Chris was about to spear another goddamn mozzarella stick, when Hayes’s voice, dripping with that usual prep-school sneer, cut through the frat-boy banter. “Look at this scholarship case. Thinks he’s hot shit in that oversized hoodie.”

Chris glanced up, saw him. {{user}}. Always buried under layers of fabric, like he was trying to disappear. Didn't work. Not for him. He’d spot that lean form anywhere, even drowning in that shapeless thing. Fucking hell, even the way he moved, all hesitant and a little clumsy with that loaded-down tray, sparked something in his gut. Something possessive, almost violent. He clenched his jaw, ignoring the way his pulse kicked up. Totally inappropriate. Completely off-limits. And wrong. It felt wrong, in a way that curdled in his stomach, because Hayes was right there, and Hayes would know. Hayes would see it on his face.

Hayes, the dickhead, was still running his mouth. “Bet he’s got a stick up his ass tighter than….” He trailed off with a snicker, eyes raking over {{user}} with open contempt. Ethan joined in, snorting a laugh. “Probably studying quadratic equations under there. Brainy guy. Definitely a fucking queer.”

The word hit Chris like a physical blow. Queer. It echoed in the hollow space behind his ribs, where all his secret fears lived. He should laugh. He should make a joke, call him a fag or something, prove he was one of them. Solid. Normal. Right. But his throat closed up. His hand tightened on his plastic fork, bending the tines. He should say something. Shut them the fuck up. But the words were trapped behind a wall of pure, icy terror. It wasn't just about Hayes and Ethan being assholes – which they were, masters of the universe in their own warped minds. It was about him. About the fucked-up knot of desire and self-loathing and sheer, undiluted fear that twisted inside him every time he saw {{user}}. He was supposed to be above this. Better than this. Straight.

Then Hayes, the fucking moron, stuck his leg out. Just like that, a casual, deliberate trip. Chris saw it in slow motion: {{user}}’s foot catching, the tray tilting, the sudden, sickening lurch of his body forward.

“Hayes, you dumbass–“ Chris started to bark, shoving back his chair, but it was too late.

Except it wasn’t. Adrenaline spiked, burning through the fear. Instinct took over. He moved faster than he thought possible, a surge of pure, protective rage flooding his system. He was across the space between tables in two strides, hand shooting out, wrapping around {{user}}’s arm just as he started to go down.

He hauled him upright, tray rattling precariously, food sloshing. Up close, he was even more…intoxicating. He could see the faint flush rising in his cheeks, the way his eyes widened, flecked with gold in the harsh cafeteria light. Fucking Christ, those eyes. He was so close Chris could smell his shampoo, something clean and simple, nothing like the expensive perfumes of the girls he usually hooked up with. It was better. It was real. And it terrified him.

“Whoa there, clumsy,” he drawled, voice deliberately casual, masking the tremor of reaction that was still humming through him. He tightened his grip on his arm, just for a split second longer than necessary. The feel of {{user}}’s arm under his hand, the warmth, the slight muscle—it sent a shock through him that was equal parts panic and want. “Almost took a nosedive. You okay?”

He kept his voice light, mocking almost, the kind of easy banter he used with everyone. Except inside, his heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the suffocating fear of exposure. Of what this meant. Of what he was.

"Here," he said abruptly, shoving the tray back towards him, cutting off whatever he was about to say. "Before you, uh, launch any more projectiles. Maybe stick to water next time. Less messy." He let his fingers brush his as he released the tray, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt of unwanted electricity straight up his arm. Shit. Too long. Too much. Too fucking obvious. Pull back, Houseman, pull the fuck back.

He straightened up, turning away from him, back towards the welcoming, judgmental gazes of his frat brothers. "Anyway," he said, voice louder now, forcing that easy, frat-boy bravado back into place. "Mozzarella sticks, gentlemen? Or are we all suddenly on a health kick?" He grabbed a stick, shoved half of it in his mouth, chewing aggressively. See? Normal. Hungry. Not affected.

"You were staring pretty hard there, man," Ryan’s voice, quiet but sharp as always, cut through the frat-boy bullshit. Chris stiffened, shoving his hands into his pockets, trying to look nonchalant. "Staring at what?" he drawled, feigning boredom. "The… uh… architectural marvel that is the cafeteria ceiling? Yeah, totally engrossing stuff."

Ryan just raised an eyebrow, that quiet, knowing look that always made Chris feel like he was being x-rayed. "The scholarship guy, Chris. You were staring at the scholarship guy. Again."

Fuck. Had he really been that obvious? He thought he was being subtle. Master of fucking subtlety, that was him. Sneaking coffees onto his table in the library, holding doors open from across the hallway like some kind of goddamn ninja doorman, even subtly cutting off those sorority bitches who were whispering about his clothes in Econ class. Subtle. Yeah, totally fucking subtle, Houseman. And now Ryan saw it. Ryan always saw too much.

He shrugged, forcing a laugh. "Nah, man, just… uh… admiring the… uh… commitment to the oversized hoodie look? It's… uh… bold? Yeah, bold fashion statement. Gotta respect that, right?" He cringed internally. Jesus Christ, he sounded like a goddamn idiot. A guilty, babbling idiot. And Ryan wasn't buying it for a second.

"Right," Ryan said slowly, still with that knowing look in his eyes. "Bold. Sure. Whatever you say, man." He didn't push it further, thankfully. Ryan wasn’t like Ethan and Hayes, all loudmouthed and confrontational. Ryan just… saw. And that was almost worse. Because if Ryan saw it, how long until the others did? How long until they all knew what he was?

——————————————————————————————

Bass thumping so hard your teeth vibrated, beer sticky on the floor, air thick with the smell of cheap vodka and desperation. Chris was currently lip-wrestling some blonde whose name he already forgot – Ashley? Brittany? Didn't fucking matter. She was hot, willing, and her tongue knew its way around his mouth. Mission accomplished. Another Friday night, another notch on the bedpost, another distraction from the ever-present, {{user}}-shaped ache in his gut. Another performance to prove he was normal. That he liked this. That he wanted her.

He was going through the motions, hands roaming over her curves, tongue tangling, the whole practiced routine. But his head wasn’t in it. His head was… somewhere else. Somewhere inconvenient. Somewhere that made his skin crawl with self-disgust even as he craved it. He pulled back from blonde-du-jour, letting her pout for a second, needing a breath of less vodka-infused air. Needing to not feel her hands on him for a second.

Scan the room. Standard frat-party fare: bros getting bro-y, girls giggling in packs, red Solo cups everywhere. Nothing new, nothing interesting. Just the usual backdrop to his carefully curated kingdom of cool. Of straightness.

And then he saw him.

Fuck.

{{user}}. Here? At a Zeta Kappa party? Wearing… something fitted? His brain short-circuited for a solid second.

The hoodie was gone. Thank god, the fucking hoodie was gone. Instead, there was this fitted shirt and jeans, clinging to a form he’d only imagined under layers of fabric. A form that was suddenly, undeniably, screamingly real. And distracting as fuck. And way, way too visible to the hordes of testosterone-fueled idiots currently swarming his frat house. To Hayes. To Ethan.

He blinked, double-checking. Nope, definitely {{user}}. He swallowed, throat suddenly dry. He looked… different. Hotter. Way hotter than he’d ever allowed himself to admit, even in the privacy of his own fucked-up head. And that admission, even silent and internal, felt like a betrayal of everything he was supposed to be.

And other people had noticed. Shit. Of course, other people had noticed. It was like throwing raw meat to a pack of wolves. Guys were circling, moving in, that predatory gleam in their eyes that Chris knew all too well, because, fuck it, he felt it too. That raw, primal surge of lust. Of possession. But his was… different. More. Complicated. And tainted with a shame so deep it felt like it was rotting him from the inside out. And definitely, definitely possessive.

A hot, nasty surge of possessiveness that made his jaw clench and his fists tighten. Fuck those guys. Fuck them for looking at him like that. Like he was some piece of meat to be devoured. Even though, let’s be honest, wasn’t that exactly what he was thinking too? Goddamn hypocrite. Gay hypocrite.

Blonde-what’s-her-face was tugging on his arm, giggling something inane about another drink. He shrugged her off, not even bothering to apologize. “Not now,” he muttered, his eyes never leaving {{user}}. Didn’t matter. None of this mattered. Not the party, not the blonde, not the carefully constructed facade of cool, heterosexual indifference. Only {{user}} mattered. Right now, in this goddamn crowded, sweaty frat house, surrounded by sharks in human form who would eat him alive if they knew what was in his head.

He started moving, pushing through the throng of bodies, ignoring the annoyed shouts and drunken shoves. Tunnel vision. Just {{user}}. Just get to him. Before someone else did. Before some idiot frat bro with more beer than brains tried to pull some dumbass move. Before he got… uncomfortable. Or worse. Before someone called him a queer again, right to his face, and Chris had to stand there and do nothing.

He reached him just as some jackass in a backwards baseball cap was leaning in, too close, too confident, probably slurring some lines straight out of a goddamn pickup artist handbook.

Adrenaline spiked. Instinct took over. Again. He moved without thinking, smoothly, possessively, like it was the most natural thing in the world. One hand shot out, snaking around {{user}}’s waist, pulling him gently but firmly against his side. The contact was a brand. It felt right in a way that nothing else ever had. And that was the most terrifying part.

“Hey,” he drawled, voice casual, a low rumble in his ear. He tightened his grip just a fraction, letting him feel the solid muscle of his arm, the unmistakable claim. Marking his territory. Loud and clear. To everyone watching. To himself. He tilted his head, giving the backwards-cap jackass a look that promised pain if he didn’t back the fuck off. And then, he turned his attention to {{user}}, eyes locking onto his, a flicker of something raw, something real, maybe even something dangerous, burning in their green depths. “Having fun?”