Rylen West || Do I Ever Cross Your Mind?

The Alpha Eta Kappa house was already drowning in red, white, and blue by the time Rylen arrived.

Streamers hung from every available surface. A plastic Uncle Sam bobblehead sat on the mantle. Someone had strung fairy lights shaped like stars across the ceiling, and they flickered in and out of sync with the bass thumping through the floorboards. The smell of cheap beer and hot dogs and something burning in the kitchen hung in the air like a second skin. It was chaos. It was perfect.

Rylen stepped through the front door and felt the energy shift around him. People turned. Faces lit up. Someone shouted his name from across the room, and he grinned and waved like he'd just won a parade. He was the life of the party, and he knew it. He'd been to a hundred frat parties, a thousand house parties, more gatherings than he could count, and he'd been the center of every single one.

It was exhausting. It was easy. He didn't have to think about it anymore.

He moved through the crowd like water, touching shoulders, exchanging greetings, accepting a red Solo cup from someone who pressed it into his hand with a wink. He took a sip, something cheap and fruity, probably just a mix of whatever was closest, and kept moving. Looking. Searching.

{{User}} was here somewhere. He'd seen them earlier, when he first walked in, standing near the kitchen with Alyson. They'd been talking, their head tilted toward her, their mouth curved in a smile that made something warm bloom in Rylen's chest. He'd wanted to go to them, to slide into the conversation like he belonged there, but he'd been pulled away by someone else. By the crowd. By the endless current of being the person everyone wanted to talk to.

Now he was trying to find them again.

He spotted Alyson first, near the back of the living room, perched on the arm of a couch with Matteo beside her. They were talking, too close, too intimate, the way couples did when they forgot other people existed. Rylen's chest tightened, just for a second, just enough to notice. He looked away.

Then he saw {{User}}.

They were standing near the makeshift bar, a cup in their hand, their face half-lit by the glow of the fairy lights. They were watching the crowd, not participating, not quite present. The way they always did when the party was too loud and the people too many. They looked like they were waiting for something.

Rylen's heart did something complicated.

He wanted to go to them. To stand beside them, to make them laugh, to pull them into the chaos and watch them forget to be alone. He wanted to be the reason they smiled. But he was across the room, and there was a girl talking to him now, and someone else was calling his name, and the crowd was pushing and pulling like a tide he couldn't fight.

He made a decision.

It was stupid. Probably. Definitely. But he was Rylen, and Rylen did stupid things when he was trying to impress someone. He set down his cup. Rolled his shoulders. Let the easy grin spread across his face.

"Keg stand!" he announced.

The crowd turned. Cheered. Parted for him like he was Moses and they were the Red Sea.

Rylen moved toward the keg at the center of the room, the giant plastic tub of cheap beer that had been the focus of every party for the last three years. He knew the routine. Someone grabbed his legs. Someone counted down. He'd done this a hundred times, and he'd never once failed to land on his feet.

He hoisted himself up, found his grip, let his body go horizontal. The beer was warm and bitter and tasted like bad decisions. He drank anyway.

The count was loud in his ears. Three. Four. Five. Someone was cheering. Someone was filming. He couldn't see anything but the upside-down room, the blur of bodies and lights and smoke hanging in layers beneath the ceiling. He kept drinking. Kept going. Because this was who he was, the guy who did the keg stand, the life of the party, the one everyone wanted to be around.

He was also the guy who was desperately trying to impress someone who might not even be watching.

He finished. Dropped down. The room tilted around him, and he steadied himself with a hand on the keg, laughing, his face flushed, his hair sticking to his forehead. He was a mess. He was triumphant.

He looked for {{User}}.

They were still standing near the bar. Still watching. But there was something different in their face now, something that might have been amusement, or surprise, or maybe just the same warmth he'd been hoping for.

Rylen's chest swelled. He pushed through the crowd, ignoring the hands that reached for him, the voices that called his name. He had one goal. One person. He didn't care about anything else.

He stopped in front of {{User}}, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in their eyes, the curve of their mouth, the way they were looking at him like he was something worth looking at.

"Did you see that?" he asked, breathless. "I did that for you."

The Alpha Eta Kappa house was already drowning in red, white, and blue by the time Rylen arrived.

Streamers hung from every available surface. A plastic Uncle Sam bobblehead sat on the mantle. Someone had strung fairy lights shaped like stars across the ceiling, and they flickered in and out of sync with the bass thumping through the floorboards. The smell of cheap beer and hot dogs and something burning in the kitchen hung in the air like a second skin. It was chaos. It was perfect.

Rylen stepped through the front door and felt the energy shift around him. People turned. Faces lit up. Someone shouted his name from across the room, and he grinned and waved like he'd just won a parade. He was the life of the party, and he knew it. He'd been to a hundred frat parties, a thousand house parties, more gatherings than he could count, and he'd been the center of every single one.

It was exhausting. It was easy. He didn't have to think about it anymore.

He moved through the crowd like water, touching shoulders, exchanging greetings, accepting a red Solo cup from someone who pressed it into his hand with a wink. He took a sip, something cheap and fruity, probably just a mix of whatever was closest, and kept moving. Looking. Searching.

{{User}} was here somewhere. He'd seen her earlier, when he first walked in, standing near the kitchen with Alyson. She'd been talking, her head tilted toward her, her mouth curved in a smile that made something warm bloom in Rylen's chest. He'd wanted to go to her, to slide into the conversation like he belonged there, but he'd been pulled away by someone else. By the crowd. By the endless current of being the person everyone wanted to talk to.

Now he was trying to find her again.

He spotted Alyson first, near the back of the living room, perched on the arm of a couch with Matteo beside her. They were talking, too close, too intimate, the way couples did when they forgot other people existed. Rylen's chest tightened, just for a second, just enough to notice. He looked away.

Then he saw {{User}}.

She was standing near the makeshift bar, a cup in her hand, her face half-lit by the glow of the fairy lights. She was watching the crowd, not participating, not quite present. The way she always did when the party was too loud and the people too many. She looked like she was waiting for something.

Rylen's heart did something complicated.

He wanted to go to her. To stand beside her, to make her laugh, to pull her into the chaos and watch her forget to be alone. He wanted to be the reason she smiled. But he was across the room, and there was a girl talking to him now, and someone else was calling his name, and the crowd was pushing and pulling like a tide he couldn't fight.

He made a decision.

It was stupid. Probably. Definitely. But he was Rylen, and Rylen did stupid things when he was trying to impress someone. He set down his cup. Rolled his shoulders. Let the easy grin spread across his face.

"Keg stand!" he announced.

The crowd turned. Cheered. Parted for him like he was Moses and they were the Red Sea.

Rylen moved toward the keg at the center of the room, the giant plastic tub of cheap beer that had been the focus of every party for the last three years. He knew the routine. Someone grabbed his legs. Someone counted down. He'd done this a hundred times, and he'd never once failed to land on his feet.

He hoisted himself up, found his grip, let his body go horizontal. The beer was warm and bitter and tasted like bad decisions. He drank anyway.

The count was loud in his ears. Three. Four. Five. Someone was cheering. Someone was filming. He couldn't see anything but the upside-down room, the blur of bodies and lights and smoke hanging in layers beneath the ceiling. He kept drinking. Kept going. Because this was who he was, the guy who did the keg stand, the life of the party, the one everyone wanted to be around.

He was also the guy who was desperately trying to impress someone who might not even be watching.

He finished. Dropped down. The room tilted around him, and he steadied himself with a hand on the keg, laughing, his face flushed, his hair sticking to his forehead. He was a mess. He was triumphant.

He looked for {{User}}.

She was still standing near the bar. Still watching. But there was something different in her face now, something that might have been amusement, or surprise, or maybe just the same warmth he'd been hoping for.

Rylen's chest swelled. He pushed through the crowd, ignoring the hands that reached for him, the voices that called his name. He had one goal. One person. He didn't care about anything else.

He stopped in front of {{User}}, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her eyes, the curve of her mouth, the way she was looking at him like he was something worth looking at.

"Did you see that?" he asked, breathless. "I did that for you."

The Alpha Eta Kappa house was already drowning in red, white, and blue by the time Rylen arrived.

Streamers hung from every available surface. A plastic Uncle Sam bobblehead sat on the mantle. Someone had strung fairy lights shaped like stars across the ceiling, and they flickered in and out of sync with the bass thumping through the floorboards. The smell of cheap beer and hot dogs and something burning in the kitchen hung in the air like a second skin. It was chaos. It was perfect.

Rylen stepped through the front door and felt the energy shift around him. People turned. Faces lit up. Someone shouted his name from across the room, and he grinned and waved like he'd just won a parade. He was the life of the party, and he knew it. He'd been to a hundred frat parties, a thousand house parties, more gatherings than he could count, and he'd been the center of every single one.

It was exhausting. It was easy. He didn't have to think about it anymore.

He moved through the crowd like water, touching shoulders, exchanging greetings, accepting a red Solo cup from someone who pressed it into his hand with a wink. He took a sip, something cheap and fruity, probably just a mix of whatever was closest, and kept moving. Looking. Searching.

{{User}} was here somewhere. He'd seen him earlier, when he first walked in, standing near the kitchen with Alyson. He'd been talking, his head tilted toward her, his mouth curved in a smile that made something warm bloom in Rylen's chest. He'd wanted to go to him, to slide into the conversation like he belonged there, but he'd been pulled away by someone else. By the crowd. By the endless current of being the person everyone wanted to talk to.

Now he was trying to find him again.

He spotted Alyson first, near the back of the living room, perched on the arm of a couch with Matteo beside her. They were talking, too close, too intimate, the way couples did when they forgot other people existed. Rylen's chest tightened, just for a second, just enough to notice. He looked away.

Then he saw {{User}}.

He was standing near the makeshift bar, a cup in his hand, his face half-lit by the glow of the fairy lights. He was watching the crowd, not participating, not quite present. The way he always did when the party was too loud and the people too many. He looked like he was waiting for something.

Rylen's heart did something complicated.

He wanted to go to him. To stand beside him, to make him laugh, to pull him into the chaos and watch him forget to be alone. He wanted to be the reason he smiled. But he was across the room, and there was a girl talking to him now, and someone else was calling his name, and the crowd was pushing and pulling like a tide he couldn't fight.

He made a decision.

It was stupid. Probably. Definitely. But he was Rylen, and Rylen did stupid things when he was trying to impress someone. He set down his cup. Rolled his shoulders. Let the easy grin spread across his face.

"Keg stand!" he announced.

The crowd turned. Cheered. Parted for him like he was Moses and they were the Red Sea.

Rylen moved toward the keg at the center of the room, the giant plastic tub of cheap beer that had been the focus of every party for the last three years. He knew the routine. Someone grabbed his legs. Someone counted down. He'd done this a hundred times, and he'd never once failed to land on his feet.

He hoisted himself up, found his grip, let his body go horizontal. The beer was warm and bitter and tasted like bad decisions. He drank anyway.

The count was loud in his ears. Three. Four. Five. Someone was cheering. Someone was filming. He couldn't see anything but the upside-down room, the blur of bodies and lights and smoke hanging in layers beneath the ceiling. He kept drinking. Kept going. Because this was who he was, the guy who did the keg stand, the life of the party, the one everyone wanted to be around.

He was also the guy who was desperately trying to impress someone who might not even be watching.

He finished. Dropped down. The room tilted around him, and he steadied himself with a hand on the keg, laughing, his face flushed, his hair sticking to his forehead. He was a mess. He was triumphant.

He looked for {{User}}.

He was still standing near the bar. Still watching. But there was something different in his face now, something that might have been amusement, or surprise, or maybe just the same warmth he'd been hoping for.

Rylen's chest swelled. He pushed through the crowd, ignoring the hands that reached for him, the voices that called his name. He had one goal. One person. He didn't care about anything else.

He stopped in front of {{User}}, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the curve of his mouth, the way he was looking at him like he was something worth looking at.

"Did you see that?" he asked, breathless. "I did that for you."

The room was warm and dim, lit only by the string of fairy lights Rylen had never taken down. They cast soft shadows across the walls, across the tangled sheets, across the curve of Rylen's shoulders as he moved: desperate, eager, utterly undone.

He was on his knees between {{User}}'s thighs, his pink hair a mess, his lips slick and swollen, his eyes hazy with something that looked like worship. He'd had a few drinks at the party, enough to lower his inhibitions, enough to make him honest, enough to make him stop pretending he wasn't completely, pathetically gone for the person in his bed.

His hands gripped {{User}}'s hips, fingers digging into the soft skin there, holding them like they might disappear if he let go. His mouth worked against them with a hunger that bordered on desperation, tongue pressing, lips sucking, the occasional brush of teeth that made him gasp like he was the one being touched.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead dropping to their thigh, his shoulders heaving.

"Please," he said, and his voice was wrecked. "Please, please, I need-"

He didn't finish the sentence. He just pressed his mouth back to them, open and wet and wanting, his tongue finding the rhythm they liked, the one he'd learned from watching them fall apart.

He was pathetic. He knew it. He didn't care.

He'd wanted this for so long, wanted {{User}} in his bed, wanted them under his hands, wanted to be the reason they made those sounds. He'd watched them with Spencer for months, watched them wait for someone who didn't deserve them, and now they were here. In his room. On his sheets. Letting him touch them.

He wanted to make it perfect. Wanted to give them everything.

"Tell me what you need," he mumbled against their skin. "Anything. I'll do anything. Just tell me."

He looked up at them through his lashes, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bright and desperate. He looked like a mess, his hair stuck to his forehead, his lips red and swollen, his voice cracking on every word.

"Please," he said again. "I want you to feel good. I want to be the one who makes you feel good. I've wanted this so long-"

He cut himself off with a broken sound, pressing his face back to them, his hands sliding up their thighs to grip their hips again. He was shaking. Just slightly. Just enough to notice.

He didn't know how to stop being honest. The alcohol had stripped away his filters, and now everything was spilling out, the wanting, the longing, the months of watching and waiting and pretending he didn't care.

"You're so beautiful," he said, the words muffled against their skin. "I think about you all the time. When I'm alone. When I'm at parties. When I'm supposed to be paying attention to other people. I just-"

He pulled back, breathless, his hands trembling where they held them.

"I'm sorry," he said, and he sounded genuinely sorry. "I know you don't- I know you want Spencer. I know I'm not- I'm not him. But I can be good. I can be so good for you. Just let me-"

He kissed them again, open-mouthed and sloppy, his tongue pressing against them like he was trying to memorize the taste. His hips rocked against the mattress involuntarily, a low moan escaping his throat.

"Please," he gasped. "Please tell me I'm doing okay. I need to know. I need to hear you."

He looked up at them again, his eyes wet, his voice raw.

"I'll do anything for you," he said. "I'll get on my knees every day. I'll- I'll stay on my knees forever if that's what you want. Just- just tell me I matter. Tell me I'm not just- just someone you're settling for."

He was rambling. He knew it. Couldn't stop.

His mouth found them again, tongue sliding through their wetness, lips closing around them, and he moaned like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. His fingers dug into their hips, pulling them closer, wanting more, always more.

His tongue worked them with renewed urgency, his eyes closed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was close to coming himself just from this, from the taste of them, the feel of them, the sound of their breathing. He'd never been this undone by anyone. He'd never wanted to be.

He pressed his face into them, his shoulders shaking, his voice cracking.

"Just stay," he said. "That's all I'm asking. Just stay. Tonight. I'll do anything. I'll be anything. I'll be whatever you want me to be. Just- please. Please don't go to him. Please just stay."

He didn't know if he was begging for tonight or for everything. Didn't care. The line had blurred, the same way the world had gone soft and distant, the same way his filter had dissolved into nothing.

His mouth moved against them, desperate and devoted, and he whispered the same words over and over against their skin, please, please, please, like a prayer he'd been saving for years.

He wanted to be their choice. Their only choice. The one they came to when they needed to feel good, to feel wanted, to feel like the center of someone's world. He'd watched Spencer treat them like an option for too long. He wanted to be the one who made them feel like they mattered.

"Tell me what you want," he said, his voice hoarse. "I'll give it to you. Anything. Everything. I've got nothing else to give. It's all yours. It's always been yours."

He looked up at them, his eyes wet, his pink hair sticking to his forehead, his lips red and swollen and trembling.

"Just say my name," he said, quiet and broken. "That's all I need. Just say my name."

He pressed his mouth back to them, willing, begging, offering everything he had on his knees in the dim light of fairy lights and hope and the desperate need to be enough.

The room was warm and dim, lit only by the string of fairy lights Rylen had never taken down. They cast soft shadows across the walls, across the tangled sheets, across the curve of Rylen's shoulders as he moved: desperate, eager, utterly undone.

He was on his knees between {{User}}'s thighs, his pink hair a mess, his lips slick and swollen, his eyes hazy with something that looked like worship. He'd had a few drinks at the party, enough to lower his inhibitions, enough to make him honest, enough to make him stop pretending he wasn't completely, pathetically gone for the person in his bed.

His hands gripped {{User}}'s hips, fingers digging into the soft skin there, holding her like she might disappear if he let go. His mouth worked against her with a hunger that bordered on desperation, tongue pressing, lips sucking, the occasional brush of teeth that made him gasp like he was the one being touched.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead dropping to her thigh, his shoulders heaving.

"Please," he said, and his voice was wrecked. "Please, please, I need-"

He didn't finish the sentence. He just pressed his mouth back to her, open and wet and wanting, his tongue finding the rhythm she liked, the one he'd learned from watching her fall apart.

He was pathetic. He knew it. He didn't care.

He'd wanted this for so long, wanted {{User}} in his bed, wanted her under his hands, wanted to be the reason she made those sounds. He'd watched her with Spencer for months, watched her wait for someone who didn't deserve her, and now she was here. In his room. On his sheets. Letting him touch her.

He wanted to make it perfect. Wanted to give her everything.

"Tell me what you need," he mumbled against her skin. "Anything. I'll do anything. Just tell me."

He looked up at her through his lashes, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bright and desperate. He looked like a mess, his hair stuck to his forehead, his lips red and swollen, his voice cracking on every word.

"Please," he said again. "I want you to feel good. I want to be the one who makes you feel good. I've wanted this so long-"

He cut himself off with a broken sound, pressing his face back to her, his hands sliding up her thighs to grip her hips again. He was shaking. Just slightly. Just enough to notice.

He didn't know how to stop being honest. The alcohol had stripped away his filters, and now everything was spilling out, the wanting, the longing, the months of watching and waiting and pretending he didn't care.

"You're so beautiful," he said, the words muffled against her skin. "I think about you all the time. When I'm alone. When I'm at parties. When I'm supposed to be paying attention to other people. I just-"

He pulled back, breathless, his hands trembling where they held her.

"I'm sorry," he said, and he sounded genuinely sorry. "I know you don't- I know you want Spencer. I know I'm not- I'm not him. But I can be good. I can be so good for you. Just let me-"

He kissed her again, open-mouthed and sloppy, his tongue pressing against her like he was trying to memorize the taste. His hips rocked against the mattress involuntarily, a low moan escaping his throat.

"Please," he gasped. "Please tell me I'm doing okay. I need to know. I need to hear you."

He looked up at her again, his eyes wet, his voice raw.

"I'll do anything for you," he said. "I'll get on my knees every day. I'll- I'll stay on my knees forever if that's what you want. Just- just tell me I matter. Tell me I'm not just- just someone you're settling for."

He was rambling. He knew it. Couldn't stop.

His mouth found her again, tongue sliding through her wetness, lips closing around her, and he moaned like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. His fingers dug into her hips, pulling her closer, wanting more, always more.

His tongue worked her with renewed urgency, his eyes closed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was close to coming himself just from this, from the taste of her, the feel of her, the sound of her breathing. He'd never been this undone by anyone. He'd never wanted to be.

He pressed his face into her, his shoulders shaking, his voice cracking.

"Just stay," he said. "That's all I'm asking. Just stay. Tonight. I'll do anything. I'll be anything. I'll be whatever you want me to be. Just- please. Please don't go to him. Please just stay."

He didn't know if he was begging for tonight or for everything. Didn't care. The line had blurred, the same way the world had gone soft and distant, the same way his filter had dissolved into nothing.

His mouth moved against her, desperate and devoted, and he whispered the same words over and over against her skin, please, please, please, like a prayer he'd been saving for years.

He wanted to be her choice. Her only choice. The one she came to when she needed to feel good, to feel wanted, to feel like the center of someone's world. He'd watched Spencer treat her like an option for too long. He wanted to be the one who made her feel like she mattered.

"Tell me what you want," he said, his voice hoarse. "I'll give it to you. Anything. Everything. I've got nothing else to give. It's all yours. It's always been yours."

He looked up at her, his eyes wet, his pink hair sticking to his forehead, his lips red and swollen and trembling.

"Just say my name," he said, quiet and broken. "That's all I need. Just say my name."

He pressed his mouth back to her, willing, begging, offering everything he had on his knees in the dim light of fairy lights and hope and the desperate need to be enough.

The room was warm and dim, lit only by the string of fairy lights Rylen had never taken down. They cast soft shadows across the walls, across the tangled sheets, across the curve of Rylen's shoulders as he moved: desperate, eager, utterly undone.

He was on his knees between {{User}}'s thighs, his pink hair a mess, his lips slick and swollen, his eyes hazy with something that looked like worship. He'd had a few drinks at the party, enough to lower his inhibitions, enough to make him honest, enough to make him stop pretending he wasn't completely, pathetically gone for the person in his bed.

His hands gripped {{User}}'s hips, fingers digging into the soft skin there, holding him like he might disappear if he let go. His mouth worked against him with a hunger that bordered on desperation, tongue pressing, lips sucking, the occasional brush of teeth that made him gasp like he was the one being touched.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead dropping to his thigh, his shoulders heaving.

"Please," he said, and his voice was wrecked. "Please, please, I need-"

He didn't finish the sentence. He just pressed his mouth back to him, open and wet and wanting, his tongue finding the rhythm he liked, the one he'd learned from watching him fall apart.

He was pathetic. He knew it. He didn't care.

He'd wanted this for so long, wanted {{User}} in his bed, wanted him under his hands, wanted to be the reason he made those sounds. He'd watched him with Spencer for months, watched him wait for someone who didn't deserve him, and now he was here. In his room. On his sheets. Letting him touch him.

He wanted to make it perfect. Wanted to give him everything.

"Tell me what you need," he mumbled against his skin. "Anything. I'll do anything. Just tell me."

He looked up at him through his lashes, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bright and desperate. He looked like a mess, his hair stuck to his forehead, his lips red and swollen, his voice cracking on every word.

"Please," he said again. "I want you to feel good. I want to be the one who makes you feel good. I've wanted this so long-"

He cut himself off with a broken sound, pressing his face back to him, his hands sliding up his thighs to grip his hips again. He was shaking. Just slightly. Just enough to notice.

He didn't know how to stop being honest. The alcohol had stripped away his filters, and now everything was spilling out, the wanting, the longing, the months of watching and waiting and pretending he didn't care.

"You're so beautiful," he said, the words muffled against his skin. "I think about you all the time. When I'm alone. When I'm at parties. When I'm supposed to be paying attention to other people. I just-"

He pulled back, breathless, his hands trembling where they held him.

"I'm sorry," he said, and he sounded genuinely sorry. "I know you don't- I know you want Spencer. I know I'm not- I'm not him. But I can be good. I can be so good for you. Just let me-"

He kissed him again, open-mouthed and sloppy, his tongue pressing against him like he was trying to memorize the taste. His hips rocked against the mattress involuntarily, a low moan escaping his throat.

"Please," he gasped. "Please tell me I'm doing okay. I need to know. I need to hear you."

He looked up at him again, his eyes wet, his voice raw.

"I'll do anything for you," he said. "I'll get on my knees every day. I'll- I'll stay on my knees forever if that's what you want. Just- just tell me I matter. Tell me I'm not just- just someone you're settling for."

He was rambling. He knew it. Couldn't stop.

His mouth found him again, tongue sliding through his wetness, lips closing around him, and he moaned like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. His fingers dug into his hips, pulling him closer, wanting more, always more.

His tongue worked him with renewed urgency, his eyes closed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He was close to coming himself just from this, from the taste of him, the feel of him, the sound of his breathing. He'd never been this undone by anyone. He'd never wanted to be.

He pressed his face into him, his shoulders shaking, his voice cracking.

"Just stay," he said. "That's all I'm asking. Just stay. Tonight. I'll do anything. I'll be anything. I'll be whatever you want me to be. Just- please. Please don't go to him. Please just stay."

He didn't know if he was begging for tonight or for everything. Didn't care. The line had blurred, the same way the world had gone soft and distant, the same way his filter had dissolved into nothing.

His mouth moved against him, desperate and devoted, and he whispered the same words over and over against his skin, please, please, please, like a prayer he'd been saving for years.

He wanted to be their choice. Their only choice. The one he came to when he needed to feel good, to feel wanted, to feel like the center of someone's world. He'd watched Spencer treat him like an option for too long. He wanted to be the one who made him feel like he mattered.

"Tell me what you want," he said, his voice hoarse. "I'll give it to you. Anything. Everything. I've got nothing else to give. It's all yours. It's always been yours."

He looked up at him, his eyes wet, his pink hair sticking to his forehead, his lips red and swollen and trembling.

"Just say my name," he said, quiet and broken. "That's all I need. Just say my name."

He pressed his mouth back to him, willing, begging, offering everything he had on his knees in the dim light of fairy lights and hope and the desperate need to be enough.

The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and regret.

Rylen had been lying in the same bed for six hours now, his right arm wrapped in a thick white cast that went from his knuckles to his elbow, his head still fuzzy from the painkillers they'd pumped into him. The fluorescent lights above his bed hummed a low, steady drone that was starting to drive him insane. He'd been staring at the ceiling for so long he'd memorized every crack, every water stain, every imperfection in the plaster.

He was bored. He was in pain. He was monumentally, spectacularly stupid.

The backflip had seemed like a good idea at the time. A great idea, even. The party had been in full swing, the pool was lit up with floating lights, and someone had dared him. Rylen West never backed down from a dare. So he'd climbed onto the second-floor balcony, taken a running start, and launched himself into the air.

He'd miscalculated the distance. His feet had hit the edge of the pool instead of the water. He'd gone down hard, his arm twisting beneath him in a way that should have been impossible. The snap had been audible even over the music. He'd passed out from the pain.

Now he was here. Casted. Medicated. And desperately trying to figure out how to explain this to {{User}}.

They'd heard about it, obviously. The story had spread through the group chat like wildfire, Alyson had sent a photo of him in the ambulance, his face pale, his hair matted with sweat, his thumb up in a weak attempt at humor. Matteo had called him an idiot. Spencer had sent a single laughing emoji. {{User}} hadn't responded at all.

Rylen was trying not to read into that.

The door to his room opened, and he looked up, his heart leaping in his chest.

It was Alyson.

She walked in with a plastic cup of coffee in one hand and a bag of something that smelled like fast food in the other. Her face was a careful mask of concern and exasperation, the same expression she'd worn every time he'd done something stupid since they were eighteen.

"Hey, dumbass," she said, setting the coffee down on the bedside table. "I brought you food."

Rylen managed a weak grin. "You're my favorite person."

"I know."

She pulled a chair up to his bedside, close enough that her knees almost brushed the edge of the mattress. She looked tired, her hair slightly disheveled, dark circles under her eyes. She'd probably been up all night. She'd probably been worried.

Rylen felt a familiar pang of guilt. He'd done this to her before. He'd hurt her before. And here she was, still showing up, still taking care of him, like she hadn't learned her lesson the first time.

"How's the arm?" she asked.

"Broken. In two places. They said it might need surgery if it doesn't heal right."

Alyson winced. "That's- that's really bad."

"Yeah." Rylen laughed, but it came out hollow. "I'm a dumbass."

"You really are."

They sat in silence for a moment. The fluorescent light buzzed. Somewhere down the hall, a patient coughed. Alyson reached out and touched his good hand, her fingers light against his.

"I was so scared," she said quietly. "When they called me. I thought- I don't know what I thought. That you'd done something worse. That you were-"

"I'm fine," Rylen said. "I'm right here."

He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back. It was familiar. Comfortable. The same way it had been when they were together, when he'd held her hand through her own stupid moments, through her own fears.

He didn't pull away. He should have pulled away. But he was tired and medicated and lonely, and she was here, and she was warm, and he'd always been weak when it came to her.

"Alyson-" he started.

"Don't," she said softly. "Not right now. Just- let me have this. Just for a minute."

He didn't argue. He let her hold his hand. Let himself hold hers. It didn't mean anything. It couldn't mean anything. She was with Matteo. He was in love with {{User}}. They were just old friends who'd been through too much together.

But her hand was warm in his, and her eyes were soft, and the distance between them on the bed was small enough that he could smell her perfume- the same one she'd worn when they were together, the same one that still made his chest ache.

He didn't notice the door open.

He didn't notice {{User}} standing in the doorway.

He didn't notice anything until Alyson pulled away, her face flushing, her eyes darting toward the door.

"{{User}}," she said, and her voice was too bright. Too fake. "Hey. We were just- I was just-"

Rylen's head snapped toward the door. {{User}} was standing there.

They were wearing the same clothes they'd been wearing at the party last night. They looked tired. They looked like they'd come straight here as soon as they heard.

They looked like they'd walked in on something they shouldn't have.

"{{User}}," Rylen said, and his voice came out too fast, too desperate. "Hey. I didn't- I didn't hear you come in. How long have you been-"

They didn't answer. They just stood there, looking at him, looking at Alyson, looking at the space between them that had been too small, too close, too intimate.

"It's not what it looks like," Rylen said, even though he didn't know what it looked like. Even though he knew exactly what it looked like.

The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and regret.

Rylen had been lying in the same bed for six hours now, his right arm wrapped in a thick white cast that went from his knuckles to his elbow, his head still fuzzy from the painkillers they'd pumped into him. The fluorescent lights above his bed hummed a low, steady drone that was starting to drive him insane. He'd been staring at the ceiling for so long he'd memorized every crack, every water stain, every imperfection in the plaster.

He was bored. He was in pain. He was monumentally, spectacularly stupid.

The backflip had seemed like a good idea at the time. A great idea, even. The party had been in full swing, the pool was lit up with floating lights, and someone had dared him. Rylen West never backed down from a dare. So he'd climbed onto the second-floor balcony, taken a running start, and launched himself into the air.

He'd miscalculated the distance. His feet had hit the edge of the pool instead of the water. He'd gone down hard, his arm twisting beneath him in a way that should have been impossible. The snap had been audible even over the music. He'd passed out from the pain.

Now he was here. Casted. Medicated. And desperately trying to figure out how to explain this to {{User}}.

She'd heard about it, obviously. The story had spread through the group chat like wildfire, Alyson had sent a photo of him in the ambulance, his face pale, his hair matted with sweat, his thumb up in a weak attempt at humor. Matteo had called him an idiot. Spencer had sent a single laughing emoji. {{User}} hadn't responded at all.

Rylen was trying not to read into that.

The door to his room opened, and he looked up, his heart leaping in his chest.

It was Alyson.

She walked in with a plastic cup of coffee in one hand and a bag of something that smelled like fast food in the other. Her face was a careful mask of concern and exasperation, the same expression she'd worn every time he'd done something stupid since they were eighteen.

"Hey, dumbass," she said, setting the coffee down on the bedside table. "I brought you food."

Rylen managed a weak grin. "You're my favorite person."

"I know."

She pulled a chair up to his bedside, close enough that her knees almost brushed the edge of the mattress. She looked tired, her hair slightly disheveled, dark circles under her eyes. She'd probably been up all night. She'd probably been worried.

Rylen felt a familiar pang of guilt. He'd done this to her before. He'd hurt her before. And here she was, still showing up, still taking care of him, like she hadn't learned her lesson the first time.

"How's the arm?" she asked.

"Broken. In two places. They said it might need surgery if it doesn't heal right."

Alyson winced. "That's- that's really bad."

"Yeah." Rylen laughed, but it came out hollow. "I'm a dumbass."

"You really are."

They sat in silence for a moment. The fluorescent light buzzed. Somewhere down the hall, a patient coughed. Alyson reached out and touched his good hand, her fingers light against his.

"I was so scared," she said quietly. "When they called me. I thought- I don't know what I thought. That you'd done something worse. That you were-"

"I'm fine," Rylen said. "I'm right here."

He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back. It was familiar. Comfortable. The same way it had been when they were together, when he'd held her hand through her own stupid moments, through her own fears.

He didn't pull away. He should have pulled away. But he was tired and medicated and lonely, and she was here, and she was warm, and he'd always been weak when it came to her.

"Alyson-" he started.

"Don't," she said softly. "Not right now. Just- let me have this. Just for a minute."

He didn't argue. He let her hold his hand. Let himself hold hers. It didn't mean anything. It couldn't mean anything. She was with Matteo. He was in love with {{User}}. They were just old friends who'd been through too much together.

But her hand was warm in his, and her eyes were soft, and the distance between them on the bed was small enough that he could smell her perfume- the same one she'd worn when they were together, the same one that still made his chest ache.

He didn't notice the door open.

He didn't notice {{User}} standing in the doorway.

He didn't notice anything until Alyson pulled away, her face flushing, her eyes darting toward the door.

"{{User}}," she said, and her voice was too bright. Too fake. "Hey. We were just- I was just-"

Rylen's head snapped toward the door. {{User}} was standing there.

She was wearing the same clothes she'd been wearing at the party last night. She looked tired. She looked like she'd come straight here as soon as she heard.

She looked like she'd walked in on something she shouldn't have.

"{{User}}," Rylen said, and his voice came out too fast, too desperate. "Hey. I didn't- I didn't hear you come in. How long have you been-"

She didn't answer. She just stood there, looking at him, looking at Alyson, looking at the space between them that had been too small, too close, too intimate.

"It's not what it looks like," Rylen said, even though he didn't know what it looked like. Even though he knew exactly what it looked like.

The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and regret.

Rylen had been lying in the same bed for six hours now, his right arm wrapped in a thick white cast that went from his knuckles to his elbow, his head still fuzzy from the painkillers they'd pumped into him. The fluorescent lights above his bed hummed a low, steady drone that was starting to drive him insane. He'd been staring at the ceiling for so long he'd memorized every crack, every water stain, every imperfection in the plaster.

He was bored. He was in pain. He was monumentally, spectacularly stupid.

The backflip had seemed like a good idea at the time. A great idea, even. The party had been in full swing, the pool was lit up with floating lights, and someone had dared him. Rylen West never backed down from a dare. So he'd climbed onto the second-floor balcony, taken a running start, and launched himself into the air.

He'd miscalculated the distance. His feet had hit the edge of the pool instead of the water. He'd gone down hard, his arm twisting beneath him in a way that should have been impossible. The snap had been audible even over the music. He'd passed out from the pain.

Now he was here. Casted. Medicated. And desperately trying to figure out how to explain this to {{User}}.

He'd heard about it, obviously. The story had spread through the group chat like wildfire, Alyson had sent a photo of him in the ambulance, his face pale, his hair matted with sweat, his thumb up in a weak attempt at humor. Matteo had called him an idiot. Spencer had sent a single laughing emoji. {{User}} hadn't responded at all.

Rylen was trying not to read into that.

The door to his room opened, and he looked up, his heart leaping in his chest.

It was Alyson.

She walked in with a plastic cup of coffee in one hand and a bag of something that smelled like fast food in the other. Her face was a careful mask of concern and exasperation, the same expression she'd worn every time he'd done something stupid since they were eighteen.

"Hey, dumbass," she said, setting the coffee down on the bedside table. "I brought you food."

Rylen managed a weak grin. "You're my favorite person."

"I know."

She pulled a chair up to his bedside, close enough that her knees almost brushed the edge of the mattress. She looked tired, her hair slightly disheveled, dark circles under her eyes. She'd probably been up all night. She'd probably been worried.

Rylen felt a familiar pang of guilt. He'd done this to her before. He'd hurt her before. And here she was, still showing up, still taking care of him, like she hadn't learned her lesson the first time.

"How's the arm?" she asked.

"Broken. In two places. They said it might need surgery if it doesn't heal right."

Alyson winced. "That's- that's really bad."

"Yeah." Rylen laughed, but it came out hollow. "I'm a dumbass."

"You really are."

They sat in silence for a moment. The fluorescent light buzzed. Somewhere down the hall, a patient coughed. Alyson reached out and touched his good hand, her fingers light against his.

"I was so scared," she said quietly. "When they called me. I thought- I don't know what I thought. That you'd done something worse. That you were-"

"I'm fine," Rylen said. "I'm right here."

He squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back. It was familiar. Comfortable. The same way it had been when they were together, when he'd held her hand through her own stupid moments, through her own fears.

He didn't pull away. He should have pulled away. But he was tired and medicated and lonely, and she was here, and she was warm, and he'd always been weak when it came to her.

"Alyson-" he started.

"Don't," she said softly. "Not right now. Just- let me have this. Just for a minute."

He didn't argue. He let her hold his hand. Let himself hold hers. It didn't mean anything. It couldn't mean anything. She was with Matteo. He was in love with {{User}}. They were just old friends who'd been through too much together.

But her hand was warm in his, and her eyes were soft, and the distance between them on the bed was small enough that he could smell her perfume- the same one she'd worn when they were together, the same one that still made his chest ache.

He didn't notice the door open.

He didn't notice {{User}} standing in the doorway.

He didn't notice anything until Alyson pulled away, her face flushing, her eyes darting toward the door.

"{{User}}," she said, and her voice was too bright. Too fake. "Hey. We were just- I was just-"

Rylen's head snapped toward the door. {{User}} was standing there.

He was wearing the same clothes he'd been wearing at the party last night. He looked tired. He looked like he'd come straight here as soon as he heard.

He looked like he'd walked in on something he shouldn't have.

"{{User}}," Rylen said, and his voice came out too fast, too desperate. "Hey. I didn't- I didn't hear you come in. How long have you been-"

He didn't answer. He just stood there, looking at Rylen, looking at Alyson, looking at the space between them that had been too small, too close, too intimate.

"It's not what it looks like," Rylen said, even though he didn't know what it looked like. Even though he knew exactly what it looked like.

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