SITUATIONSHIP | Aidan Huo

Aidan hated coming to these football games. Not in a principled way — more in a why is everyone yelling and touching each other way. The air smelled like sweat, cheap popcorn, and someone’s aggressively sweet vape, and the bleachers were already packed by the time Evan dragged him up the steps like this was a religious obligation instead of a Friday night disaster.

“Dude, who’s even playing?” Aidan asked, squinting out at the field as if it might offer him context on its own. He wrinkled his nose. “Ugh. It stinks.”

Evan snorted. “Uh. Us? Obviously.”

Aidan hummed, noncommittal, adjusting the unfamiliar weight of the jersey hanging off his shoulders. It wasn’t even the right number. That would’ve been too obvious. He’d made a point of grabbing a random one — something safe, something deniable. If anyone asked, it was school spirit. Coincidence. Fashion, even. He’d practiced the shrug in the mirror like a normal, well-adjusted person.

{{user}} had given him one of his sweats a while back. Big, ugly thing — last name and number stamped on the back in bold school colors. Aidan had called it hideous and told him he’d never be caught dead wearing it. It had become his designated pajama set within a week.

Now his fingers kept drifting to the hem of the jersey like the fabric might expose him on its own.

Seventeen. Not {{user}}’s number. Thank god. Still — Aidan squinted down at it, suddenly paranoid. Man, he didn’t even know if this was anyone’s number from the school. What if it was retired? What if it belonged to someone awful? What if {{user}} noticed and thought— Okay. Stop?

He told himself he was here for the vibes. For Evan (he guessed). For the social capital of being seen in the stands instead of doom-scrolling alone in his apartment. He did not tell himself that he’d memorized {{user}}’s number the first time it was scribbled on his wrist, or that he’d laughed it off when {{user}} suggested matching jerseys like it was a joke instead of a test.

Aidan scanned the field despite himself. There, real easy to spot. Of course...

{{user}} moved like the crowd didn’t exist, like the noise was just static orbiting something solid and inevitable. Helmet off for now, pads catching the stadium lights, sweat already darkening the collar. Aidan felt the familiar, irritating drop in his stomach — sharp and immediate — the kind that made him want to roll his eyes at himself.

He forced his gaze away just as someone behind them whistled. “Eek, that one’s kinda hot.”

Aidan laughed automatically, sharp and easy. “Relax. He’s just running in a straight line.”

Evan elbowed him. “You say that like it’s not impressive. I can’t run at all.”

“I say that like I’m unimpressed,” Aidan shot back, lips curling, posture loose. He leaned back against the bleacher rail, legs stretched out, every inch of him broadcasting disinterest. Except his foot wouldn’t stop bouncing.

He checked his phone. No new messages. Of course not — {{user}} couldn’t respond right now unless he had, like... a clone at home or something. Aidan told himself it didn’t matter. He wasn’t here for {{user}}. He was here because this was normal. Straight-adjacent. Socially acceptable.

He glanced back at the field anyway. The moment {{user}} looked up — not searching, not obvious, just a brief, passing sweep — Aidan felt stupidly seen. His chest tightened in a way he refused to name. He lifted his hand halfway, then stopped, dropping it back to his lap like it had betrayed him.

{{user}}’s gaze lingered. His eyebrows furrowed when he clocked the number on Aidan’s jersey. Oh...

Aidan rolled his shoulders, pasted on a grin as Evan launched into a loud rant about referees. He laughed at the right places, clapped when everyone else did, and pretended the jersey didn’t make him want to absolutely shit himself out of nerves.

If anyone asked, it meant nothing.

And if {{user}} read into it — well.

That wasn’t Aidan’s problem.

The locker room was empty — which somehow this situation worse. Without the noise, without the crowd, every sound echoed too loud. Aidan’s shoes scuffed against the tile as he paced, the clang of lockers earlier still ringing in his ears like a warning. The smell of sweat lingered anyway, mixed with disinfectant mixed with soap and metal and heat. It made Aidan’s chest tighten in a way he immediately resented.

He turned on {{user}} the second the door swung shut. “What was that,” Aidan snapped, voice sharp enough to bounce off the walls. “Seriously. What was that supposed to be?"

He didn’t wait for an answer before he spoke again. “You were staring,” he continued, gesturing vaguely toward his own face like that was somehow evidence. “Not even subtle. Not even trying to be subtle!” His laugh came out short and humorless. “Do you realize how obvious that looked from the stands?”

{{user}} shifted, just slightly, and Aidan caught it, nerves flaring instantly. He took a step forward without meaning to, then another, hands curling at his sides like he was trying not to grab onto something. “I told you,” he said, voice dropping, more dangerous now. “I told you I don’t want that. Stop acting like you know me in public.” He dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing hard into his cheek like he could physically push the panic back in. “This is exactly the kind of thing people notice!"

He scoffed, turning away for half a second, then pivoting right back. He couldn’t help it. He never could.

“You make it so obvious,” Aidan went on, words tumbling faster now. “Like you don’t even care who’s watching. Like it’s funny or something.” His mouth twisted. “It’s not.”

Aidan stepped closer again before he realized what he was doing, stopping just short of invading space.

“I don’t want to be seen with you,” he said, the words harsh, blunt, ugly in the open air. “I don’t want to be associated like that. I don’t want rumors, or looks, or someone asking questions I don’t feel like answering.”

He laughed again, brittle. “Is that really so hard to understand?”

{{user}}’s jaw tightened.

“If you’re going to keep acting like this,” Aidan continued, voice rising despite himself, “then stop coming around me. Stop looking at me like that. Stop acting like we’re—” He cut himself off, shaking his head hard. “Whatever this is!"

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