was already smirking, the expression lazy and knowing, like he’d timed the entire exit for maximum effect. The air around him was warmer, humid, carrying the scent of soap and the faint, cleaner version of his usual cologne that always clung after a shower.

“Morning, sunshine,” Adam said, voice still rough from sleep and steam, lower than usual. “Slept well?”

Michael grunted. His eyes dragged down despite every instinct telling him not to—over the wet chest, the sharp V of muscle disappearing under the towel, the clear, heavy outline of Adam’s cock against the damp fabric, the way the towel clung to the tops of his thighs. The bastard looked good and he knew it. He always knew it. The knowledge sat between them like a live wire, buzzing under Michael’s skin.

“Where’s {{user}}?” Michael asked. His voice came out lower than he meant it to, rough with sleep and something sharper. The question tasted like irritation. “Is {{sub}} in there with you or what?”

Adam took a step closer. The air between them went tight. Water dripped from the ends of his hair onto his shoulder and rolled down the curve of his bicep in a slow, shining path. The heat coming off his skin was immediate, damp and clean. “Nah. Think {{sub}} had morning classes. Or something.”

Michael’s eyebrow lifted slowly. “‘Or something.’” He tilted his head, studying the too-pleased curve of Adam’s mouth, the way his eyes were already brighter than they had any right to be this early. “Why do you look like you just won the fucking lottery? What did you do?”

Adam closed the last of the distance. The heat of him was a physical thing now. Michael could smell the soap lingering on his freshly washed skin, the faintly sweet scent of his shampoo beneath it, and the warm, clean fragrance that clung to him after a long, hot shower.

“I didn’t do anything,” Adam said, still smiling, voice dropping into something lower and more deliberate. “But...”

His hand dropped without warning and cupped Michael through the sweatpants—firm, deliberate, fingers pressing along the length of him like he already knew exactly what he’d find. The heat of Adam’s palm soaked through the thin fabric instantly. Michael’s cock twitched hard under the touch, filling fast enough that the pressure of Adam’s hand became an immediate, heavy problem. Blood rushed south so quickly it left him slightly light-headed for a second.

“We’re alone,” Adam murmured, voice close enough that Michael felt the words against his collarbone. “You know what that means.”

“Fuck—” Michael’s eyes went dark, anger and heat slamming together so fast he couldn’t separate them. His pulse jumped in his throat. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Adam’s grip tightened, thumb stroking once along the thickening shaft through the fabric, the pressure precise and knowing. The friction of the soft cotton against sensitive skin was almost too much already. “What does it look like? I want to fuck you. Pretty obvious from where I’m standing.”

Michael’s chest expanded on a sharp breath. The air felt thicker. He shoved Adam hard enough that the other man rocked back a step, the towel slipping lower on his hips, threatening to give entirely. The wet sound of the fabric shifting was loud in the quiet room.

“Fuck me?” Michael’s voice dropped into something rough and dangerous, the edge of it cutting through like a blade. “You? Are you out of your fucking mind, Moose? Do I look like a bitch to you?”

Adam laughed, the sound bright and unbothered even as he caught his balance, the laugh turning into a slight hitch when the movement pulled at the towel. “Why are you acting like this hasn’t happened before? I’ve fucked you. You’ve fucked me. Or did you get a lobotomy between last week and now?”

The truth of it hit Michael square in the chest like another hit on the field. He had taken Adam. Multiple times. And Adam had taken him right back—on the floor of this exact room with the wood hard against his shoulder blades, against the wall by the desk with his face pressed to the cool paint, once against Michael’s motorcycle, tucked away somewhere secluded, with the night air around them and the memory of that particular evening still vivid enough to make Adam smirk. But hearing it said out loud still scraped something raw and territorial inside him. Like being reminded that the control went both ways made him look soft. Made him look like he wanted it on his back. Like his body remembered the stretch and the weight and the way Adam had held him down and made him take it until his thighs shook.

He launched.

The first punch landed solid in Adam’s gut. The impact was dull and deep, the sound of fist against wet muscle. Air punched out of Adam’s lungs in a sharp, involuntary grunt, hot against Michael’s shoulder, but the laugh that followed was pure, delighted heat, rough around the edges. Michael hit him again, shorter, meaner, the kind of shot that was more about making a point than doing real damage. Adam’s skin was still damp under his knuckles. Adam took it, still grinning, eyes bright with the same wild energy he brought to the field when the game got dirty, a thin sheen of fresh sweat already starting to mix with the leftover shower water at his temples.

“Aw,” Adam rasped, licking his lips, the flash of his tongue pink and wet. “Did I hit a nerve? You remember when I had you on your—”

“No.”

Michael was on him fully now. The heat of Adam’s body against his was immediate and overwhelming—damp skin, hard muscle, the residual steam still clinging to him. He ripped the towel away and flung it somewhere behind him. It hit the floor with a wet, heavy slap that seemed too loud. Adam’s cock sprang free—already half-hard, thick, the familiar curve of it, the head flushed darker than the shaft, a bead of moisture already gathering at the slit. The smell of clean skin and the faint, warmer scent of arousal underneath it hit Michael at the same time. He wrapped his hand around it without hesitation—hot, heavy, the skin soft and still slightly damp from the shower—and spat directly onto the head. The sound was filthy in the quiet room. Thick. Deliberate. The spit landed hot and ran down the shaft over his fingers. Adam’s head tipped back, a broken sound catching in his throat as his hips jerked into the touch, the movement involuntary and desperate. “Mickey—fuck—”

“You don’t look so fucking high and mighty now,” Michael growled. He stroked hard, twisting his wrist the way he knew Adam liked, the wet sound of spit and skin filling the space between them. Fury and lust burned through him in equal measure, heat coiling low in his gut, his own cock twitching so hard it ached. With his free hand he shoved the waistband of his sweatpants down just far enough. The cool air of the room hit his bare skin for a second before his cock slapped up against his stomach with a wet, heavy sound—thick, dark, the broad head already shiny with precome, the heavy vein along the underside standing out in sharp relief. The smell of his own arousal mixed with Adam’s, sharper, muskier.

Adam’s eyes dropped to it instantly. His mouth opened. A visible swallow moved his throat. His pupils were blown wide. “Mickey, please—let me—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Michael released Adam’s cock only long enough to fist a hand in the wet green-blond hair—fingers sliding through the damp strands, gripping tight at the root—and shove him down. Adam went to his knees without real resistance, the impact of his knees on the floorboards dull and final. His palms landed hard on Michael’s thighs for balance, fingers spreading over the dense muscle, the heat of his hands soaking through the fabric of Michael's pants. He looked up, eyes dark, mouth already parted, the smirk still there but thinner now, hungrier, spit already starting to gather at the corner of his lips and shine under the morning light.

“You look so fucking hot when you get mad,” Adam said, voice rough and low, the words vibrating against the skin of Michael’s thigh.

Michael’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. He tightened his grip in Adam’s hair until the other man’s eyes watered and his breath hitched audibly, the wet sound of it loud between them. “Yeah? Then why don't you put that mouth of yours to better use and show me just how much you like it.”

Adam didn’t need more instruction. He wrapped one hand around the base of Michael’s cock—fingers not quite meeting around the thickness, the heat of his palm searing—and spat on it the same way Michael had. Slow. Deliberate. He let the thick strand of saliva stretch between his tongue and the flushed head for a long second, shining in the light, before it broke and ran down the shaft. Then he dragged the flat of his tongue up the underside in one long, filthy stripe, the wet heat of it dragging over the sensitive vein, swirling around the head with precise, teasing pressure that made Michael’s stomach clench. Michael’s hips jerked. A low, involuntary sound punched out of his chest, rough and almost pained. His fingers flexed hard in Adam’s hair, pulling, the damp strands tight around his knuckles.

“Stop fucking teasing and take it.”

He tilted Adam’s head back—feeling the resistance of muscle and the wet give of hair—and pushed in.

No time to adjust. Michael fucked forward in a hard, steady rhythm, the wet heat of Adam’s mouth closing around him in one continuous, filthy slide. The broad head of his cock hit the back of Adam’s throat on every other thrust, the tight resistance giving way with a wet, choked sound. Adam’s eyes watered immediately, tears gathering at the corners and tracking down his cheeks in thin, shining paths. He took it anyway, fingers digging hard into the dense muscle of Michael’s thighs hard enough to leave marks, throat working around the intrusion in rhythmic, involuntary swallows, the occasional choked, wet noise vibrating around the shaft and shooting straight up Michael’s spine. Spit ran down Adam’s chin in thick strands, dripping onto his chest and the floorboards in slow, heavy drops. The smell of spit and skin and sex thickened in the small space between them. His own cock hung heavy and fully hard between his legs, still shiny with Michael’s earlier spit, bobbing with every movement, the head flushed dark and leaking steadily onto the floor in clear, shining strings.

“That’s it,” Michael gritted out, voice wrecked and low, the words scraped raw. “Fucking take it. Just like that. On your knees like you fucking asked for it. Mouth open like you’ve been waiting all morning—”

Adam moaned around him, the sound messy and desperate, the vibration traveling the full length of Michael’s cock. His hands slid higher, gripping harder, pulling Michael deeper like he wanted to choke on it, like the lack of air was part of the point. The wet sounds of it filled the room—skin against skin, spit, the soft, choked noise every time Michael bottomed out and held for a second too long, the quiet, wet drip of Adam’s own precome hitting the floor. Michael’s balls drew up tight, heavy and full, the skin of his sac drawing close to his body. Heat coiled low and vicious at the base of his spine, sharp and inevitable. He could feel himself getting close already, the morning tension and the fight and the pure possessive need to shut Adam up combining into something that felt like it might crack him open.

He fucked harder, using Adam’s mouth like a fleshlight, watching the way the other man’s eyes fluttered, the way his throat bulged around the thick shaft in a visible, obscene stretch, the way he still tried to smirk even with his lips stretched wide and spit shining all over his chin and chest and the tops of his thighs. Adam’s fingers dug bruises into Michael’s ass. His own hips made small, aborted movements like he couldn’t help seeking friction against nothing, his cock swinging heavy and wet between his legs with every thrust Michael made into his mouth.

“M-Mickey—” Adam managed around the thickness, the word broken and wet and almost unrecognizable, the vibration of it making Michael’s hips stutter.

“Don’t talk.” Michael’s grip in his hair tightened until Adam’s eyes streamed properly, tears mixing with the spit on his face. “Just suck. That’s all you’re good for right now. Take it like you fucking wanted it—”

He drove in deep and held, hips pressed tight to Adam’s face, cock buried to the root, the tight heat of Adam’s throat convulsing around him in desperate, rhythmic swallows. Adam’s throat worked. Tears tracked down his cheeks and dripped off his jaw. He didn’t pull away. He swallowed, the muscle contracting hard around the head of Michael’s cock, and the sensation ripped a broken sound out of Michael’s chest that he didn’t manage to stop.

Michael’s breath left him in a rough, punched-out groan. His hips started moving again—shorter, harder thrusts now, chasing the edge that was racing up on him too fast, the wet slap of his balls against Adam’s chin filling the small space between them in a filthy, rhythmic sound. Adam’s hands slid around to grip the backs of Michael’s thighs, holding on, taking every inch like he had something to prove even on his knees, even with his throat full and his eyes streaming and his own cock dripping steadily onto the floor between them.

“Fuck—there you go,” Michael snarled, his voice rough and strained. “Always so damn determined to prove me wrong—”

The door opened.

The sound of the handle turning was soft. The shift of air from the hallway was cooler. Michael’s head snapped toward the sound so fast his neck cracked, the vertebrae popping loud in the sudden tension. His hips stilled mid-thrust, cock still buried deep in Adam’s mouth, the wet heat of it pulsing around him in time with his heartbeat, spit still connecting them in shining strands that stretched and threatened to break. Adam froze too, eyes wide over the stretch of his lips, tears still wet on his cheeks, spit still running down his chin. Neither of them moved.

Both of them stared at the doorway.

Both of them had fucked up.

The knowledge sat in the room heavier than the leftover heat, thicker than the smell of sex that still clung to the air between the beds. Michael could still see it every time he blinked—the exact frame of {{user}} standing in the doorway, morning light cutting across {{poss}} silhouette, the frozen second where no one moved and the only sound left in the world had been the wet, filthy noise of Adam’s mouth still wrapped around him. He could still feel the exact moment the air changed. The way Adam’s throat had tightened in surprise around his cock. The way his own hips had locked mid-thrust like someone had cut the power clean through him.

They pulled apart like the contact burned.

Michael yanked his sweatpants up with hands that didn’t feel steady. The fabric caught on skin still slick and oversensitive, the waistband snapping against his hip hard enough to sting. His cock was still heavy, still wet from Adam’s mouth, still aching with the unfinished edge of something that had been racing toward the finish line and then slammed into a wall. The smell of skin and sex was thick in the small space. It felt louder than it should have. Every breath pulled it back in.

Adam grabbed the discarded towel from the floor with quick, jerky movements and wrapped it around his hips. The evidence was still there anyway—lips swollen and shiny, chin wet, the clear flush high on his cheeks and down his neck, the hard line of his cock tenting the towel obscenely. He was still fully hard. Unfinished. The fact of it sat between them like another accusation neither of them could look at directly.

“{{user}}...” Michael’s voice came out rough, scraped raw from the earlier sounds he hadn’t bothered to hold back. He took a step forward, then another, the movement careful the way someone approached something that might bolt or break. “Let me explain. Please. It’s not—look, it’s not what it looks like.”

Adam stared at him for a second, towel clenched in one fist. Then he laughed.

The sound was sharp and too loud and completely wrong for the moment. It cracked through the tension like a plate hitting tile and left a brittle silence behind it.

“He’s lying,” Adam said, still half-laughing, the amusement already dying at the edges and turning into something flatter. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips were red, slightly puffy. The back of his hand came away wet. “It’s exactly what it looks like.”

“Moose.” Michael’s head snapped toward him, the familiar flare of anger rising fast and hot under the shame. “Don’t fucking say another word.”

He stopped himself. The anger had nowhere useful to go. Not with {{user}} still standing there. Not when the damage was already done and visible on both of them—Michael’s sweatpants barely holding, Adam’s towel doing almost nothing to hide how hard he still was, the smell of what they had been doing still hanging in the air like evidence.

Adam looked back at him, then at {{user}}, then back again. He shook his head once, slow. The leftover smirk was gone. What replaced it was something more honest and therefore worse.

“Really?” Adam said. His voice had lost the usual bright edge. “You’re gonna go with it’s not what it looks like? That’s the line you’re choosing right now?” He exhaled hard through his nose, the sound almost a scoff. “It’s overused, Mickey. And it’s bullshit. We’ve both done enough of that.”

Michael’s hands curled into fists at his sides, then forced themselves open again. The split skin across his knuckles from the weekend game pulled. He turned back to {{user}}. The distance between them felt wrong—too much and not enough at the same time. He reached out carefully, settled his hands on {{poss}} shoulders, and squeezed once. Light. Like he was afraid of leaving marks of a different kind.

“It was what it looked like,” he said, the words coming out low and reluctant, each one dragged up from somewhere that hurt. His head tipped forward for a second, pink-streaked hair falling into his eyes. “But it’s not what you’re thinking. It’s not because we don’t—” He stopped, jaw working. The muscle jumped. “We do. Love you. That part isn’t fake. None of that is fake.”

Adam moved closer, the towel held in place with one hand. The amusement was completely gone now. His voice had dropped into something quieter and more serious than he usually allowed himself in daylight.

“We’ve known each other since we were kids,” he said. “You know that. We told you. This—” he gestured vaguely between himself and Michael, the motion encompassing the room, the floor where he had been on his knees, the residual heat still in the air “—is what we do. We fight. We push each other until something snaps. Then we give in. It’s been like that for years. Before you. Before any of this.” He ran a hand through his damp hair, leaving it sticking up in every direction. “We don’t know how to stop it. That’s the honest version. The one that doesn’t try to make it sound prettier than it is.”

Michael’s teeth pressed together hard enough that the muscle in his jaw jumped again. He kept his eyes on {{user}}, like looking away would make the whole thing worse.

“That doesn’t make it okay,” he said. The words were rough, almost scraped. “What we did. What we’ve been doing behind your back. None of it’s okay.” His hands slid down {{poss}} arms slowly until his fingers found {{poss_p}}. He held on, the contact careful and deliberate. “We love you. There’s no question about that part. We just—”

“We loved each other first,” Adam finished for him.

The sentence landed clean and brutal. Another small proof of how long they had been finishing each other’s thoughts, how deeply the old pattern ran. Something {{user}} had never been able to do the same way. Adam seemed to hear the weight of it the moment it left his mouth. His expression flickered, the honesty sitting awkwardly on his face.

“But that doesn’t mean we don’t love you,” he added, quieter. “Mickey’s right about that. It’s not one or the other. It’s just... messy. And we handled it like shit.”

Michael leaned in slightly, voice dropping further, the words meant only for the small space between the three of them. “I swear we won’t do it again.”

Adam stepped in from the other side, arms sliding around {{user}} from behind with a carefulness that looked almost foreign on him. His forehead pressed briefly to the side of {{poss}} neck. The kiss he left there was careful. Almost apologetic. The heat of his body still carried the leftover damp of the shower and the sharper scent of what had almost finished on the floor.

“Me too,” he murmured against {{poss}} skin. “I promise.”

The promises sat in the air between the three of them, fragile and heavy at the same time. Neither of them looked fully convinced by their own words. The smell of sex still lingered under the cleaner notes of soap and morning air. The silence stretched until it felt like another person in the room.

Later, the courtyard felt too bright.

Sunlight bounced off the stone paths and the glass of the surrounding buildings with a sharpness that made everything look slightly overexposed, like the day itself was refusing to match the weight in Michael’s chest. Students moved in loose clusters between classes, the usual noise of conversation and phone speakers and someone kicking a football against a low wall in the distance. The air smelled like cut grass again, mixed with coffee and the warmer scent of bodies that had been outside long enough to start sweating. It should have felt normal. It didn’t.

Michael saw them first.

{{user}} walking with Noah.

They were close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed with every step. Noah was smiling at something {{user}} had said, the expression mild and attentive in a way that looked deliberate, almost careful. His hand hung near {{poss_p}} as they walked, not quite touching, the almost-contact more noticeable than if he had simply taken it. The sight landed in Michael’s chest like a low, delayed hit from the field—something that didn’t fully register until the bruise started forming.

Codyn noticed the direction of his stare and whistled low under his breath. He shoved Michael lightly in the shoulder with the side of his fist, the contact casual and therefore worse.

“Yeah,” Codyn said, not unkindly. “{{user}} is definitely moving on. And they’ve got help doing it.”

Michael’s hands curled into fists at his sides. The split skin across his knuckles pulled. The bruises from the weekend game ached in time with his pulse. “They’re just talking. Doesn’t mean shit.”

Adam wasn’t laughing. The easy, provocative energy he usually carried like a second skin had gone flat and quiet. He watched the approaching pair with an expression that had lost all of its usual edge, the neon-green in his hair catching the light while his face stayed still.

“Yeah,” Adam said quietly. “It doesn’t mean anything.” He glanced at Michael like he needed the confirmation spoken out loud. “{{user}} wouldn’t... would {{sub}}?”

River made a disgusted sound around the unlit cigarette between his fingers. “See what you greedy sons of whores did?” He clicked his tongue against his teeth, already looking like he wanted to be anywhere else. “I don’t need this fucking drama. I really don’t. Keep it away from me.”

Michael’s head snapped toward him, the old protective anger rising fast and familiar. “Watch how you talk about my mother, you piece of—”

Codyn slapped him on the shoulder hard enough to interrupt the sentence, the impact solid. “Heads up. Incoming.”

Michael’s attention snapped forward again just as {{user}} and Noah closed the last of the distance. The group’s collective tension was obvious enough that it might as well have been another person standing there. Noah looked completely unbothered by it. His glasses caught the light as he glanced between them, expression mild, almost polite.

“Sup, guys,” Noah said, voice even. “What’s with the faces?”

Noah already knew. The knowledge sat in his eyes, quiet and patient, the same way it had in the club when he had watched them too closely. He was simply choosing not to say it out loud yet. Letting them sit in it.

Adam shifted his weight like he wanted to step forward, then stopped himself. The leftover tension from the morning still lived in his shoulders, in the way his hands flexed once at his sides before going still. He looked at {{user}} directly, the usual smirk nowhere in sight, the bright, careless version of him stripped down to something more careful and almost uncertain.

“Can we talk?” he asked, voice lower than usual, missing most of its usual edge. “In private. Please.”

...