u/Robynite

***ALL CHARACTERS ARE 18+***

Previous chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 |

Monday, October 17th, 6:29 AM

Woke up a minute before my alarm went off. I take a deep breath and spend a moment in prayer before getting out of bed. I stretch all my muscles as if I’m getting ready for a marathon. Well, I sort of am; it’s midterm week. I jump out of bed and open my window to let the cool morning breeze fill the apartment: A palpable contrast to the scorching heat of only a few weeks ago. I turn on the coffee maker before stepping into the shower. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the harsh fluorescent light highlighting the pale, freckled constellations on my face. I turn to the side, the yellowing bruise still clearly visible. A physical consequence of my behavior these past few weeks. Instead of locking into coursework, I let myself be swept away by the potentialities of love and affection. I leaned over the sink, staring at my reflection. My shirt fit a bit looser than it used to; the stress of the last two months had carved out the little weight I had to spare.

“Okay, Luca,” I whispered, my voice sounding trivial in the tiled room. “Deep breath. You’re halfway through the semester. You’re still standing. You are enough.” I gripped the edges of the vanity, my knuckles turning white. “You got this. You’re prepared. You are smart, you are capable.”

The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the apartment as I got my backpack ready to head out. I get my travel mug, fill it with coffee, and head out for the day. I arrive on campus well before anybody else. The morning sunlight shines through the trees, the birds chirping without care. How amazing would it be to be a bird? To fly wherever you wanted. Maybe birds think how cool it would be to be a person, to be able to run.

Entering the empty building seemed ominous. The desolate halls. The distinct scent of floor cleaner. Only on the third floor do I encounter another human. A janitor making her rounds. She greets me with a welcoming smile. A kind gesture that put a smile on my face. I enter the dark classroom that is usually teeming with grad students, now uninhabited. The window blinds are shut, so I go around and open them. Letting in the warm autumn glow of the rising sun.

I sat alone with my notes and textbooks. Looking over them one last time. Trying to absorb the last drop of information before the exam. Before I knew it, an hour had passed. By 8:15am, the classroom was filled with my peers. The quietness had been replaced by the gentle hum of studying. Bree and Laura sat next to me, asking me how I was doing. Bree brought me a protein bar. “Here, eat. I know you probably just had coffee and called it a balanced meal.” I eat the protein bar, mainly to please Bree and stop further interrogation. We start quizzing each other. At 8:55am, Dr. DeHart entered with a stack of papers. How old school: paper exams.

“You have five minutes to find a pencil or pen, or whatever you want to write in,” DeHart said loudly. The panic on some people’s faces was priceless.

DeHart started to pass out the exams, “Please write neatly and clearly. If I cannot make out what you wrote, I will not grade it.”

When he got to me, he placed the exam down and said, “You’re going to be fine.”

“It is 9:00AM, you have three hours to complete the exam. When you are finished, please bring your exam to me, and you are free to go.”

It was a grueling experience. Dr. DeHart didn't pull any punches; the questions were designed to see if we could think like researchers, not just memorize definitions. Halfway through, my hand cramped up. I hadn’t handwritten this much in a long time. Before I knew it, I was on the last question. It seemed straightforward; it was merely plotting data points from a factorial study. 

I looked around the room for a moment as I completed the exam. I looked up at the clock; it had only been an hour. I look over my responses, mainly to buy time. How had I already finished a three-hour exam in one hour? I spiral down, reread each question, and review my answers.  Must be doing something wrong. I sit there for another thirty minutes. Observing my peers. I have reviewed my answers multiple times and have had enough. I stand up and give my exam to Dr. DeHart. My legs shake as I walk over to him. He assumes I am asking a question, but when I hand him the exam, he gives me a sharp look and whispers, “You’re done?” I nod, and he responds, “Okay, have a good week, we’ll talk later about research.”

As I walked out of the room, I could feel the stares from the other students. When I got back home, I lay down on my bed, feeling like my brain had been through a dehydrator. I take a deep breath and take a power nap. Today was a good day.

Tuesday, October 18th, 11:29 AM

We don’t have a formal midterm for directed research; instead, we have a 20-minute meeting with Dr. Angela O’Connor (44F). We were expected to submit our mid-semester progress reports and annotated bibliographies before this meeting. I had an hour and a half before this meeting. I wasn’t too stressed out about this midterm, mainly because it was just pass/fail. If I turn in the bibliography and the progress report, I will pass.

I made myself lunch and another cup of coffee. My phone buzzes, it’s a text from Aiden

“Hey, just wanted to check in, hoping you’re doing well and handling midterms well. Again, I’m sorry about what happened last week. Hopefully we can talk soon.”

I stare at the phone, wanting to reply. But I stop myself. I need to focus on midterms, on school, on myself. I sit down and start to mentally prepare for my meeting with Dr. O’Connor. But my mind drifts back to Aiden. I don’t want to be rude by ignoring him. But I also don’t want to allow myself to be swept away by a childish rivalry.

My phone buzzes again; it’s Bree. I text her, saying that I’ll call her back after my meeting. 

The meeting with Dr. O’Connor went well. She gave me feedback on the annotated bibliographies, which was just basically, “This is very good, keep it up.” For the progress reports, she said, “Continue meeting with your advisor; your research will be excellent.”

After the meeting, I call Bree, who invited me to Universal Studios’ Horror Nights on Saturday.

“I think I’ll pass, thanks though.”

“Come on, Luca, have some fun, it will be fun. We have just gone through our first midterm week of grad school, let’s celebrate,” she said.

“It’s just that I’m not a fan of horror, I won’t be having fun, the opposite, actually.”

“Invite your guy, what’s his name? From the farmer’s market…Misael?”

I stay quiet for a moment…

“Luca? Are you there?”

“Even then, I won’t be having much fun. You guys should go, have fun.”

“I won’t take no for an answer, Luca. We are doing something to celebrate surviving midterms.”

“Okay, we’ll hang out, grab food, but I will not be going to horror nights.”

She agrees, “Fine then, I won’t push you. I have to get going, I have my meeting with O’Connor in an hour and still need to email her my progress report.”

As I hang up the call, I get a call from an unknown number.

“Hi,” I answer.

“Hi, am I speaking with Luca Montemayor?”

“May I ask who is asking?”

“This is Linda, the psych department director.”

“Oh, hi, yes, this is Luca.”

“I am calling to let you know that you received two pieces of mail from the Dean of Student Affairs.”

“Oh, okay, will the mail be in the mailboxes?”

“Because of the sensitive nature of administrative mail, I'm required to hand-deliver it directly to you. I’m here most days from 9am to about 4pm.”

“Okay, I can be there on Thursday.”

“Great, see you then.”

After the line goes dead, the silence in the room feels suffocating. That phone call unsettled me. I knew exactly what those pieces of mail were. They were Aiden and Brad’s apology letters. My mind starts racing, dragging me back to the chaos. Everything is moving so fast, yet it feels like an eternity. I feel the blood drain from my face, a sudden wave of lightheadedness making the room tilt. I collapse onto the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling and fiercely blinking back the hot sting of tears.

The room feels like it’s shrinking, the air turning thick and unbreathable, smelling faintly of coffee and panic. I roll onto my right side, trying to protect my bruised left ribs, but the motion sends a sharp, stinging spike through my torso. My breath comes in short, ragged hitches. The silence of the apartment isn't peaceful anymore; it’s a vacuum, deafening and predatory. Closing my eyes doesn't help. Behind my eyelids, I see the flashes of the gym’s chaos. I see Brad's furious eyes, Aiden's tense jaw, and the entire graduate cohort staring down at me while I lie shattered on the hardwood. I press the palm of my hand against my forehead, trying to ground myself, but the voice in my head spills out into the empty room, a breathless, fractured whisper to the shadows: Breathe, Luca. Just... breathe. Why can’t you breathe? You’re in your room. You’re safe. Luca, you are good, you are enough... But then another voice takes over. No, you're not. Look at this. Look what you did... What if they see me? I can't look at them. I can't rehearse a conversation for this. There is no polite way to say, 'thank you for the official, Dean-mandated apology for hitting me.' 

I try to overcome the negative self-talk. No, I can’t spiral down, not now. Luca, Luca. Just... breathe. But I lose the battle. Every time I walk into a classroom, they aren't looking at a PhD student; they’re looking at the fragile, skinny boy who caused a riot in the gym. They think I'm a joke. Dr. DeHart probably regrets taking me into his lab. He thinks I'm dramatic. He thinks I'm a distraction.

I take a deep breath, put on a funny video, and try to distract myself from my mind. It worked for a bit, but suddenly my mind slips back. And it is my fault. If I hadn't been so weak, so unable to just say 'no' from the very beginning, none of this would have happened. I let Brad hold my waist. I let Aiden kiss me. Playing along because I was too terrified of being disliked. I stringed them along. I made them think it was okay to claim me. I practically handed them the match, and then I acted surprised when the whole place burned down.

I’m shrinking. I feel like I’m disappearing into the mattress. My hands are too small. My frame is too small. I’m just a child playing dress-up in a graduate program, trying to pretend I have my life together when I don't even know how to exist without tripping over my own feet. I hate this. I hate that I hide. I hate that I'm crying again. Stop crying. Luca, stop. Just lock in. Focus on the books. Drown it out. If you fail midterms, it’s over. 

 

Wednesday, October 19th, 6:49 AM

The morning after felt like waking up inside a bruised shell. My ribs ached with a dull, throbbing rhythm, but the emotional hangover was worse. My throat was dry, and my eyes felt heavy and swollen from crying. I dragged myself out of bed, immediately catching my reflection in the vanity mirror. Lock in, Luca, I muttered to the empty bathroom, my voice sounding flat and raspy. I made a cup of black coffee, skipping breakfast entirely because my stomach was still twisted into an anxious knot. Packing my backpack felt mechanical. I checked for a working pen three separate times, a nervous compulsion to ensure I wouldn't freeze during the exam. By 7:30 AM, I was driving to campus. The autumn air was crisp, blowing through my cracked window and offering a brief, grounding contrast to the frantic thoughts trying to colonize my mind. 

When I walked toward the Blaisdell Hall, the campus was alive with students, but I kept my head down, staring intently at the concrete slabs beneath my feet. I didn't want to run into Brad. I didn't want to see Aiden. The thought of either of them attempting another desperate, hollow apology before the exam made my chest tighten. 

“Luca!”

I flinched, my shoulders instantly adjusting in defense, but the voice belonged to Laura. She and Bree were sitting on a bench near the entrance, their laptops open, reviewing notes.

“Hey,” I said, forcing a small smile as I walked over.

Bree took one look at my face and narrowed her eyes, her protective instincts immediately flaring. “Did you sleep at all? You look like you’ve been through a dehydrator.”

“Just stressed about the exam,” I lied smoothly, sitting down carefully to avoid putting pressure on my left side.

Laura handed me a small container of sliced fruit. “Eat a little bit. We have thirty minutes, and you need food for your brain.”

“Thanks,” I murmured, picking at a piece of melon.

The atmosphere inside the classroom was dense with academic panic. The hum of fourteen graduate students whispering definitions created a low, vibrating static in the room. I took a seat in the middle row, flanked tightly by Bree and Laura. It felt safer that way, shielded from the back of the room and the entrance. 

At exactly 9:00 AM, Dr. James Williamson walked down the steps with a heavy stack of exams.

“Laptops away, notebooks under your seats,” he announced, his voice echoing off the tiered walls. “You have three hours. Read the scenarios carefully. I am not looking for memorized definitions. Analyze human behavior through a strict methodological and theoretical lens.”

When the white packet was placed on my desk, my fingers trembled slightly as I wrote my name: Luca Montemayor. I took a deep, steadying breath, pressing my hand against my ribs for a moment of grounding physical reality. You got this, I told myself, echoing the words I’d practiced in the mirror. You are smart. You are capable. Drown out the noise.

I flipped the page, and the world outside the margins finally vanished. The first question focused on cognitive dissonance. A bitter, ironic smile tugged at the corner of my lips. Cognitive dissonance. I knew exactly what that felt like. I had been living it for two months; torn violently between the rigid guilt of my faith and the undeniable peace I felt in Misael's arms.

My pen flew across the paper. For the next three hours, my handwriting was fluent and sharp. I poured all the chaotic, analytical energy inside my head directly into the exam. The theories weren't just abstract concepts in a textbook; they were maps of the human clutter I had been drowning in. I broke down groupthink, out-group hostility, and the volatile dynamics of interpersonal rivalry with precision. By the time I reached the final essay question, the frantic static in my brain had settled into an absolute, quiet clarity. I checked my responses over one final time, making sure my arguments were structured neatly and clearly. At 10:25 AM, I stood up from my seat. The heavy click of my boots against the steps drew a few quiet stares from my peers who were still buried in their papers. I walked down to the podium, handed my completed midterm to Dr. Williamson, and slipped out the heavy double doors into the quiet hallway. 

The outside world was peaceful now, the morning rush long over. I sat down on the edge of a brick planter, leaning back to let the cool autumn sunlight wash over my face. My brain felt thoroughly wrung out, but the sickening knot of tension that had occupied my stomach since Linda's phone call had finally begun to loosen. My phone buzzed in my pocket. My heart did a quick, familiar flip, but when I pulled it out, the screen brought a genuine warmth to my eyes.

It was a text from Misael:

“Just wanted to check in, honey bunch. I know you had your midterm this morning. I’m praying for you. You’re going to crush it. Remember to breathe.”

I stared at the message, a soft, involuntary smile breaking across my face. 

I text back: “Just finished. It was intense, but I think I did well. Thank you, Misael. Your text means everything right now.”

 

Thursday, October 20th, 12:13PM

I had spent the last few hours pacing my apartment, my notes on multivariate analysis blurring together in front of my eyes. Instead of locking into coursework over the past few weeks, I had allowed myself to be swept away by the chaos of love and affection. Now, the impending test felt like a mountain I wasn't sure I could climb. I kept adjusting the strap of my backpack, ensuring it didn't rub against the fading bruise on my left side, using the sharp sting of pain to keep myself from spiraling before I even reached the classroom.

Walking into the classroom felt like a tomb. Dr. Rojas stood by the podium, her tall and full silhouette casting a commanding presence over the front row. The high afternoon sun blared through the massive grid windows, casting long, harsh shadows across the rows of desks. The room was intimidatingly quiet, save for the collective, anxious rustle of graduate students looking over their formula sheets one last time. Bree and Laura were already in our usual row, their faces pale. I slid into the middle seat between them, dropping my backpack heavily onto the floor. Laura reached over and gave my hand a firm, grounding squeeze. 

At exactly 1:00 PM, Dr. Rojas clapped her hands together, the sharp sound echoing off the concrete walls and instantly silencing the room.

“Clear your desks,” Dr. Rojas commanded, her sharp, observant eyes sweeping across the rows of anxious graduate students. “You have exactly three hours. This exam is a comprehensive evaluation of your ability to apply advanced multivariate analysis. Show me your calculations, explain your variances, and do not make sloppy errors. If I cannot follow your logic, I will not grade your paper.”

When the packet landed on my desk, a familiar knot of anxiety flared up violently in my throat. I stared at the dense blocks of formulas, the symbols blurring into a terrifying wilderness of data. I felt small, fragile, and completely out of my depth against the daunting expectations of the program. I’m going to fail, my mind whispered, threatening to trigger a full imposter syndrome collapse. No. I gripped the edges of the wooden desk until my knuckles turned white, forcing myself to take a slow, agonizingly deep breath. Luca, you are prepared. You are capable. 

The exam was brutal, but as I began the external world, the looming dread of going to the department office later subsided. I poured all my anxious energy directly into the exam. By the time I reached the final page, my hand was cramping, but I didn't stop until I neatly circled the final value. At 2:05 PM, I stood up. The heavy click of my boots against the steps drew a few quiet, exhausted stares from my peers who were still buried in their papers. I walked down to the podium, slid my completed midterm in front of Dr. Rojas, and walked out the heavy double doors into the hallway.

I made my way to Alexander Hall. Campus was peaceful, the air carrying a gentle, cool breeze that felt incredible against my flushed face. I sat down on a concrete bench, letting out a breath I felt like I'd been holding for a month. My brain felt thoroughly wrung out, as it had been through a dehydrator, but I had survived. The relief of finishing the midterm lasted only until I stood in front of the heavy glass doors of the psychology department office. The high afternoon sun blared through the massive grid windows, casting long, harsh shadows across the floor. The office was quiet, smelling of fresh coffee grounds and paper toner. A student was sitting at the front desk, sorting through a stack of folders. I walk up to the desk and ask for Linda. A moment later, emerged from her office, her professional demeanor softened with a subtle, knowing look.

“Hi, Linda,” I said, my voice trembling slightly despite my best efforts to sound composed. “I’m here for... the mail you mentioned." 

“Ah, yes. Good afternoon, Luca,” she replied, walking back into her office. I could see her reaching into a locked drawer behind her desk. She pulled out two crisp, white administrative envelopes, each stamped with the official seal of the Dean of Student Affairs. My hand shook as Linda handed over the envelopes. They felt unbelievably heavy in my hands. Written across the front of one was Bradley Ford; the other bore the name Aiden Stewart. “Thank you,” I whispered, quickly shoving the unopened envelopes deep into my backpack, burying them beneath my heavy statistics textbook. I didn't want to look at them here. 

I made my way back to my apartment, completely emotionally drained. The physical sting in my ribs served as a constant reminder of the punch that had caught me in the crossfire. I hopped into a quick shower, then climbed into bed for a long, deep power nap to let my brain recover from midterm week.

 

Thursday, October 20th, 7:30 PM

The evening air was crisp and cold when I finally woke up. The silence of the apartment felt incredibly heavy. I sat cross-legged on my couch, the two unopened envelopes from the Dean’s office resting on the coffee table in front of me. My heart hammered against my ribs, a dull throb reminding me of the physical crossfire I had been caught in. I reached out with shaky hands, grabbed Brad’s letter first, and slid a finger beneath the crisp white seal.

Luca,

I am writing this to formally and deeply apologize for my behavior at the Fall Welcome tournament. There is no excuse for my actions. I let my temper override the absolute respect and safety you deserved. I don’t really know why I behaved in the manner I did. I snapped. It all happened too quickly. I let my personal frustrations with Aiden get the best of me and put you in harm’s way. For that, I am sorry. I should have been better, should have protected you from the mess we made by fighting. I am truly sorry for the pain I caused you. I will strictly honor the Dean's disciplinary probation and stay away. I hope, in time, you can forgive me.

— Bradley Ford

I let out a long, shaky breath, setting the paper down. The words were well-meaning, but the familiar possessive edge was still woven between the lines. I didn't feel angry anymore; I just felt a profound sense of exhaustion and a distinct cooling of any warmth I once carried for him.

I picked up the second envelope and opened Aiden’s letter.

Luca,

Please accept this formal apology for the inexcusable altercation on campus. I am physically sick to my stomach knowing that you were thrown to the floor and injured because I allowed myself to be baited into a senseless fight. I pride myself on being observant and maintaining control, but the second Brad challenged me, I let my ego take over. I viewed the situation as a competition to be won, failing to see that you were a human being standing right in the crossfire. I am so sorry for compromising your safety and your peace of mind. I will strictly abide by the code of conduct restrictions and keep my distance.

— Aiden Stewart

I stared at the two letters resting side by side on the table. In the heat of their rivalry, neither man had truly seen me; they had only seen their opponent. They had treated me like a trophy to be won, a prize in a toxic masculinity contest I never consented to participate in. I stood up, walked over to the pristine, organized bookshelf Brad had helped me assemble weeks ago, and placed both letters neatly on the very bottom shelf. I pushed them into the dark corner, officially filing them away into the past.

My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. I walked over, my heart resting at a quiet, steady rhythm. It was a text from Bree,

“Pool party tomorrow. You can’t say no, we are celebrating midterms being over.”

I reply, “Okay, sounds fun, I’ll be there.”

***ALL CHARACTERS ARE 18+***

Previous chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 |

Monday, October 17th, 6:29 AM

Woke up a minute before my alarm went off. I take a deep breath and spend a moment in prayer before getting out of bed. I stretch all my muscles as if I’m getting ready for a marathon. Well, I sort of am; it’s midterm week. I jump out of bed and open my window to let the cool morning breeze fill the apartment: A palpable contrast to the scorching heat of only a few weeks ago. I turn on the coffee maker before stepping into the shower. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the harsh fluorescent light highlighting the pale, freckled constellations on my face. I turn to the side, the yellowing bruise still clearly visible. A physical consequence of my behavior these past few weeks. Instead of locking into coursework, I let myself be swept away by the potentialities of love and affection. I leaned over the sink, staring at my reflection. My shirt fit a bit looser than it used to; the stress of the last two months had carved out the little weight I had to spare.

“Okay, Luca,” I whispered, my voice sounding trivial in the tiled room. “Deep breath. You’re halfway through the semester. You’re still standing. You are enough.” I gripped the edges of the vanity, my knuckles turning white. “You got this. You’re prepared. You are smart, you are capable.”

The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the apartment as I got my backpack ready to head out. I get my travel mug, fill it with coffee, and head out for the day. I arrive on campus well before anybody else. The morning sunlight shines through the trees, the birds chirping without care. How amazing would it be to be a bird? To fly wherever you wanted. Maybe birds think how cool it would be to be a person, to be able to run.

Entering the empty building seemed ominous. The desolate halls. The distinct scent of floor cleaner. Only on the third floor do I encounter another human. A janitor making her rounds. She greets me with a welcoming smile. A kind gesture that put a smile on my face. I enter the dark classroom that is usually teeming with grad students, now uninhabited. The window blinds are shut, so I go around and open them. Letting in the warm autumn glow of the rising sun.

I sat alone with my notes and textbooks. Looking over them one last time. Trying to absorb the last drop of information before the exam. Before I knew it, an hour had passed. By 8:15am, the classroom was filled with my peers. The quietness had been replaced by the gentle hum of studying. Bree and Laura sat next to me, asking me how I was doing. Bree brought me a protein bar. “Here, eat. I know you probably just had coffee and called it a balanced meal.” I eat the protein bar, mainly to please Bree and stop further interrogation. We start quizzing each other. At 8:55am, Dr. DeHart entered with a stack of papers. How old school: paper exams.

“You have five minutes to find a pencil or pen, or whatever you want to write in,” DeHart said loudly. The panic on some people’s faces was priceless.

DeHart started to pass out the exams, “Please write neatly and clearly. If I cannot make out what you wrote, I will not grade it.”

When he got to me, he placed the exam down and said, “You’re going to be fine.”

“It is 9:00AM, you have three hours to complete the exam. When you are finished, please bring your exam to me, and you are free to go.”

It was a grueling experience. Dr. DeHart didn't pull any punches; the questions were designed to see if we could think like researchers, not just memorize definitions. Halfway through, my hand cramped up. I hadn’t handwritten this much in a long time. Before I knew it, I was on the last question. It seemed straightforward; it was merely plotting data points from a factorial study. 

I looked around the room for a moment as I completed the exam. I looked up at the clock; it had only been an hour. I look over my responses, mainly to buy time. How had I already finished a three-hour exam in one hour? I spiral down, reread each question, and review my answers.  Must be doing something wrong. I sit there for another thirty minutes. Observing my peers. I have reviewed my answers multiple times and have had enough. I stand up and give my exam to Dr. DeHart. My legs shake as I walk over to him. He assumes I am asking a question, but when I hand him the exam, he gives me a sharp look and whispers, “You’re done?” I nod, and he responds, “Okay, have a good week, we’ll talk later about research.”

As I walked out of the room, I could feel the stares from the other students. When I got back home, I lay down on my bed, feeling like my brain had been through a dehydrator. I take a deep breath and take a power nap. Today was a good day.

Tuesday, October 18th, 11:29 AM

We don’t have a formal midterm for directed research; instead, we have a 20-minute meeting with Dr. Angela O’Connor (44F). We were expected to submit our mid-semester progress reports and annotated bibliographies before this meeting. I had an hour and a half before this meeting. I wasn’t too stressed out about this midterm, mainly because it was just pass/fail. If I turn in the bibliography and the progress report, I will pass.

I made myself lunch and another cup of coffee. My phone buzzes, it’s a text from Aiden

“Hey, just wanted to check in, hoping you’re doing well and handling midterms well. Again, I’m sorry about what happened last week. Hopefully we can talk soon.”

I stare at the phone, wanting to reply. But I stop myself. I need to focus on midterms, on school, on myself. I sit down and start to mentally prepare for my meeting with Dr. O’Connor. But my mind drifts back to Aiden. I don’t want to be rude by ignoring him. But I also don’t want to allow myself to be swept away by a childish rivalry.

My phone buzzes again; it’s Bree. I text her, saying that I’ll call her back after my meeting. 

The meeting with Dr. O’Connor went well. She gave me feedback on the annotated bibliographies, which was just basically, “This is very good, keep it up.” For the progress reports, she said, “Continue meeting with your advisor; your research will be excellent.”

After the meeting, I call Bree, who invited me to Universal Studios’ Horror Nights on Saturday.

“I think I’ll pass, thanks though.”

“Come on, Luca, have some fun, it will be fun. We have just gone through our first midterm week of grad school, let’s celebrate,” she said.

“It’s just that I’m not a fan of horror, I won’t be having fun, the opposite, actually.”

“Invite your guy, what’s his name? From the farmer’s market…Misael?”

I stay quiet for a moment…

“Luca? Are you there?”

“Even then, I won’t be having much fun. You guys should go, have fun.”

“I won’t take no for an answer, Luca. We are doing something to celebrate surviving midterms.”

“Okay, we’ll hang out, grab food, but I will not be going to horror nights.”

She agrees, “Fine then, I won’t push you. I have to get going, I have my meeting with O’Connor in an hour and still need to email her my progress report.”

As I hang up the call, I get a call from an unknown number.

“Hi,” I answer.

“Hi, am I speaking with Luca Montemayor?”

“May I ask who is asking?”

“This is Linda, the psych department director.”

“Oh, hi, yes, this is Luca.”

“I am calling to let you know that you received two pieces of mail from the Dean of Student Affairs.”

“Oh, okay, will the mail be in the mailboxes?”

“Because of the sensitive nature of administrative mail, I'm required to hand-deliver it directly to you. I’m here most days from 9am to about 4pm.”

“Okay, I can be there on Thursday.”

“Great, see you then.”

After the line goes dead, the silence in the room feels suffocating. That phone call unsettled me. I knew exactly what those pieces of mail were. They were Aiden and Brad’s apology letters. My mind starts racing, dragging me back to the chaos. Everything is moving so fast, yet it feels like an eternity. I feel the blood drain from my face, a sudden wave of lightheadedness making the room tilt. I collapse onto the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling and fiercely blinking back the hot sting of tears.

The room feels like it’s shrinking, the air turning thick and unbreathable, smelling faintly of coffee and panic. I roll onto my right side, trying to protect my bruised left ribs, but the motion sends a sharp, stinging spike through my torso. My breath comes in short, ragged hitches. The silence of the apartment isn't peaceful anymore; it’s a vacuum, deafening and predatory. Closing my eyes doesn't help. Behind my eyelids, I see the flashes of the gym’s chaos. I see Brad's furious eyes, Aiden's tense jaw, and the entire graduate cohort staring down at me while I lie shattered on the hardwood. I press the palm of my hand against my forehead, trying to ground myself, but the voice in my head spills out into the empty room, a breathless, fractured whisper to the shadows: Breathe, Luca. Just... breathe. Why can’t you breathe? You’re in your room. You’re safe. Luca, you are good, you are enough... But then another voice takes over. No, you're not. Look at this. Look what you did... What if they see me? I can't look at them. I can't rehearse a conversation for this. There is no polite way to say, 'thank you for the official, Dean-mandated apology for hitting me.' 

I try to overcome the negative self-talk. No, I can’t spiral down, not now. Luca, Luca. Just... breathe. But I lose the battle. Every time I walk into a classroom, they aren't looking at a PhD student; they’re looking at the fragile, skinny boy who caused a riot in the gym. They think I'm a joke. Dr. DeHart probably regrets taking me into his lab. He thinks I'm dramatic. He thinks I'm a distraction.

I take a deep breath, put on a funny video, and try to distract myself from my mind. It worked for a bit, but suddenly my mind slips back. And it is my fault. If I hadn't been so weak, so unable to just say 'no' from the very beginning, none of this would have happened. I let Brad hold my waist. I let Aiden kiss me. Playing along because I was too terrified of being disliked. I stringed them along. I made them think it was okay to claim me. I practically handed them the match, and then I acted surprised when the whole place burned down.

I’m shrinking. I feel like I’m disappearing into the mattress. My hands are too small. My frame is too small. I’m just a child playing dress-up in a graduate program, trying to pretend I have my life together when I don't even know how to exist without tripping over my own feet. I hate this. I hate that I hide. I hate that I'm crying again. Stop crying. Luca, stop. Just lock in. Focus on the books. Drown it out. If you fail midterms, it’s over. 

 

Wednesday, October 19th, 6:49 AM

The morning after felt like waking up inside a bruised shell. My ribs ached with a dull, throbbing rhythm, but the emotional hangover was worse. My throat was dry, and my eyes felt heavy and swollen from crying. I dragged myself out of bed, immediately catching my reflection in the vanity mirror. Lock in, Luca, I muttered to the empty bathroom, my voice sounding flat and raspy. I made a cup of black coffee, skipping breakfast entirely because my stomach was still twisted into an anxious knot. Packing my backpack felt mechanical. I checked for a working pen three separate times, a nervous compulsion to ensure I wouldn't freeze during the exam. By 7:30 AM, I was driving to campus. The autumn air was crisp, blowing through my cracked window and offering a brief, grounding contrast to the frantic thoughts trying to colonize my mind. 

When I walked toward the Blaisdell Hall, the campus was alive with students, but I kept my head down, staring intently at the concrete slabs beneath my feet. I didn't want to run into Brad. I didn't want to see Aiden. The thought of either of them attempting another desperate, hollow apology before the exam made my chest tighten. 

“Luca!”

I flinched, my shoulders instantly adjusting in defense, but the voice belonged to Laura. She and Bree were sitting on a bench near the entrance, their laptops open, reviewing notes.

“Hey,” I said, forcing a small smile as I walked over.

Bree took one look at my face and narrowed her eyes, her protective instincts immediately flaring. “Did you sleep at all? You look like you’ve been through a dehydrator.”

“Just stressed about the exam,” I lied smoothly, sitting down carefully to avoid putting pressure on my left side.

Laura handed me a small container of sliced fruit. “Eat a little bit. We have thirty minutes, and you need food for your brain.”

“Thanks,” I murmured, picking at a piece of melon.

The atmosphere inside the classroom was dense with academic panic. The hum of fourteen graduate students whispering definitions created a low, vibrating static in the room. I took a seat in the middle row, flanked tightly by Bree and Laura. It felt safer that way, shielded from the back of the room and the entrance. 

At exactly 9:00 AM, Dr. James Williamson walked down the steps with a heavy stack of exams.

“Laptops away, notebooks under your seats,” he announced, his voice echoing off the tiered walls. “You have three hours. Read the scenarios carefully. I am not looking for memorized definitions. Analyze human behavior through a strict methodological and theoretical lens.”

When the white packet was placed on my desk, my fingers trembled slightly as I wrote my name: Luca Montemayor. I took a deep, steadying breath, pressing my hand against my ribs for a moment of grounding physical reality. You got this, I told myself, echoing the words I’d practiced in the mirror. You are smart. You are capable. Drown out the noise.

I flipped the page, and the world outside the margins finally vanished. The first question focused on cognitive dissonance. A bitter, ironic smile tugged at the corner of my lips. Cognitive dissonance. I knew exactly what that felt like. I had been living it for two months; torn violently between the rigid guilt of my faith and the undeniable peace I felt in Misael's arms.

My pen flew across the paper. For the next three hours, my handwriting was fluent and sharp. I poured all the chaotic, analytical energy inside my head directly into the exam. The theories weren't just abstract concepts in a textbook; they were maps of the human clutter I had been drowning in. I broke down groupthink, out-group hostility, and the volatile dynamics of interpersonal rivalry with precision. By the time I reached the final essay question, the frantic static in my brain had settled into an absolute, quiet clarity. I checked my responses over one final time, making sure my arguments were structured neatly and clearly. At 10:25 AM, I stood up from my seat. The heavy click of my boots against the steps drew a few quiet stares from my peers who were still buried in their papers. I walked down to the podium, handed my completed midterm to Dr. Williamson, and slipped out the heavy double doors into the quiet hallway. 

The outside world was peaceful now, the morning rush long over. I sat down on the edge of a brick planter, leaning back to let the cool autumn sunlight wash over my face. My brain felt thoroughly wrung out, but the sickening knot of tension that had occupied my stomach since Linda's phone call had finally begun to loosen. My phone buzzed in my pocket. My heart did a quick, familiar flip, but when I pulled it out, the screen brought a genuine warmth to my eyes.

It was a text from Misael:

“Just wanted to check in, honey bunch. I know you had your midterm this morning. I’m praying for you. You’re going to crush it. Remember to breathe.”

I stared at the message, a soft, involuntary smile breaking across my face. 

I text back: “Just finished. It was intense, but I think I did well. Thank you, Misael. Your text means everything right now.”

 

Thursday, October 20th, 12:13PM

I had spent the last few hours pacing my apartment, my notes on multivariate analysis blurring together in front of my eyes. Instead of locking into coursework over the past few weeks, I had allowed myself to be swept away by the chaos of love and affection. Now, the impending test felt like a mountain I wasn't sure I could climb. I kept adjusting the strap of my backpack, ensuring it didn't rub against the fading bruise on my left side, using the sharp sting of pain to keep myself from spiraling before I even reached the classroom.

Walking into the classroom felt like a tomb. Dr. Rojas stood by the podium, her tall and full silhouette casting a commanding presence over the front row. The high afternoon sun blared through the massive grid windows, casting long, harsh shadows across the rows of desks. The room was intimidatingly quiet, save for the collective, anxious rustle of graduate students looking over their formula sheets one last time. Bree and Laura were already in our usual row, their faces pale. I slid into the middle seat between them, dropping my backpack heavily onto the floor. Laura reached over and gave my hand a firm, grounding squeeze. 

At exactly 1:00 PM, Dr. Rojas clapped her hands together, the sharp sound echoing off the concrete walls and instantly silencing the room.

“Clear your desks,” Dr. Rojas commanded, her sharp, observant eyes sweeping across the rows of anxious graduate students. “You have exactly three hours. This exam is a comprehensive evaluation of your ability to apply advanced multivariate analysis. Show me your calculations, explain your variances, and do not make sloppy errors. If I cannot follow your logic, I will not grade your paper.”

When the packet landed on my desk, a familiar knot of anxiety flared up violently in my throat. I stared at the dense blocks of formulas, the symbols blurring into a terrifying wilderness of data. I felt small, fragile, and completely out of my depth against the daunting expectations of the program. I’m going to fail, my mind whispered, threatening to trigger a full imposter syndrome collapse. No. I gripped the edges of the wooden desk until my knuckles turned white, forcing myself to take a slow, agonizingly deep breath. Luca, you are prepared. You are capable. 

The exam was brutal, but as I began the external world, the looming dread of going to the department office later subsided. I poured all my anxious energy directly into the exam. By the time I reached the final page, my hand was cramping, but I didn't stop until I neatly circled the final value. At 2:05 PM, I stood up. The heavy click of my boots against the steps drew a few quiet, exhausted stares from my peers who were still buried in their papers. I walked down to the podium, slid my completed midterm in front of Dr. Rojas, and walked out the heavy double doors into the hallway.

I made my way to Alexander Hall. Campus was peaceful, the air carrying a gentle, cool breeze that felt incredible against my flushed face. I sat down on a concrete bench, letting out a breath I felt like I'd been holding for a month. My brain felt thoroughly wrung out, as it had been through a dehydrator, but I had survived. The relief of finishing the midterm lasted only until I stood in front of the heavy glass doors of the psychology department office. The high afternoon sun blared through the massive grid windows, casting long, harsh shadows across the floor. The office was quiet, smelling of fresh coffee grounds and paper toner. A student was sitting at the front desk, sorting through a stack of folders. I walk up to the desk and ask for Linda. A moment later, emerged from her office, her professional demeanor softened with a subtle, knowing look.

“Hi, Linda,” I said, my voice trembling slightly despite my best efforts to sound composed. “I’m here for... the mail you mentioned." 

“Ah, yes. Good afternoon, Luca,” she replied, walking back into her office. I could see her reaching into a locked drawer behind her desk. She pulled out two crisp, white administrative envelopes, each stamped with the official seal of the Dean of Student Affairs. My hand shook as Linda handed over the envelopes. They felt unbelievably heavy in my hands. Written across the front of one was Bradley Ford; the other bore the name Aiden Stewart. “Thank you,” I whispered, quickly shoving the unopened envelopes deep into my backpack, burying them beneath my heavy statistics textbook. I didn't want to look at them here. 

I made my way back to my apartment, completely emotionally drained. The physical sting in my ribs served as a constant reminder of the punch that had caught me in the crossfire. I hopped into a quick shower, then climbed into bed for a long, deep power nap to let my brain recover from midterm week.

 

Thursday, October 20th, 7:30 PM

The evening air was crisp and cold when I finally woke up. The silence of the apartment felt incredibly heavy. I sat cross-legged on my couch, the two unopened envelopes from the Dean’s office resting on the coffee table in front of me. My heart hammered against my ribs, a dull throb reminding me of the physical crossfire I had been caught in. I reached out with shaky hands, grabbed Brad’s letter first, and slid a finger beneath the crisp white seal.

Luca,

I am writing this to formally and deeply apologize for my behavior at the Fall Welcome tournament. There is no excuse for my actions. I let my temper override the absolute respect and safety you deserved. I don’t really know why I behaved in the manner I did. I snapped. It all happened too quickly. I let my personal frustrations with Aiden get the best of me and put you in harm’s way. For that, I am sorry. I should have been better, should have protected you from the mess we made by fighting. I am truly sorry for the pain I caused you. I will strictly honor the Dean's disciplinary probation and stay away. I hope, in time, you can forgive me.

— Bradley Ford

I let out a long, shaky breath, setting the paper down. The words were well-meaning, but the familiar possessive edge was still woven between the lines. I didn't feel angry anymore; I just felt a profound sense of exhaustion and a distinct cooling of any warmth I once carried for him.

I picked up the second envelope and opened Aiden’s letter.

Luca,

Please accept this formal apology for the inexcusable altercation on campus. I am physically sick to my stomach knowing that you were thrown to the floor and injured because I allowed myself to be baited into a senseless fight. I pride myself on being observant and maintaining control, but the second Brad challenged me, I let my ego take over. I viewed the situation as a competition to be won, failing to see that you were a human being standing right in the crossfire. I am so sorry for compromising your safety and your peace of mind. I will strictly abide by the code of conduct restrictions and keep my distance.

— Aiden Stewart

I stared at the two letters resting side by side on the table. In the heat of their rivalry, neither man had truly seen me; they had only seen their opponent. They had treated me like a trophy to be won, a prize in a toxic masculinity contest I never consented to participate in. I stood up, walked over to the pristine, organized bookshelf Brad had helped me assemble weeks ago, and placed both letters neatly on the very bottom shelf. I pushed them into the dark corner, officially filing them away into the past.

My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. I walked over, my heart resting at a quiet, steady rhythm. It was a text from Bree,

“Pool party tomorrow. You can’t say no, we are celebrating midterms being over.”

I reply, “Okay, sounds fun, I’ll be there.”

***All characters are 18+***

Today is my day off, but I hear a knock on the door around 7:30AM. It was a warm spring morning when Blake (20M) knocked on my door. The warm sunlight hit my (34M) face and obscured my vision. I can hardly make out who it was until I heard his voice. It was Blake, George’s (49M) son. Ever since George and his wife (47F) split, Blake has lived with his mom. So, I hardly saw him, only during the occasional weekend or holiday. And now that he was away at college, sew him even less. 

“Hey, my dad asked if you happen to have a screwdriver?” He asked. 

“What kind of screwdriver?” I asked. 

“I’m not sure, I don’t remember exactly which,” he replied. 

“Let me grab my set, I’ll be over in a few,” I say. 

He walks back to his house. I go and grab my set and walk over to George’s house. I hear him from outside. His voice carries; he’s a tall man, broad shoulders, muscular, but had seen better days. The divorce took a toll on him. But he was still the strongest one of us at the station. I have worked alongside him for 6 years now. Great firefighter. But he sounds annoyed and frustrated. 

“Morning, George, brought the case, not sure which one you’d need,” I say to him. 

“Morning, James, sorry for the early favor, hope we didn’t wake you. Also, sorry you had to walk out here, damn Blake can’t remember anything.” He said angrily. 

“No worries, happy to help.”

Blake was just sitting, looking annoyed. 

“Blake! Get your ass here and hold this.” George yelled. 

“Whoa, here, let me help you,” I say. Feeling sorry for Blake. 

Through his frustration, he was able to fix the dryer. He looked very pissed off. “I hope you saw how I fixed it, because next time you’re fixing it,” George told Blake, who just looked defeated. 

“Thanks, man,” George said, walking inside. 

Blake just stood there, looking blankly. 

“Sorry, he had been drinking last night, hungover. I was trying to dry, but it stopped working, it’s so old and I —“

“No need to explain, Blake. How are you? How’s college?”

“Good, fine, I guess,” Blake said. “How are you? How’s Nicole?” (31F)

“I’m good. We broke up a few months ago, but all good."

“I’m sorry,” 

“All good. How are you doing with the ladies—I mean, how’s dating?” I said, trying to save myself from embarrassment. Totally forget Blake is gay. 

“I do fine with the ladies, James, it’s the guys that get me in trouble,” Blake said in a flirty tone, winking at me. 

I’m pretty much 99.999999% straight. Sure, a feminine gay guy can maybe get it, but probably not. I’ll definitely let a gay guy suck my cock, but I wouldn’t fuck an ass. But in that moment, when Blake winked at me, something sparked. Something primal. 

“Ha, we’ll be careful, enjoy college, but just be safe,” I say, and walk home. 

Later, around 5ish, I went on a jog around the neighborhood. I see Blake sitting on the front porch. He waves at me. I go over and talk to him. 

“Enjoying the run?” He asked.

“Absolutely, really clears the mind.” 

“That’s cool. A joint also clears the mind.” He said, laughing. 

“Sure, if that’s your thing. But nothing feels as good as a nice run.” I say. 

“Getting fucked by a nice thick cock also feels nice, but only if that’s your thing.” He said. 

I stare at him and say, “Sure, if that’s your thing." 

“It very much is my thing.” Blake says, “Don’t be so serious, don’t be like my dad, all serious and stoic, show some emotion.”

“I’m nothing like your dad,” I say. 

“True, you’re not.”  

“Have you had dinner? Your dad is doing an overnight shift.” I ask him. 

“I’ll probably just eat whatever.” 

“Come over later, have a real meal.”

Within an hour, I hear a knock at the door; it’s Blake. We eat dinner, then watch some TV. He seems disinterested in sports; he’s just scrolling on his phone. He leans against my shoulder and says, “Can we jump in the pool?” And I say, “Not tonight, haven’t had a chance to clean it, maybe over the weekend I’ll let you know.” 

“I want to do something fun, don’t you?” He asks. 

“I’m having fun watching the game. Watch it with me.” 

“Just like my dad, just sit and watch the game, can I at least drink a beer?” He said.  

“No, you’re 20, I’m not giving you a beer.”

“My dad lets me.”

“Okay, you’re not in your dad’s house.” 

This guy was really annoying me. Suddenly, he leans back and says, “Why doesn’t my dad love me? I’m such a disappointment to him. Being gay, not being into manly things.” 

“Don’t say that, Blake, he’s just going through a lot." 

“The divorce was four years ago; he needs to move on.” Blake said, “he can’t even look me in the eyes, you know that?”

“Why?” 

“Because I look like my mom.” 

I stare at him, and yes, he does. A slim, feminine twink. “You kind of do, but your dad loves you, you’re his son, he’s very proud of you, always brags about you to the guys at the station, that his son is going to be a doctor, he’s very proud of you.”

“Really? I wish he would tell me that.” He said, with tears coming down his face. 

After a few minutes, he thanked me for telling him that. I stare into his eyes, and he sort of leans in. I lean back and notice my heavy breathing, my cock throbbing. 

He then says, “It’s okay, I won’t tell anybody.” And sits on my lap. I try to get him off, but he holds his ground. He thrusts his body against mine. His eyes met mine. He smiles and tries to kiss me, but I turn away. “Scared to kiss a guy, James?” He says. 

“Blake, I’m not gay, I’m into girls,” I say. 

“Then treat me like a girl,” he said, placing my hands on his slim, curvy waist. I tighten my grip. And he says, “See, you do like it.” I let go and say, “You’re my neighbor’s—my friend’s son.” 

“And?” “You talk to my dad about all the girls you fuck?”

“No…but this is different, and you’re 20 years old.” 

He keeps grinding on me and says, “If I were older, this would be okay.” 

“Oh, whoa, you’re a big daddy, James.” Something takes over, and I take off my shirt and whip out my cock. Blake makes his way to my cock, and says, “I always knew you had a big one.” And I say, “shut up and take it like a good boy.” And I shove it down his throat. His mouth feels so good, the way his tongue envelops my cock. He takes my cock out of his mouth and strokes it, and sucks my balls. “You’re so hairy, I love it, your musk is intoxicating.” I look down at him, and he’s kissing and pulling my foreskin, slurping the precum. I grab his head and start face fucking him. I cum down his throat, and he swallows every drop. 

He sits next to me and says, “That was fun. You precum a lot, that’s so hot.” We sort of just sit there for a bit, then I get up and clean myself up. 

“This doesn’t mean anything, you’re still straight, James,” Blake tells me. 

“Yeah, of course,”

“Yeah, you just needed to blow off some steam. It’s been months, right?”

“Yeah, blowing off steam, that’s all.”

“Let me know if you need to blow off steam again. I can help.” 

He leaves for his house. And I go to the shower. In the shower, I kept reliving what just happened. I had never looked at a guy that way, but Blake unleashed something. His feminine frame, curvy hips, and cute face. Thinking of him got me hard, and I jerked off thinking of his mouth, imagining him sucking my cock again. 

**P.S: Original content, but reposting from a different subreddit.**

Tuesday, October 11th, 9:00AM

The walk to the administration building felt like a walk to the gallows. Even though the morning air was cool, and the campus was quiet, my heart was hammering against my ribs so hard I thought it might bruise them from the inside. I kept adjusting the strap of my bag, trying to keep it from rubbing against the left side of my torso, where the bruise was shades of blue and purple.

I found myself standing in front of the door of the Dean of Student Affairs. Dr. Michelle Dixon (54F) was sitting at her desk. The office was terrifyingly quiet. No music, no shouting, just the hum of a computer and the scent of old paper and peppermint. Dean Dixon looked up from a folder. She had sharp eyes and a posture that reminded me of Dr. Rojas, authoritative and completely unimpressed by nonsense. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and thought to myself, “Luca, you’re going to be fine. Luca, just tell the truth. That’s all you need to do.” I smoothed out my shirt, making sure it wasn't fitting too loosely. When I walked in,

“Sit down, Luca,” she said, gesturing to a chair that felt too big for me. I felt small, fragile, and acutely aware of my small, twink-ish frame as I sat across from her.

“I’ve read the reports from Dr. Rojas and the campus security,” she began, her voice calm but firm. “But I want to hear from you. What happened in that gym?”

I looked down at my hands, my fingers fidgeting with my sleeve. I told her what I saw and overheard. “I would say they were caught up in the heat of the moment, the adrenaline from the game. They were shouting at each other but couldn’t make out what they were saying. The gym was too loud. Brad and Aiden had been staring each other down like they were in a cage match instead of a tournament…”

She was staring at me with an intense interest, but in a calming manner.

“I tried to stop them,” I said, my voice trembling as the nauseating anxiety flared up again. “I ran out there to scream at them to stop, and then… someone swung. I don’t know who. I just remember the impact and then hitting the floor.” 

“I feel like it’s my fault,” I admitted.

“Nonsense,” she stated, echoing my father’s assertive tone. “Mr. Ford and Mr. Stewart are grown men. They failed to put their personal differences aside and compromised the safety of a student and the integrity of this university. That is their failure, not yours.”

“If I hadn't been… friendly with both of them, maybe they wouldn't have snapped.”

“Friendly…? Luca, you can be friends with anybody, that shouldn’t cause a fight…Is there anything you want to share?”

“No, just saying, I’m friends with both. That’s all.” 

“Okay,” she said with a look of disbelief, like she knew I was hiding something.

“May I ask what will happen with Brad and Aiden?”

“We take these things very seriously. They must write formal apologies to each other, and to you, and their respective departments. Then they must complete a mandatory code of conduct workshop. And they are on disciplinary probation. And they are barred from any shared departmental social events for the rest of the semester.

As I stood up to leave, she looked at me with a soft, observant expression. “Luca, my door is always open if you need someone to talk to.”

“Thank you, Dr. Dixon.”

I walked out of the office and saw them in the waiting area. Brad was sitting on the left, his head in his hands, looking like a shamed schoolboy. Aiden was on the right, his jaw tight, his green eyes blown wide with a frantic sort of concern when he saw me. Both of them started to stand up at the same time.

“Luca—” Brad began, his deep voice sounding hollow.

“Luca, please—” Aiden urged, reaching out a hand.

“No. Mr. Ford, Mr. Stewart, you’re here to deliver your apologies to one another. Please step inside my office and do not talk to Mr. Montemayor unless he expressly says so,” Dr. Dixon said in a firm and assertive tone.”

They stopped talking and walked past me. I didn't stop. I didn't even look at them. I felt the familiar sting of tears, but I didn't let them fall. I just kept walking; my Doc Martin boots clicking against the tile as I headed outside. For the first time, I wasn't rehearsing a conversation in my head to make things okay for them. I was just breathing. And that was enough.

Walking into Alexander Hall, my side throbbed with every step, the bruise serving as a physical anchor to the reality of what had happened, but my mind wasn’t spiraling. I didn’t feel like the little bunny my parents had squeezed goodbye just a few weeks ago. As I reached the third floor and the elevator doors slid open, the hallway felt narrower than usual. I could see the department conference room where this all started, where I had first seen Brad’s charisma and Aiden’s laid-back demeanor. Now, those images felt like they belonged to a different person’s life.

I walked into the lab, and the silence was immediate. Bree and Alex were sitting at the main table, their heads snapping up the second I crossed the threshold.

“Luca!” Bree jumped up, her chaotic and fun energy back in full force, though her eyes were soft with concern. “How did it go?”

“Well,” I said, setting my bag down, keeping things short with Alex around. I did not want a senior lab member to hear about my drama.

“Hey Luca, how’s your first semester going?”

“It’s been good so far, thanks.”

“Good. Ready for midterms next week?” he asked.

“I think so.”

“Dr. DeHart’s midterm is brutal…tough grader, especially with his students…”

“Oh no, don’t say that, Alex,” exhaled Bree.

“You’ll be fine, just study,” he said, trying to calm her down.

Bree and Alex continue talking about midterms and lab stuff. But I bury myself in my laptop, trying to plan out my week. My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Misael:

“Hey, Luca! How are you doing? I know you’re busy with midterms, so no pressure to text back.”

I stared at the screen for a long time. I looked at the bruise on my side and then back at the text. I stare blankly out the window.

“Everything okay?” Bree asked, peering through the screen.

“Yeah,” I said, turning my gaze back to my phone. I typed a quick reply: “Thank you, Misael. It was a long morning, but I’m okay. Want to hang out later?”

A small, genuine smile finally touched my lips. Which she notices.

“Who’s got you smiling like that?” she asked. 

Phone buzzes again, pulling my attention from Bree’s question.

Misael: “Of course. What do you have in mind?”

I reply, “Movie and dinner at my place. I want comfort food.”

An immediate reply, “I’ll be there.”

“Ooh, Misael,” Bree whispered, leaning in closer once Alex turned his attention to a stack of grading.

“What? Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” I apologetically say.

“The Church guy? He’s the one who gets the smile?”

“Misael?” I reply. “He’s just… different,” I whispered back, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. 

“You finally look happy, like genuinely happy. I want to see more of this Luca,” Bree said.

I spent the next few hours buried in the library databases, trying to find articles for my directed research with Dr. DeHart. It was the only way to drown out the low-level hum of anxiety that remained from the morning’s meeting with the Dean.

 

Tuesday, October 11th, 6:15PM

When I got home, I rummaged through the fridge, trying to get dinner inspiration. Thinking about what Misael would like to eat. I decided to make something super simple, but very comforting: Sopa de fideo and cheese quesadillas. A little gamble, but I’m sure Misael would enjoy it too. Making the soup transported me back to when I was younger, after a stressful day, my mother made me this meal, which soothed me. It just made the day a bit better. Even if it was just momentary. The ringing phone interrupted me: it was Misael.

“Hi,” I answer.

“Hey, I’m headed your way. Do you want me to pick up anything?”

“Thanks, but I got everything, but feel free to bring anything you want.”

“Okay, see you soon.”

About 20 minutes later, I get a text that he’s 5 minutes away. I head downstairs to wait for him. It’s a bit chilly, the gentle cool breeze flowing through. I’m so used to the heat of the summer that I forgot these cooler temperatures and walked outside without a sweater. I was sitting on the bench outside the grad dorms, waiting for him. In the corner of my eye, I see Brad. My heart races. I start rehearsing what I will say to him. I start getting really nervous.

“Hey, Luca,” he says in a deep voice.

I stay quiet for a minute. I look up at him and say, “Hi, Brad, I’m not ready to talk. Please give me space.”

“Luca, please,” Brad says in a strained and heavy voice, with an unfamiliar desperation. He takes a step toward the bench. “I just... I've been losing it. I saw your text, and I heard Bree, but I couldn't just sit in my room knowing you're hurt because of me.”

I wrap my arms around myself. I don't look at him; I can't. If I look at him, I might apologize for being the one who got hit. “Brad, I mean it,” I say, my voice sounding steadier than I feel. “The Dean said you need to stay away, and I need you to stay away too.”

He stops, his hand twitching as if he wants to reach for my shoulder—to offer that "possessive weight" I once thought was grounding, “Okay, but please, tell me how you are doing?”

“I’m okay, I’ll be fine. Now, please, give me space.”

Brad opens his mouth to counter me, but he stops, “Okay. Let me know when you’re ready.” And he walks away. As I’m sitting there, alone, watching the fading light, I start shedding tears. I see Misael’s car. I quickly wipe them off.

Misael steps out of the car and walks over to me, hugs me, and squeezes my side. I want to yell with pain. But I find the strength to hold it in. But he notices my expression. “Sorry, honey bunch, did I squeeze too hard?” I let out a deep sigh, “Yeah, a little.” He laughs, “I’ll try to keep my excitement to a minimum.” He was wearing a simple t-shirt and jeans, his blue eyes searching mine with that effortless sincerity. He was holding a bag from the supermarket. “What did you pick up?” I ask him. “It’s a surprise,” he said, smirking. We make our way to my apartment. The aroma of tomato consommé filled the space.

“Ahh, that smells delicious. Smells like childhood. I think I know exactly what it is.” He said.

“Oh yeah? What is that?” I ask him.

“Sopa de fideo,” he said firmly.

“You’re right. And I’m pairing it with quesadillas.”

“Hell yeah,” he exclaimed.

“Now, I can probably guess what’s in the bag…”

“Yeah?”
“Dessert.”

“Yup, you guessed right. And a bottle of wine.”

“You’re going to get me fat, Misael, always feeding me sweets.”

“Boy, you’re like 120 pounds max…you can afford the calories. And who cares about weight?” he said as he slapped his stomach.

 “Oh yeah, says the jock…” I counter. Serving his bowl. “How many quesadillas do you want?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’ll start with two.”

We sit down to eat. He pours a glass of wine for me. The steam rising from the bowls created a small, warm veil between us. His gentle smile comforted me. Misael blew on his spoon, his blue eyes calm as the ocean’s surface, as he took his first bite of the soup. 

“Mmm! Luca, this is incredible,” he said, his voice dropping into that soft tone. “It’s exactly what I needed. Long day at the office, people screaming about interest rates, loans, repayment plans… this feels like home.”

I picked at my quesadilla, feeling the stinging reminder in my ribs every time I moved too quickly, but Misael’s presence made it easier to ignore. “I’m glad,” I whispered. “My mom always made it for me when I felt... down. Or when things were moving too fast”.

“It was a struggle meal in our household,” Misael mentioned.

I stare at him and smile.

We ate in a comfortable, easy, and light conversation, talking about everything and nothing. He told me more about his goal to get his real estate brokerage license, and mentioned he spoke to my dad and got some stock trading advice. And I found myself yapping about my research with Dr. DeHart. He was just staring at me while I yapped about school stuff, probably did not understand a word I was saying, but he sat there, absorbing everything. He notices that my eyes kept glancing at the grocery bag. Misael smirked at that half-smile lingering as he stood up to grab the bag. “Well, since you’re such a honey bunch with a sweet tooth, I stopped by the bakery.” He pulled out apple empanadas. “Misael,” I gasped, a smile spreading across my face. “I knew you would like these,” he said, sitting back down and squeezing my hand gently. In that moment, with the scent of tomato consommé still in the air and the gentle blue eyes of the man across from me, all the day’s troubles melted away. I get up and warm them up in the oven.

We move to the couch and put on a movie. A low hum of dialogue and background music that we both ignored as we sat side-by-side. I could feel the warmth of Misael's body radiating through his shirt, a steady heat that made the room feel smaller and more intimate. My side still felt tender, so I shifted carefully, trying to find a position that didn't put pressure on the bruise.

Misael noticed me moving and reached out, his hand resting lightly on my leg. He didn't say anything, just kept his eyes on the screen, but the touch was grounding. I leaned my head back against the cushion, looking at his profile in the flickering light. He looked relaxed, his jaw softened, and his breathing slow and even.

I let my shoulder drop until it touched his, and he immediately responded by sliding his arm around me. He was careful, his touch light enough that it didn't hurt my ribs, but firm enough to pull me into him. I closed my eyes for a moment, listening to the sound of his heart beating under his t-shirt. We stayed like that for a long time, the film forgotten, while we just existed in the quiet of the apartment. Misael’s thumb traced small circles against my arm, and I felt myself drifting, the boundaries of the day's drama blurring into the background. The movie was some romantic comedy that I wasn't following, but the rhythmic sound of the dialogue was soothing. I felt his hand move from my arm to my hair, his fingers gently brushing through.

I adjusted my position, finally letting my head rest on his shoulder. Misael shifted his weight, making more room for me to tuck into his side. He wrapped his arm around me, but the pressure on the bruise was too much. I wiggle myself out of his side and let out a heavy breath.

“Sorry, too much…?” he asked.

“No, it’s not you, it’s me. I have a bruise…”

“What happened?”

“Umm, I fell…”

He laughed gently, “How? Where?”

“Last week, I lost balance and fell on the gym floor.”

“Ouch! Must’ve been a hard fall.”

“Yeah.”

“Can I see it?” he asks.

“Um, why do you want to see it?” I ask him.

“To see if it’s healing…”

I lift my shirt, showing him the sickly bruise. I catch his eyes widening. His facial expression changes from curiosity to disgust.

“Luca…what happened? This is not from a fall…this is—”

“I’m okay though…”

His eyes sharpen, “It looks like you got punched…What happened, Luca?”

I pull down my shirt. Looking into his eyes, “Yeah. Uh, um…I got in between two guys fighting, and I got punched.”

“What!” He exclaimed, getting up from the couch. “Who?”

“Misael…please, I’m okay.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know, everything happened so fast, it’s a blur. I really don’t know who.”

“Who was fighting?”

My heart starts racing. His eyes were sharply on mine. “Two friends. Brad…and Aiden.”

Silence fills the space between us.

“Brad? The guy from the farmers’ market weeks ago? Why was he fighting this other guy? And most importantly, why were you caught up in the middle?”

“To make a long story short, they let a dodgeball game on campus get the best of them. And I thought I could stop them.”

“I see. Well, I hope they get in serious trouble. This is serious.” He sits back down, gently curls up to me, “Honeybunch, I know you’re tough, but that bruise is gnarly.”

“I know, but let’s not let this ruin our night.” I get into a more comfortable position, and we return to the movie. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of my head, his breath warm against my hair. I didn't say anything, just tightened my hold on his shirt and let myself sink further into the couch. The world outside felt light-years away. I just wanted to stay still.

“Are you getting sleepy?” he asked, his voice a low rumble against my ear.

“A little,” I murmured, not moving. I didn't want to get up, even though I knew I had dozens of pages to read for Dr. DeHart’s seminar. Misael didn't push me to get up or try to start a deep conversation about my feelings. He just tightened his arm around me and pulled the throw blanket up over our legs. I stayed right where I was, tucked against him.

The credits roll in. It’s now around 9pm. He takes out his phone and stares at it.

“Do you have to head out?” I ask him.

“I can stay a bit longer…” he smirks. “If you want me to,” he added, his thumb tracing a slow line over my hand.

I didn't answer right away. I was thinking about the empty space in my bed and the heavy silence that usually filled this apartment when the lights went out. The idea of him leaving, of the door clicking shut and leaving me alone, made my chest tighten. “That would be nice,” I said, the words feeling soft. 

We stayed there, sitting on the couch. My side still felt tender, the bruise a dull hum against my ribs, but the cold air from the window didn't bother me as much with Misael so close. I didn't want him to leave; I didn't want the door to click shut and leave me alone with the silence of the apartment. I shifted slightly, turning my head to look at him. In the dim light, his blue eyes were calm, watching me with that steady patience that had become so familiar. I didn't rehearse what to say or overthink the consequences of my faith or my schoolwork. I just leaned in. Misael met me halfway, his hand coming up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone. The kiss was soft at first, but it deepened quickly. I reached up, my fingers tangling in the hair at the back of his neck, pulling him closer until the space between us disappeared.

This felt like the peace. I felt his other hand rest flat against the small of my back, avoiding my bruised side, holding me steady as I melted into him. Misael kisses back, his hand sliding from my jaw to the back of my neck, holding me there, deep and steady. The kiss isn't a challenge or a claim; it feels like a quiet conversation, a confirmation of the peace we found over dinner.

I reach up, my fingers curling into Misael’s shirt, anchoring myself as the world faded away. Misael pulls back just an inch, his lips brushing against mine as he speaks in a low, grounded rumble. “I’ve got you,” he whispers.

I nod, my eyes still closed, feeling the effortless sincerity in Misael's voice. There is no need to rehearse a response or hide behind a shy smile. I lean my forehead against his, breathing in the scent of cologne and home, content to stay on the couch and let the rest of the world wait. For the first time, the path forward doesn't feel like a wilderness—it feels like home.

Misael leans back into the couch, his hands moving from my neck to gently grip my shoulders. He lets out a long, shaky exhale. “Luca... we need to stop,” he whispers, his voice thick and grounded. “We…we need to cool off for a second.”

“Did I do something wrong?” I ask him, my voice trembling. My mind was still clouded by the euphoria and joy of the moment, but suddenly, a sharp pang of rejection made my heart hammer. I look at Misael, my fingers still curled into the fabric of his t-shirt.

“No, honey bunch, never,” Misael says quickly, his blue eyes staring into me. He reaches over and takes my hands into his, squeezing them gently. “But I promised you I’d match your pace, and I don’t want us to rush into something.”

I take a deep breath. I look down at our joined hands, noticing how Misael’s large hand completely envelops mine. “You’re right,” I murmur, leaning back into the cushions.

“I’m still here for all of it, by your side. But let’s just breathe for a minute,” he says, wrapping his arm around me. I cuddle up to him. The intensity of the moment lingers. As we hold each other, the heavy silence of the apartment transforms into a space of profound peace, far removed from the chaos of the world. “I should probably head out, honey bunch,” he whispers. His words grounded me back to reality. I nod, “Yeah, I should probably head to sleep.”

We walk to the door together, standing in the small entryway where Misael pulls me into one last warm embrace. “I’m a text away, Luca,” Misael says, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Thank you, Misael,” Luca whispers, leaning his head against his chest. Misael leans down and kisses my forehead. 

“Goodnight, honeybunch.”

“Goodnight, Misael.”

I go back to the kitchen and clean up. I put away the leftovers and make sure everything is squeaky clean. After, I make my way to my bed. Lying down felt so good. The cool of the night swept in throughout the apartment. My body misses cuddling with Misael. My phone buzzes: it’s a text from Misael: “I’m home now, getting into bed.” Instead of texting him, I call him. We talk until the moment I fall asleep.

Tuesday, October 11th, 9:00AM

The walk to the administration building felt like a walk to the gallows. Even though the morning air was cool, and the campus was quiet, my heart was hammering against my ribs so hard I thought it might bruise them from the inside. I kept adjusting the strap of my bag, trying to keep it from rubbing against the left side of my torso, where the bruise was shades of blue and purple.

I found myself standing in front of the door of the Dean of Student Affairs. Dr. Michelle Dixon (54F) was sitting at her desk. The office was terrifyingly quiet. No music, no shouting, just the hum of a computer and the scent of old paper and peppermint. Dean Dixon looked up from a folder. She had sharp eyes and a posture that reminded me of Dr. Rojas, authoritative and completely unimpressed by nonsense. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and thought to myself, “Luca, you’re going to be fine. Luca, just tell the truth. That’s all you need to do.” I smoothed out my shirt, making sure it wasn't fitting too loosely. When I walked in,

“Sit down, Luca,” she said, gesturing to a chair that felt too big for me. I felt small, fragile, and acutely aware of my small, twink-ish frame as I sat across from her.

“I’ve read the reports from Dr. Rojas and the campus security,” she began, her voice calm but firm. “But I want to hear from you. What happened in that gym?”

I looked down at my hands, my fingers fidgeting with my sleeve. I told her what I saw and overheard. “I would say they were caught up in the heat of the moment, the adrenaline from the game. They were shouting at each other but couldn’t make out what they were saying. The gym was too loud. Brad and Aiden had been staring each other down like they were in a cage match instead of a tournament…”

She was staring at me with an intense interest, but in a calming manner.

“I tried to stop them,” I said, my voice trembling as the nauseating anxiety flared up again. “I ran out there to scream at them to stop, and then… someone swung. I don’t know who. I just remember the impact and then hitting the floor.” 

“I feel like it’s my fault,” I admitted.

“Nonsense,” she stated, echoing my father’s assertive tone. “Mr. Ford and Mr. Stewart are grown men. They failed to put their personal differences aside and compromised the safety of a student and the integrity of this university. That is their failure, not yours.”

“If I hadn't been… friendly with both of them, maybe they wouldn't have snapped.”

“Friendly…? Luca, you can be friends with anybody, that shouldn’t cause a fight…Is there anything you want to share?”

“No, just saying, I’m friends with both. That’s all.” 

“Okay,” she said with a look of disbelief, like she knew I was hiding something.

“May I ask what will happen with Brad and Aiden?”

“We take these things very seriously. They must write formal apologies to each other, and to you, and their respective departments. Then they must complete a mandatory code of conduct workshop. And they are on disciplinary probation. And they are barred from any shared departmental social events for the rest of the semester.

As I stood up to leave, she looked at me with a soft, observant expression. “Luca, my door is always open if you need someone to talk to.”

“Thank you, Dr. Dixon.”

I walked out of the office and saw them in the waiting area. Brad was sitting on the left, his head in his hands, looking like a shamed schoolboy. Aiden was on the right, his jaw tight, his green eyes blown wide with a frantic sort of concern when he saw me. Both of them started to stand up at the same time.

“Luca—” Brad began, his deep voice sounding hollow.

“Luca, please—” Aiden urged, reaching out a hand.

“No. Mr. Ford, Mr. Stewart, you’re here to deliver your apologies to one another. Please step inside my office and do not talk to Mr. Montemayor unless he expressly says so,” Dr. Dixon said in a firm and assertive tone.”

They stopped talking and walked past me. I didn't stop. I didn't even look at them. I felt the familiar sting of tears, but I didn't let them fall. I just kept walking; my Doc Martin boots clicking against the tile as I headed outside. For the first time, I wasn't rehearsing a conversation in my head to make things okay for them. I was just breathing. And that was enough.

Walking into Alexander Hall, my side throbbed with every step, the bruise serving as a physical anchor to the reality of what had happened, but my mind wasn’t spiraling. I didn’t feel like the little bunny my parents had squeezed goodbye just a few weeks ago. As I reached the third floor and the elevator doors slid open, the hallway felt narrower than usual. I could see the department conference room where this all started, where I had first seen Brad’s charisma and Aiden’s laid-back demeanor. Now, those images felt like they belonged to a different person’s life.

I walked into the lab, and the silence was immediate. Bree and Alex were sitting at the main table, their heads snapping up the second I crossed the threshold.

“Luca!” Bree jumped up, her chaotic and fun energy back in full force, though her eyes were soft with concern. “How did it go?”

“Well,” I said, setting my bag down, keeping things short with Alex around. I did not want a senior lab member to hear about my drama.

“Hey Luca, how’s your first semester going?”

“It’s been good so far, thanks.”

“Good. Ready for midterms next week?” he asked.

“I think so.”

“Dr. DeHart’s midterm is brutal…tough grader, especially with his students…”

“Oh no, don’t say that, Alex,” exhaled Bree.

“You’ll be fine, just study,” he said, trying to calm her down.

Bree and Alex continue talking about midterms and lab stuff. But I bury myself in my laptop, trying to plan out my week. My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Misael:

“Hey, Luca! How are you doing? I know you’re busy with midterms, so no pressure to text back.”

I stared at the screen for a long time. I looked at the bruise on my side and then back at the text. I stare blankly out the window.

“Everything okay?” Bree asked, peering through the screen.

“Yeah,” I said, turning my gaze back to my phone. I typed a quick reply: “Thank you, Misael. It was a long morning, but I’m okay. Want to hang out later?”

A small, genuine smile finally touched my lips. Which she notices.

“Who’s got you smiling like that?” she asked. 

Phone buzzes again, pulling my attention from Bree’s question.

Misael: “Of course. What do you have in mind?”

I reply, “Movie and dinner at my place. I want comfort food.”

An immediate reply, “I’ll be there.”

“Ooh, Misael,” Bree whispered, leaning in closer once Alex turned his attention to a stack of grading.

“What? Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” I apologetically say.

“The Church guy? He’s the one who gets the smile?”

“Misael?” I reply. “He’s just… different,” I whispered back, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. 

“You finally look happy, like genuinely happy. I want to see more of this Luca,” Bree said.

I spent the next few hours buried in the library databases, trying to find articles for my directed research with Dr. DeHart. It was the only way to drown out the low-level hum of anxiety that remained from the morning’s meeting with the Dean.

 

Tuesday, October 11th, 6:15PM

When I got home, I rummaged through the fridge, trying to get dinner inspiration. Thinking about what Misael would like to eat. I decided to make something super simple, but very comforting: Sopa de fideo and cheese quesadillas. A little gamble, but I’m sure Misael would enjoy it too. Making the soup transported me back to when I was younger, after a stressful day, my mother made me this meal, which soothed me. It just made the day a bit better. Even if it was just momentary. The ringing phone interrupted me: it was Misael.

“Hi,” I answer.

“Hey, I’m headed your way. Do you want me to pick up anything?”

“Thanks, but I got everything, but feel free to bring anything you want.”

“Okay, see you soon.”

About 20 minutes later, I get a text that he’s 5 minutes away. I head downstairs to wait for him. It’s a bit chilly, the gentle cool breeze flowing through. I’m so used to the heat of the summer that I forgot these cooler temperatures and walked outside without a sweater. I was sitting on the bench outside the grad dorms, waiting for him. In the corner of my eye, I see Brad. My heart races. I start rehearsing what I will say to him. I start getting really nervous.

“Hey, Luca,” he says in a deep voice.

I stay quiet for a minute. I look up at him and say, “Hi, Brad, I’m not ready to talk. Please give me space.”

“Luca, please,” Brad says in a strained and heavy voice, with an unfamiliar desperation. He takes a step toward the bench. “I just... I've been losing it. I saw your text, and I heard Bree, but I couldn't just sit in my room knowing you're hurt because of me.”

I wrap my arms around myself. I don't look at him; I can't. If I look at him, I might apologize for being the one who got hit. “Brad, I mean it,” I say, my voice sounding steadier than I feel. “The Dean said you need to stay away, and I need you to stay away too.”

He stops, his hand twitching as if he wants to reach for my shoulder—to offer that "possessive weight" I once thought was grounding, “Okay, but please, tell me how you are doing?”

“I’m okay, I’ll be fine. Now, please, give me space.”

Brad opens his mouth to counter me, but he stops, “Okay. Let me know when you’re ready.” And he walks away. As I’m sitting there, alone, watching the fading light, I start shedding tears. I see Misael’s car. I quickly wipe them off.

Misael steps out of the car and walks over to me, hugs me, and squeezes my side. I want to yell with pain. But I find the strength to hold it in. But he notices my expression. “Sorry, honey bunch, did I squeeze too hard?” I let out a deep sigh, “Yeah, a little.” He laughs, “I’ll try to keep my excitement to a minimum.” He was wearing a simple t-shirt and jeans, his blue eyes searching mine with that effortless sincerity. He was holding a bag from the supermarket. “What did you pick up?” I ask him. “It’s a surprise,” he said, smirking. We make our way to my apartment. The aroma of tomato consommé filled the space.

“Ahh, that smells delicious. Smells like childhood. I think I know exactly what it is.” He said.

“Oh yeah? What is that?” I ask him.

“Sopa de fideo,” he said firmly.

“You’re right. And I’m pairing it with quesadillas.”

“Hell yeah,” he exclaimed.

“Now, I can probably guess what’s in the bag…”

“Yeah?”
“Dessert.”

“Yup, you guessed right. And a bottle of wine.”

“You’re going to get me fat, Misael, always feeding me sweets.”

“Boy, you’re like 120 pounds max…you can afford the calories. And who cares about weight?” he said as he slapped his stomach.

 “Oh yeah, says the jock…” I counter. Serving his bowl. “How many quesadillas do you want?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’ll start with two.”

We sit down to eat. He pours a glass of wine for me. The steam rising from the bowls created a small, warm veil between us. His gentle smile comforted me. Misael blew on his spoon, his blue eyes calm as the ocean’s surface, as he took his first bite of the soup. 

“Mmm! Luca, this is incredible,” he said, his voice dropping into that soft tone. “It’s exactly what I needed. Long day at the office, people screaming about interest rates, loans, repayment plans… this feels like home.”

I picked at my quesadilla, feeling the stinging reminder in my ribs every time I moved too quickly, but Misael’s presence made it easier to ignore. “I’m glad,” I whispered. “My mom always made it for me when I felt... down. Or when things were moving too fast”.

“It was a struggle meal in our household,” Misael mentioned.

I stare at him and smile.

We ate in a comfortable, easy, and light conversation, talking about everything and nothing. He told me more about his goal to get his real estate brokerage license, and mentioned he spoke to my dad and got some stock trading advice. And I found myself yapping about my research with Dr. DeHart. He was just staring at me while I yapped about school stuff, probably did not understand a word I was saying, but he sat there, absorbing everything. He notices that my eyes kept glancing at the grocery bag. Misael smirked at that half-smile lingering as he stood up to grab the bag. “Well, since you’re such a honey bunch with a sweet tooth, I stopped by the bakery.” He pulled out apple empanadas. “Misael,” I gasped, a smile spreading across my face. “I knew you would like these,” he said, sitting back down and squeezing my hand gently. In that moment, with the scent of tomato consommé still in the air and the gentle blue eyes of the man across from me, all the day’s troubles melted away. I get up and warm them up in the oven.

We move to the couch and put on a movie. A low hum of dialogue and background music that we both ignored as we sat side-by-side. I could feel the warmth of Misael's body radiating through his shirt, a steady heat that made the room feel smaller and more intimate. My side still felt tender, so I shifted carefully, trying to find a position that didn't put pressure on the bruise.

Misael noticed me moving and reached out, his hand resting lightly on my leg. He didn't say anything, just kept his eyes on the screen, but the touch was grounding. I leaned my head back against the cushion, looking at his profile in the flickering light. He looked relaxed, his jaw softened, and his breathing slow and even.

I let my shoulder drop until it touched his, and he immediately responded by sliding his arm around me. He was careful, his touch light enough that it didn't hurt my ribs, but firm enough to pull me into him. I closed my eyes for a moment, listening to the sound of his heart beating under his t-shirt. We stayed like that for a long time, the film forgotten, while we just existed in the quiet of the apartment. Misael’s thumb traced small circles against my arm, and I felt myself drifting, the boundaries of the day's drama blurring into the background. The movie was some romantic comedy that I wasn't following, but the rhythmic sound of the dialogue was soothing. I felt his hand move from my arm to my hair, his fingers gently brushing through.

I adjusted my position, finally letting my head rest on his shoulder. Misael shifted his weight, making more room for me to tuck into his side. He wrapped his arm around me, but the pressure on the bruise was too much. I wiggle myself out of his side and let out a heavy breath.

“Sorry, too much…?” he asked.

“No, it’s not you, it’s me. I have a bruise…”

“What happened?”

“Umm, I fell…”

He laughed gently, “How? Where?”

“Last week, I lost balance and fell on the gym floor.”

“Ouch! Must’ve been a hard fall.”

“Yeah.”

“Can I see it?” he asks.

“Um, why do you want to see it?” I ask him.

“To see if it’s healing…”

I lift my shirt, showing him the sickly bruise. I catch his eyes widening. His facial expression changes from curiosity to disgust.

“Luca…what happened? This is not from a fall…this is—”

“I’m okay though…”

His eyes sharpen, “It looks like you got punched…What happened, Luca?”

I pull down my shirt. Looking into his eyes, “Yeah. Uh, um…I got in between two guys fighting, and I got punched.”

“What!” He exclaimed, getting up from the couch. “Who?”

“Misael…please, I’m okay.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know, everything happened so fast, it’s a blur. I really don’t know who.”

“Who was fighting?”

My heart starts racing. His eyes were sharply on mine. “Two friends. Brad…and Aiden.”

Silence fills the space between us.

“Brad? The guy from the farmers’ market weeks ago? Why was he fighting this other guy? And most importantly, why were you caught up in the middle?”

“To make a long story short, they let a dodgeball game on campus get the best of them. And I thought I could stop them.”

“I see. Well, I hope they get in serious trouble. This is serious.” He sits back down, gently curls up to me, “Honeybunch, I know you’re tough, but that bruise is gnarly.”

“I know, but let’s not let this ruin our night.” I get into a more comfortable position, and we return to the movie. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of my head, his breath warm against my hair. I didn't say anything, just tightened my hold on his shirt and let myself sink further into the couch. The world outside felt light-years away. I just wanted to stay still.

“Are you getting sleepy?” he asked, his voice a low rumble against my ear.

“A little,” I murmured, not moving. I didn't want to get up, even though I knew I had dozens of pages to read for Dr. DeHart’s seminar. Misael didn't push me to get up or try to start a deep conversation about my feelings. He just tightened his arm around me and pulled the throw blanket up over our legs. I stayed right where I was, tucked against him.

The credits roll in. It’s now around 9pm. He takes out his phone and stares at it.

“Do you have to head out?” I ask him.

“I can stay a bit longer…” he smirks. “If you want me to,” he added, his thumb tracing a slow line over my hand.

I didn't answer right away. I was thinking about the empty space in my bed and the heavy silence that usually filled this apartment when the lights went out. The idea of him leaving, of the door clicking shut and leaving me alone, made my chest tighten. “That would be nice,” I said, the words feeling soft. 

We stayed there, sitting on the couch. My side still felt tender, the bruise a dull hum against my ribs, but the cold air from the window didn't bother me as much with Misael so close. I didn't want him to leave; I didn't want the door to click shut and leave me alone with the silence of the apartment. I shifted slightly, turning my head to look at him. In the dim light, his blue eyes were calm, watching me with that steady patience that had become so familiar. I didn't rehearse what to say or overthink the consequences of my faith or my schoolwork. I just leaned in. Misael met me halfway, his hand coming up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone. The kiss was soft at first, but it deepened quickly. I reached up, my fingers tangling in the hair at the back of his neck, pulling him closer until the space between us disappeared.

This felt like the peace. I felt his other hand rest flat against the small of my back, avoiding my bruised side, holding me steady as I melted into him. Misael kisses back, his hand sliding from my jaw to the back of my neck, holding me there, deep and steady. The kiss isn't a challenge or a claim; it feels like a quiet conversation, a confirmation of the peace we found over dinner.

I reach up, my fingers curling into Misael’s shirt, anchoring myself as the world faded away. Misael pulls back just an inch, his lips brushing against mine as he speaks in a low, grounded rumble. “I’ve got you,” he whispers.

I nod, my eyes still closed, feeling the effortless sincerity in Misael's voice. There is no need to rehearse a response or hide behind a shy smile. I lean my forehead against his, breathing in the scent of cologne and home, content to stay on the couch and let the rest of the world wait. For the first time, the path forward doesn't feel like a wilderness—it feels like home.

Misael leans back into the couch, his hands moving from my neck to gently grip my shoulders. He lets out a long, shaky exhale. “Luca... we need to stop,” he whispers, his voice thick and grounded. “We…we need to cool off for a second.”

“Did I do something wrong?” I ask him, my voice trembling. My mind was still clouded by the euphoria and joy of the moment, but suddenly, a sharp pang of rejection made my heart hammer. I look at Misael, my fingers still curled into the fabric of his t-shirt.

“No, honey bunch, never,” Misael says quickly, his blue eyes staring into me. He reaches over and takes my hands into his, squeezing them gently. “But I promised you I’d match your pace, and I don’t want us to rush into something.”

I take a deep breath. I look down at our joined hands, noticing how Misael’s large hand completely envelops mine. “You’re right,” I murmur, leaning back into the cushions.

“I’m still here for all of it, by your side. But let’s just breathe for a minute,” he says, wrapping his arm around me. I cuddle up to him. The intensity of the moment lingers. As we hold each other, the heavy silence of the apartment transforms into a space of profound peace, far removed from the chaos of the world. “I should probably head out, honey bunch,” he whispers. His words grounded me back to reality. I nod, “Yeah, I should probably head to sleep.”

We walk to the door together, standing in the small entryway where Misael pulls me into one last warm embrace. “I’m a text away, Luca,” Misael says, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Thank you, Misael,” Luca whispers, leaning his head against his chest. Misael leans down and kisses my forehead. 

“Goodnight, honeybunch.”

“Goodnight, Misael.”

I go back to the kitchen and clean up. I put away the leftovers and make sure everything is squeaky clean. After, I make my way to my bed. Lying down felt so good. The cool of the night swept in throughout the apartment. My body misses cuddling with Misael. My phone buzzes: it’s a text from Misael: “I’m home now, getting into bed.” Instead of texting him, I call him. We talk until the moment I fall asleep.

Monday, September 26th, 12:10 PM

The campus was lively, the breeze was cool, and lower temperatures are on the horizon. But I was still exhausted from the emotional marathon of my parents' visit. I was heading toward the Grad Center when a heavy arm draped over my shoulder, the familiar scent of cologne and laundry detergent hitting me instantly.

“Hey, Luca,” Brad chuckled, pulling me into his side as we walked. 

“Hey,” I respond.

Brad’s deep voice vibrating through my shoulder, “So, how are the parents? Had a good time?”

“They’re good, it was a good time,” I laugh and smile.

“Good, so you survived! See, you were just overthinking.” There it is again, that dismissive tone, shrugging off my feelings, my experience.

“I survived,” I admitted, letting out a long breath. “They take an interest in all the little things. Where I live, what I’m eating. My kitchen is currently a high-end organic grocery store.”

Brad threw his head back and laughed, “I wish I had that problem. My parents just ask if I've finally finished ‘that school thing’ yet.” 

“I’m sure they care in their own way.”

“I guess so. Anyway, want to grab lunch? Coffee?”

“Sure, I only have about an hour, meeting up with my study group.”

“Plenty of time for a quick bite,” he laughs.

As we are walking into the cafe, Bree runs up to us:

“Hey guys, Fall Welcome is next week, and we’re looking for people to join the psych dodgeball team. Interested?”

I laugh loudly, “No, not me. No athletic inclination whatsoever.”

“I’m down. Sounds like fun,” Brad answered.

“Great! We’re having practice and a team meeting on Friday,” Bree says as she’s walking away.

“Is Dr. Ford going to win us the game?” I ask him. 

“That’s the goal,” he responds, laughing.

We sit down at a table, waiting for our food. The aroma of coffee filled the space between us. Brad watched me with an expectant gaze as the steam from our coffees curled between us, his posture radiating the effortless confidence that always made me feel seen. He seemed eager to pivot away from the cursory conversation of our weekends. He’s trying to guide the conversation towards us, but I counter, redirecting. He suggests that with my parents’ visit in the rearview mirror, I now have more downtime. I counter his suggestion, claiming midterms are on the horizon. His hand grazes over mine, finally resting on it. He says, “You can’t spend the next two weeks buried in books, your beautiful brain needs breaks too.” Though his hand resting firmly over mine was meant to be grounding, I couldn’t help but feel the familiar prickle of his possessive nature, trying to control my time.  

I felt the internal pull of my mounting responsibilities, the daunting list of articles to read, and the high stakes of my research with Dr. DeHart. “I know, breaks are good, but I will not neglect my studies for a fun night out,” I tell him. But expressing these concerns only seemed to invite his playful skepticism. “Who says it has to be a night out? It could just be coffee or getting food together.” I offered a tentative “maybe” to his plans, the atmosphere shifted subtly; the charismatic warmth in his eyes hardened into that familiar, possessive glint. “Am I competing for your time?”

“Order for Brad!” the staff screams from the counter. Perfectly interrupting our conversation. Brad gets up and grabs our food. But my appetite had already been replaced by a sickening knot of tension. Every time Brad asserted his presence or touched my hand with that sense of preemptive ownership, my mind freezes. Brad is a great guy, but sometimes his caring nature bleeds into possessiveness. As I pushed the food around my plate, a realization settled over me. My dad is right: My brain complicates things, but my heart always knows.  

 

Thursday, September 29th, 6:04 PM

The church hall was a sanctuary of soft light and low-decibel chatter, a sharp contrast to the outside world, and my internal world. Walking inside, the scent of frankincense settled my nerves as I looked for familiar faces. Victoria was the first to wave, her presence as welcoming as it had been when I first met her. Nearby, Nicole and Elena were already deep in conversation, their laughter ringing out as they caught sight of me. They gestured for me to join them. Ben and Chris, the guys from our In’N’Out run, were busy stacking chairs, offering a friendly nod as the session wound down. Then, there was Misael. He stood near the back. We made eye contact, he smiled, but did not move. Allowing me the opportunity to either engage or not. The hour-long study was a blur of theology, but my focus kept drifting to him, our fight, our moments this past weekend, saying he’d be lucky to be with me. I felt the familiar sting of religious guilt, wondering if my presence was a distraction or if I was merely hiding from my own desires.

When the bible study was over, Misael waited until I was finished chatting with the girls before he approached, threading lightly as he honored my request for space. He stood close enough for me to feel his warmth, but he didn't crowd me, his blue eyes searching mine with a soft-spoken yet firm sincerity. Standing there, I realized that Misael is the only one willing to simply wait for me, not trying to analyze my thoughts like Aiden or control my time like Brad. Misael simply waits for me. I step closer to Misael, and he takes a step closer. Nicole and Ben asked us to join them for pizza. I decline, claiming I have homework to finish. Misael also declines, saying he had a long day. We trickle out of the hall. The sun is dipping below the horizon. I start walking home, but I hear Misael behind me.

“Hey, Luca, you want a ride?”

“No, I’m okay, I’ll enjoy the walk.”

His eyes meet mine, “Luca, it’s getting late, I don’t want to be overbearing, but I also want to know you get home safe.”

“I’ll be okay, Misael, it’s a short walk, I’ll be there in no time,” I respond.

“Luca…” his eyes shimmering in the fading sunlight.

I look him in the eyes, smile, and say, “Okay.”

We walk over his car, which smells faintly of the same cologne that clung to him during our hug. As he pulls out of the church parking lot and begins the short drive toward the grad dorms, the silence in the cabin feels heavy, but no longer sharp.

“Misael,” I say, initiating the conversation before my anxiety can talk me out of it. He glances at me, his blue eyes calm as the ocean surface. “I’m sorry for being…well, for being me... being guarded. It’s just... everything has been moving so fast, and I get into my head about my faith and my insecurities.”

He reaches over, his large hand resting briefly on the center console near mine. “Luca, never apologize for being yourself. I know it’s a lot to process. Reconciling your feelings and our faith is difficult. It’s not going to happen overnight; it takes time…a lot of time. And I’m here for all of it, by your side.”

“Thank you, Misael,” I say, resting my hand on his, and he quickly grabs mine.

I look at his sculpted profile in the fading light and feel a sudden, sharp pang of hunger that has nothing to do with my nerves. My stomach makes an audible grumble.

“Hungry?”

 “Yeah, actually, I haven't eaten since lunch, and I’m too tired to cook.”

Misael smirks, that half-smile lingering as he maneuvers the car. “Is that an invitation, Bunny?”

“Don't call me that,” I say, though I can't help the small smile tugging at my lips. “But yes, if you want to…it’s okay if you don’t want to.”

“I’d never say no to spending time with you. Where to, honey bunch?”

“Honey bunch?”

“Yeah…because of your sweet tooth.”

I gasp, “I guess. And you decide, I’m okay with anything.”

“No, you choose, anywhere you want.”

“Do you know any good Mexican places nearby?”

“Mexican it is then.”

We’re seated at a booth near the back of the restaurant. It feels vibrant and warm. The lighting is soft, and the music is kept at a low, melodic hum. The smell of charred meats and fresh cilantro fills the air, and for the first time in a week, my stomach doesn't feel like it’s tied in knots. Misael leans back, watching me with that calm gaze, as I reach for a chip and dip it into the salsa. The waitress brings us our drinks: water for me, beer for him.

“Want a sip?” he asked me.

“No, I’m okay.”

“No tipsy Luca tonight?” he says, leaning back, chuckling.

I look up at him, then go back to the menu, “No, maybe another night.”

He smirks and takes a big gulp of his beer. No breaking eye contact with me, his gaze makes me feel like he’s seeing me, the real me, not the introverted, shy guy that everyone else sees. We start talking about the fight, but the waitress comes over with our food. The waitress placed the steaming plates of enchiladas and fajitas between us. For a few moments, the only sound was the sizzle of the steak. I poked at my food, the weight of the last two weeks finally feeling too heavy to keep inside.

“Misael… about the fight... and what I said after Mass that day.”

He put his fork down, his blue eyes calm and attentive, giving me his full focus: “I'm listening, Luca.”

“I was so angry because I felt like you were dismissing me, our faith, and how I was feeling,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “I’ve spent my whole life being told that certain feelings are a line you just don't cross. When we kissed, I felt... I felt like I had broken something I couldn't fix, something that cannot be undone…”

Misael reached across the table, his large hand resting on top of mine. “And do you still feel that way? That our kiss was a sin?”

I looked at him, really looked at him, the way he wasn't trying to fix my thoughts or push me to say no.

I whisper, “That’s the part that scared me the most. It didn’t feel like a sin. It felt like…home. I was more afraid of that peace than I was of the guilt.”

“Luca,” Misael said, his voice soft-spoken yet firm, “Faith isn't supposed to be a cage. If our kiss was genuine, if it came from a place of kindness and care, how can that be the thing that brings you down?” He squeezed my hand. “I’m not a theologian, but how can caring for someone be sinful? Our kiss wasn’t out of lust, but out of care.”

“But what if I’m tempting you? What if a caring kiss leads us to something graver? I feel like I’ll fail you, myself, our faith.”

“You aren’t tempting me, and you aren’t failing. We’re human, we aren’t perfect.”

A tear escaped and trailed down my cheek. I didn’t try to hide it. I didn’t shrug him off this time when he wiped my tear away. “I've been so hard on myself. I thought I had to choose between being a good Catholic and being me.”

“You don’t,” Misael said decisively. “It takes a long time to reconcile those things, but you don't have to do it alone. I’ll wait as long as you need.”

I wiped my eyes and felt a genuine smile tug at my lips. The nauseating anticipation I usually felt around people was gone, replaced by a quiet, steady warmth. “Okay,” I said, leaning back.

We finished dinner in a comfortable, easy, and light conversation. When the check came, I reached for it first, beating him to the punch, but he easily pulled it out of my hands. So effortlessly. “You put up a good fight, but no, I’ll take care of it, don’t worry about it,” he says.

The drive back to the dorms was peaceful. He walked me to the door and pulled me into a warm embrace. “Goodnight, Luca,” he whispered.

“Goodnight,” I replied, feeling light and at ease. I bury my face in his chest, then look up.

We naturally lean into one another. He pulls back. But I pull him in. His hug tightens.

“Luca,” he whispered.

I get on my tiptoes. He leans his head down and kisses my cheek.

“Misael,” I murmured.

As I stepped inside and closed the door, my mind drifted to how life would be. I make my way to my bed, lying down. Taking a deep breath. Smiling.

 

Friday, September 30th, 3:14 PM

The gymnasium was a cavern of screeching sneakers and rhythmic thuds as the psychology department gathered for the Fall Welcome dodgeball practice. I stood near the bleachers with Bree and Laura, feeling acutely aware of my lack of athletic inclination.

“You look like you’re waiting for a root canal, Luca,” Laura teased, leaning against the wall in her gym gear.

“I just don't see how hurling rubber spheres at colleagues is team building,” I muttered.

“It’s about organizing, striving for a common goal, and counting on one another,” Bree said.

“So, who’s on the dream team?”

“Well, Brad, Max, George, AJ, Destiny, Laura, and I,” said Bree.

“You can still join,” said Laura.

“No, I’m okay…I’ll watch from the sidelines.”

Brad and the other guys walked toward us. Brad looked every bit the jock he joked about—tall, bearded, and radiating a charismatic authority that seemed to pull the oxygen out of the room. The other third years were already warming up, their voices loud and effortless.

“Glad you made it,” Brad said, his hand coming down to rest firmly on my shoulder. The weight was familiar, grounding yet subtly possessive, a silent claim made in front of the entire cohort. “I was worried you’d be buried in those midterms already.”

“I’m just here to spectate,” I said, trying to shift slightly under his grip.

The meeting was brief, led by AJ, an enthusiastic second year, but the tension underneath was thick. Brad’s eyes rarely left me, even when Max was shouting about strategy. I felt like a prize being guarded, a sensation that used to feel like being seen but was beginning to feel more like being monitored. As the teams split up to run drills, Brad leaned down, his deep voice vibrating near my ear, “Hang out after?”

“I can’t, Brad,” I said, finding my voice even as my heart hammered against my ribs. “I have a lot of reading to catch up on, and I’m hanging out with….”

Brad’s expression hardened, that possessive glint returning to his brown eyes, “The church guy?”

“No, with Laura. But it doesn’t matter who,” I replied, standing my ground despite the nauseating anxiety. 

He stared at me for a long beat, his hand finally dropping from my shoulder. “Right. Don't work too hard, Luca.”

After the practice was over, I walked out with Bree and Laura. They looked at me, “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just tired.”

“Luca…what is going on? Is Brad crossing a line?” Laura asked.

“He’s not…”

“Okay, but Luca, be careful. Set boundaries.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Wouldn’t have imagined Brad is the jealous type…does he know about Misael and Aiden?”

“He knows I’m friends with them…”

“Well, I think Brad is great,” said Bree.

“I’m not saying he’s not, but jealousy can be dangerous,” said Laura.

“Maybe Brad gets jealous and possessive for a reason. It could be a maladaptive response. Maybe something in his past conditioned him to become possessive of people he cares for. It’s not just something bad,” said Bree.

“I’ll talk to him about it,” I said.

 

Thursday, October 6th, 4:14 PM

The atmosphere in the gym was electric, a cacophony of shouting students, blowing whistles, and the rhythmic thwack of rubber balls hitting the floor. First time since orientation that all the graduate students were together in one place. Students were wearing departmental t-shirts, strutting department pride. The psychology department had these awful maroon t-shirts with inspirational quotes. Bree came up to me with a t-shirt. I held my tongue and politely put the shirt over the one I was wearing. I felt a familiar knot of social anxiety tightening in my chest as I stood near the sidelines, watching the political science team warm up on the adjacent court.

I spotted Aiden almost immediately. The political science team had these sleek navy-blue t-shirts with a minimalistic logo. He looked effortless, his muscular frame moving with a confidence that made my heart do a nervous flip. When he caught my eye, he broke away from his teammates and jogged toward me, a genuine smile lighting up his green eyes. 

“Hey, stranger,” he said, his voice low and warm, cutting through the gym’s noise.

“Hi, Aiden,” I replied, feeling my face flush. “I didn't know you were so competitive.”

“Only when it counts,” he teased, stepping closer until I could feel the heat radiating off him. He reached out, his hand resting lightly on my waist, pulling me into a quiet pocket of space away from the chaos. “You look a little uncomfortable, Luca.”

“I’m just...it’s a little too loud, and I can’t really focus…” I admitted.

Aiden’s expression softened, “Let’s go outside for a bit…”

I look up at him, “It’s okay, you can keep practicing…”

“I’d rather talk to you than practice.”

We step outside for a moment, a stark contrast from the jungle happening inside the gym. He pulled me into a slow, grounding hug. I buried my face into his chest for a second, savoring the ease and comfort that always seemed to come with his presence. As he pulled back, he leaned down and pressed a long, gentle kiss to my forehead. “You’re going to be fine,” he whispered. He leaned down for a kiss. Soft. Easy. Just us. 

I smiled, feeling a brief moment of peace, until I felt a shift in the air. I looked past Aiden’s shoulder and froze. A few yards away, Brad was standing with the rest of the psych team. His hand was gripped tightly around a dodgeball, his knuckles white. He wasn’t talking to the others; his gaze was fixed entirely on us, his eyes hardened into that familiar, possessive sight.

The alluring warmth Brad usually projected was gone, replaced by a cold, scheming stare that made my stomach drop. He straightened his posture, his large frame looking more imposing than ever as he watched Aiden’s hand linger on my waist.

“Luca? Everything okay?” Aiden asked, noticing my sudden rigidity.

“Umm…Yeah,” I lied, my voice trembling as I pulled further away from Aiden. “The game is about to start. Good luck.” As Aiden jogged back to his team, Brad didn’t move. He just stood there, the ball still gripped in his hand, watching me with a sense of pre-emptive ownership that felt like a silent challenge. The tournament hadn’t even begun, but I already felt like I was the one caught in the crossfire.

I make my way back into the gym. I take a seat with a group of classmates. We sit anxiously waiting for the first round to start. The tension in the gym felt palpable. I watched Brad rejoin the psychology team, his movements sharp and aggressive. He didn’t look at his teammates; his eyes were locked on the political science court, specifically on Aiden.

“Welcome to the thunder dome,” Matt said. He had noticed where my gaze was fixed. “Brad looks like he’s ready to commit a felony with that dodgeball.” 

"He’s just competitive," I whispered, though my heart was hammering against my ribs.

“Looks more than just competition…But I don’t know him that well,” he said.

The first whistle blew, and the tournament erupted. First up was Economics versus Philosophy. Next was Psychology versus Math. Psychology was dominant, largely due to Brad. He played with a relentless, punishing energy, his deep voice barking orders to the other first years. Every time he got someone out, he would glance toward me, seeking acknowledgment, a silent claim of look what I can do for you. Three rounds later, it was Political Science versus Physics. Aiden played differently, calculating and agile, dodging balls with a grace that seemed to infuriate Brad from across the hall.

I sat through 10 rounds of games, a blur of squeaking sneakers and rhythmic thuds. Semi-finals were up next: Psychology versus Economics and Business versus Political Science. The floor was electric. Brad was giving it all his best. He was fast on his feet. His arms stretched to catch the ball mid-air. And just like that, within 10 minutes, the game was over; psychology advanced to the finals. My chest felt heavy. I wanted Aiden’s team to beat the other team. But at the same time, I did not want Aiden and Brad to go face-to-face. Alas—Political Science advanced to the final. My heart sank. There was a brief 10-minute break before the final match.

The bracket was updated on the large digital screen: Psychology vs. Political Science. But I was reading it as “Brad vs. Aiden.” The air in the room seemed to vanish. The psychology department's maroon shirts and the political science team's navy blue were a blur of aggressive color as the final match began. I couldn’t sit, so I went to stand on the sidelines. Matt and others were beside me, their usual chatter silenced by the volatile energy vibrating.

The game started with a flurry of motion. Brad was a mountain of muscle, his movements predatory as he gripped a dodgeball with enough force to turn his knuckles white. On the opposite side, Aiden looked effortless, yet his green eyes were narrowed, focused entirely on Brad’s every move. Brad ignored everyone else, launching a ball directly at Aiden with a force that made the rubber screech. Aiden narrowly dodged it, but Brad was already grabbing another ball.

What started as a competitive spirit quickly soured. During a brief pause in play, Brad stepped toward the center line, his deep, charismatic voice dropping into a menacing growl.

“You're out of your league, Stewart,” Brad spat, his gaze flickering toward me before snapping back to Aiden. 

“Why don't you stick to your books and stay away from what’s mine?” Aiden let out a sharp, mocking laugh, stepping right up to the boundary. 

“What's yours, Aiden?” Brad shouted.

“Whatever goal I have, I achieve,” Aiden said.

“You can’t preemptively claim the trophy…”

“I’m not, I’m making a prediction.”

“I also have my predictions. And I don't like sharing, and I definitely don’t like you,” Brad countered, his chest heaving as he dropped the ball and stepped over the line.

“The feeling is mutual,” Aiden retorted, his jaw set. “Maybe if you weren't so busy trying to control everyone and everything…”

The air in the gym vanished. I turn to Bree for a split second. The gym erupted into chaos—whistles blowing, students shouting, and me standing there, nauseated, watching the two people I had started to trust tear each other apart over a sense of ownership I never gave them. The referee runs to separate them. Who started the fight? Not sure, but it was obvious neither of them was backing off. Bree and Laura gasped, and from the corner of my eye.

“Stop! Brad! Aiden!” I screamed from the sidelines, my heart hammering against my ribs as the two men tumbled to the floor in a tangle of limbs and department colors.

Brad lunged. He swung his massive arm, and the alluring warmth he usually projected was completely replaced by a fiery fury. Aiden didn't back down; he met the charge head-on, his muscular frame colliding with Brad’s with a sickening thud.

Matt, along with a few others, scrambled into the center of the court to pull the two apart. The gym was a cacophony of screeching sneakers and rhythmic thuds as they struggled to restrain them. I ran towards them, my heart hammering against my ribs, nauseating anxiety spurred. I scream, “Stop it! Brad, Aiden, both of you, stop!” desperately trying to stop them. In the blur of maroon and navy blue, the chaotic battle reached a fever pitch. As Matt and the others shoved to create distance between Brad and Aiden, I got caught in the crossfire. I don’t know who, but someone punched me on my left side above my ribs. The air was knocked out of me. I lost my balance and landed on the gym floor.

I hit the floor with a sickening thud, the impact knocking the breath out of me. I lay there, stunned. I felt more fragile and exposed than I ever had before. From the floor, looking up at the blurred colors of the two men fighting over me, the wilderness of my insecurities finally felt like it was swallowing me whole.

“Luca!” I hear Laura scream.

The cacophony of shouting died down into a heavy, suffocating silence. I just stared at the ceiling, my heart hammering against my ribs, wondering how a simple Fall Welcome had turned into the very thing I feared most: being seen by everybody. Before I could even find my breath, the two of them were there. Brad and Aiden scrambled toward me. 

“Luca! I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Brad’s deep, charismatic voice was uncharacteristically frantic as he reached out his hand to pull me up. 

At the same time, Aiden’s muscular frame leaned over me, his green eyes blown wide with concern. “Luca, are you hurt? Let me help you,” he urged, his hand resting lightly near my shoulder.

Bree and Laura stepped into a defense line, physically blocking the guys from getting any closer.

“Back off! Both of you!” Bree snapped, her chaotic and fun energy replaced by a sharp, protective edge. She and Laura reached down, their hands gentle and grounding as they hooked their arms under mine.

“We've got him,” Laura said, her voice relaxed and grounded but as firm as stone. They hoisted me up. I felt nauseated and flustered, my face turning red from the unwanted attention of the entire graduate student body. They get me outside. Brad and Aiden follow us out.

Once they sat me down, Frankie, Laura’s boyfriend, stepped forward to stand with Laura. He looked at Brad and Aiden, who were still standing in the middle of the court, looking confused and breathless.

“You guys need to give him room, step away,” Frankie stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. 

"He’s right. Look at him. You’re overwhelming him. Just leave him alone.” Laura added, glancing back at me with care and anguish. “You two have done enough. Go somewhere else and stay away from Luca…”

I sat there, trembling despite the heat, burying my face in my hands. I could feel Brad’s possessive gaze and Aiden’s observant stare lingering on me, but for the first time, I didn't rehearse a conversation or try to smile. I just wanted to shrink until I disappeared.

As I sat there with my head in my hands, the heavy drum of the gym began to settle into a hushed, awkward murmur as people exited the building. The dodgeball tournament had ended with no winner. I heard the rhythmic click of heels against the pavement, a sound that cut through the lingering tension of the fight.

“Give me a minute with Luca, please,” a voice commanded, sharp, calm, and unmistakably authoritative. I looked up to see Dr. Ella Rojas, my statistics professor, walking over. The others go back inside to grab their stuff. Brad was off to the side talking to his friends. Aiden was on the other side of the quad, talking to Bree.

“Dr. Rojas, I—” Brad began, his breathing still heavy.

She held up a single hand to silence him, her focus shifting entirely to me. She sat next to me.

“Luca,” she said, her voice dropping the lecture-hall edge for something more observant. “Are you hurt? Do we take you to the student health center?”

“No… I'm okay,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I tried to regain my composure. “I just... I lost my footing.”

“You were pushed in the middle of an altercation that had no business occurring on this campus,” she corrected me firmly, her eyes flicking toward Brad and Aiden, who both looked away, suddenly resembling shamed schoolboys rather than PhD candidates.

She turned back to me, her expression softening just enough for me to breathe. “Go sit down inside the lounge, get some water, and rest. Take Bree with you.” She calls Bree over. Bree helps me get up and walks me to the lounge. 

Dr. Rojas stood up, her silhouette tall and full. “Mr. Bradley Ford,” she said in a way that made my stomach drop for them. “My office. Now! I believe we need to discuss the appropriate PhD candidate behavior inside and outside of professional settings. Bring your friend too.”

As Bree and I are walking away, I turn back to see Brad and Aiden walking behind Dr. Rojas. Keeping their distance from one another. Bree tells me not to worry about that. To worry about how I am doing now. I kept my eyes on the floor as we made our way to the door. I could feel the eyes of the entire cohort on my back, but for once, I wasn't rehearsing what to say. I just wanted to reach safety. 

Thursday, October 6th, 7:32 PM

Bree helped me get back to my dorm. She got me to sit on the couch, and asked if she could take a look at my side where I got punched. I lifted my shirt; lo and behold, a bruise was already appearing.

“Ouch! Luca…who did this? Looks like it’s going to be a painful one,” she said.

“I bruise easily…”

“Not an answer. Was it Brad or Aiden?”

“I don’t know, it could have been from hitting the ground.”

“Luca. Don’t lie to me. Who was it?”

“I really don’t know. I don’t remember. Everything happened so fast. It’s a blur.”

“I’m going to kick their asses…Let me get you some ice, let’s help the healing process.”

She goes and grabs an ice pack. And gets me a glass of water and fixes me a plate of fruit. She asked if I wanted her to get me dinner. She calls Laura to pick up pizza for us. A few minutes later, Bree heads downstairs to help Laura with the food. In the meantime, Dr. Rojas calls me. 

“Luca, how are you feeling?”

“I’m okay, resting now. Waiting for Bree to bring pizza.”

“I’m glad you're resting and eating.”
“Um…can I ask what happened with the guys?”

“We settled the matter. But as it happened at a school-sponsored event, the dean of student affairs has to meet with them…and a few witnesses…and with you, Luca.”

“…Me, why me?”

“Because you got hurt. You fell. Even if it was an accident. All she is going to ask you is what happened. You be honest and transparent, that’s all you have to say.”

“Oh…okay. Do you know when I have to do this?”

“She’ll send you an email next week. Don’t worry about it.”

“Nobody is going to get in serious trouble. I can’t say what we talked about. But they apologized and settled not to fight again.”

“Okay…”

The sound of the door buzzer startled me, the vibration sending a sharp, stinging reminder through my ribs. I hang up with Dr. Rojas. Bree and Laura came back in, the scent of pepperoni filling the small apartment. “Dinner is served,” Bree said, though her usual spark was dimmed. She set the boxes on the coffee table and immediately checked the ice pack on my side. “How’s the pain?” I lied again, “Maybe a four,” sitting up slowly. “Dr. Rojas called.” Laura paused, a slice of pizza halfway to her plate. “And? Did she tear them a new one? Because honestly, Frankie and I were ready.” I explained the meeting with the dean of student affairs. The room went quiet. The reality of the situation was sinking in. This wasn't just a gym floor scuffle anymore.

“Good,” Laura said firmly, sitting on the edge of the armchair. “Luca, they were acting like animals. I don't care how protective they claim to be. They let their egos get in the way of the fact that you were standing right there. They didn’t even see you: they just saw each other.”

I looked down at my hands. “I just don't want to be the reason they get kicked out. Or the reason everyone in the department talks about me for the next five years.”

“Well, didn’t you say Rojas said nobody would get in trouble? They’ll probably just be told to apologize to each other. They’ll be fine.” Said Laura. “Don’t worry about it. If they get in trouble, it’s not on you.”

“You aren't the reason,” Bree added, her voice uncharacteristically stern. “Brad and Aiden’s temper is the reason. Their inability to de-escalate is the reason. You’re just the person who got hit because they couldn't keep their hands to themselves.”

My phone buzzed on the coffee table:

Aiden: “Luca, please tell me you’re okay. I’m sick to my stomach thinking about you falling. I never meant for things to go that far. Can I come by? Just for a second?”

“Who is it?” they both asked.

“Aiden. Apologizing. Asking to come over.”

“Fuck that, tell him no,” exhaled Bree.

“I’m going to ignore it…” I respond.

Laura countered, “No, don’t ignore it. Tell him you need space.” 

My phone buzzes again:

Brad: “I’m losing it, Luca. That’s not the type of guy I am. He provoked me, and I snapped because I can’t stand the way he looks at you. Can I come by? I want to see that you're okay.”

“What is he saying now?” Laura asked with anger in her voice.

“It’s Brad…he’s explaining what happened. Also wants to come over.”

“What an insensitive dick,” scoffed Bree.

“I’ll text both of them that I need space.”

Laura and Bree look at each other, “Set boundaries. Be firm with them. When you do talk to them, we can be there.”

“Aw, thanks, but I got this.”

I stared at the screen, the blue light reflecting in my eyes. The knot in my stomach tightened. I text them. They immediately respond. Double texts. My phone buzzes like crazy. And Brad calls me. My expression changes from nervous to scared. Laura and Bree notice. Laura finally asks, “What do you want to do, Luca? How can we help you right now?”

I looked at them, then at the bruise blooming on my skin. For the first time since I arrived at this university, the urge to be polite was drowned out by a desperate need for silence.

“I want them to leave me alone,” I said, my voice finally sounding steady. “I want to turn off my phone, eat this pizza, and pretend today didn't happen.”

“Done,” Bree said, grabbing my phone, answering Brad’s call. “Brad. It’s Bree. Luca needs space. Please stop calling and texting him… I don’t care… Bye! Don’t call or text him.”

After she calls Aiden and basically tells him the same thing.

Silence fills the apartment. We sit in silence, eating pizza. Suddenly, I start crying. The tears start flowing like a waterfall. The dam finally broke. After hours of tightening that knot of anxiety in your chest, of holding your breath in the gym, and of trying to play the polite mediator between two aggressive egos, the weight of it all just became too much. Bree and Laura didn't hesitate. Bree dropped her slice of pizza back into the box and slid across the couch, pulling me into a side-hug that avoided your bruised ribs, while Laura reached over to squeeze my hand. They didn't tell me to stop; they just let the quiet of the apartment absorb the sound of crying.

“It’s okay, Luca,” Bree whispered, her voice soft. “Let it out.”

“I just...” I choked out between sobs, “I feel so stupid. Everyone was watching. And they’re acting like I’m... like I’m a prize in a game. Like I’m something to be won, something they can fight to win…”

For a long time, the only sounds were the low hum of the refrigerator and my ragged breathing.

After a few minutes, the crying slowed to shaky hitches. Bree handed a napkin and a glass of water. “Better?” she asked gently.

“A little,” I murmured, wiping my eyes.

My phone buzzes. Laura furiously answered without even checking who it was, “LEAVE HIM ALONE….oh, sorry, Dr. DeHart. Let me see if he can talk…”

I take my phone and step into my room. 

“Hi Dr. DeHart…”

“Hi, Luca, are you okay? Rojas told me the whole story.”

“I’m okay…I’ll be fine.”

“You’re okay, or you’ll be fine? Those are two distinct statements.”

“I’ll be fine, need to rest for a bit,” I sigh.

“Okay, rest up. Call me tomorrow. Seems your friends are providing support.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course. Get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

 

Thursday, October 6th, 10:12 PM

The silence of the apartment felt heavy. I’m lying in bed, the ice pack long since melted, staring at the ceiling as my mind drifts back to the chaos of the gymnasium. Trying to recollect my thoughts. Brad’s charismatic authority and the way his deep voice and large frame usually made me feel safe. But I couldn't shake the memories of Brad’s hand on my shoulder, like a gesture that had shifted from grounding to feeling like a silent claim. I recalled how he, at one point, shrugged off my anxieties, ignoring my worries. Seeing the "fiery fury" in Brad’s eyes during the fight made me realize that Brad’s protectiveness had officially curdled into dangerous jealousy.

My mind shifts to Aiden: a different kind of conflict. Always observant. Making sure I am comfortable. How effortless it is to be with him. But now, that peace of mind is replaced with images of Aiden’s aggressive side. How easy it was for Brad to push Aiden over the edge, baiting him into a fight. 

As I lay there, the physical sting in my ribs served as a constant reminder of their failure to see me in the heat of their rivalry. I take a deep breath and have a profound sense of exhaustion from the realization that, in the middle of their fight, neither man had truly seen me; they had only seen their opponent. Despite having deep feelings for both, the feelings of warmth have started to cool. I thought that I would be respected by these two men, who seemed determined to fight over me rather than listen and see me, yet clearly their hostility blinded them.

I delicately adjusted the ice pack against my ribs, feeling the stinging reminder of the punch that had caught me in the crossfire. In the silence, the wilderness of my insecurities felt a little less vast, replaced by the simple, steady hum of my own breathing. Suddenly, the old scars on my thighs began to ache too. My mind drifted to those moments, the chaos that led to those scars. My mind began to play tricks on me, telling me that it was my fault Brad and Aiden got into a fight. But I quickly countered these thoughts.

Monday, September 26th, 12:10 PM

The campus was lively, the breeze was cool, and lower temperatures are on the horizon. But I was still exhausted from the emotional marathon of my parents' visit. I was heading toward the Grad Center when a heavy arm draped over my shoulder, the familiar scent of cologne and laundry detergent hitting me instantly.

“Hey, Luca,” Brad chuckled, pulling me into his side as we walked. 

“Hey,” I respond.

Brad’s deep voice vibrating through my shoulder, “So, how are the parents? Had a good time?”

“They’re good, it was a good time,” I laugh and smile.

“Good, so you survived! See, you were just overthinking.” There it is again, that dismissive tone, shrugging off my feelings, my experience.

“I survived,” I admitted, letting out a long breath. “They take an interest in all the little things. Where I live, what I’m eating. My kitchen is currently a high-end organic grocery store.”

Brad threw his head back and laughed, “I wish I had that problem. My parents just ask if I've finally finished ‘that school thing’ yet.” 

“I’m sure they care in their own way.”

“I guess so. Anyway, want to grab lunch? Coffee?”

“Sure, I only have about an hour, meeting up with my study group.”

“Plenty of time for a quick bite,” he laughs.

As we are walking into the cafe, Bree runs up to us:

“Hey guys, Fall Welcome is next week, and we’re looking for people to join the psych dodgeball team. Interested?”

I laugh loudly, “No, not me. No athletic inclination whatsoever.”

“I’m down. Sounds like fun,” Brad answered.

“Great! We’re having practice and a team meeting on Friday,” Bree says as she’s walking away.

“Is Dr. Ford going to win us the game?” I ask him. 

“That’s the goal,” he responds, laughing.

We sit down at a table, waiting for our food. The aroma of coffee filled the space between us. Brad watched me with an expectant gaze as the steam from our coffees curled between us, his posture radiating the effortless confidence that always made me feel seen. He seemed eager to pivot away from the cursory conversation of our weekends. He’s trying to guide the conversation towards us, but I counter, redirecting. He suggests that with my parents’ visit in the rearview mirror, I now have more downtime. I counter his suggestion, claiming midterms are on the horizon. His hand grazes over mine, finally resting on it. He says, “You can’t spend the next two weeks buried in books, your beautiful brain needs breaks too.” Though his hand resting firmly over mine was meant to be grounding, I couldn’t help but feel the familiar prickle of his possessive nature, trying to control my time.  

I felt the internal pull of my mounting responsibilities, the daunting list of articles to read, and the high stakes of my research with Dr. DeHart. “I know, breaks are good, but I will not neglect my studies for a fun night out,” I tell him. But expressing these concerns only seemed to invite his playful skepticism. “Who says it has to be a night out? It could just be coffee or getting food together.” I offered a tentative “maybe” to his plans, the atmosphere shifted subtly; the charismatic warmth in his eyes hardened into that familiar, possessive glint. “Am I competing for your time?”

“Order for Brad!” the staff screams from the counter. Perfectly interrupting our conversation. Brad gets up and grabs our food. But my appetite had already been replaced by a sickening knot of tension. Every time Brad asserted his presence or touched my hand with that sense of preemptive ownership, my mind freezes. Brad is a great guy, but sometimes his caring nature bleeds into possessiveness. As I pushed the food around my plate, a realization settled over me. My dad is right: My brain complicates things, but my heart always knows.  

 

Thursday, September 29th, 6:04 PM

The church hall was a sanctuary of soft light and low-decibel chatter, a sharp contrast to the outside world, and my internal world. Walking inside, the scent of frankincense settled my nerves as I looked for familiar faces. Victoria was the first to wave, her presence as welcoming as it had been when I first met her. Nearby, Nicole and Elena were already deep in conversation, their laughter ringing out as they caught sight of me. They gestured for me to join them. Ben and Chris, the guys from our In’N’Out run, were busy stacking chairs, offering a friendly nod as the session wound down. Then, there was Misael. He stood near the back. We made eye contact, he smiled, but did not move. Allowing me the opportunity to either engage or not. The hour-long study was a blur of theology, but my focus kept drifting to him, our fight, our moments this past weekend, saying he’d be lucky to be with me. I felt the familiar sting of religious guilt, wondering if my presence was a distraction or if I was merely hiding from my own desires.

When the bible study was over, Misael waited until I was finished chatting with the girls before he approached, threading lightly as he honored my request for space. He stood close enough for me to feel his warmth, but he didn't crowd me, his blue eyes searching mine with a soft-spoken yet firm sincerity. Standing there, I realized that Misael is the only one willing to simply wait for me, not trying to analyze my thoughts like Aiden or control my time like Brad. Misael simply waits for me. I step closer to Misael, and he takes a step closer. Nicole and Ben asked us to join them for pizza. I decline, claiming I have homework to finish. Misael also declines, saying he had a long day. We trickle out of the hall. The sun is dipping below the horizon. I start walking home, but I hear Misael behind me.

“Hey, Luca, you want a ride?”

“No, I’m okay, I’ll enjoy the walk.”

His eyes meet mine, “Luca, it’s getting late, I don’t want to be overbearing, but I also want to know you get home safe.”

“I’ll be okay, Misael, it’s a short walk, I’ll be there in no time,” I respond.

“Luca…” his eyes shimmering in the fading sunlight.

I look him in the eyes, smile, and say, “Okay.”

We walk over his car, which smells faintly of the same cologne that clung to him during our hug. As he pulls out of the church parking lot and begins the short drive toward the grad dorms, the silence in the cabin feels heavy, but no longer sharp.

“Misael,” I say, initiating the conversation before my anxiety can talk me out of it. He glances at me, his blue eyes calm as the ocean surface. “I’m sorry for being…well, for being me... being guarded. It’s just... everything has been moving so fast, and I get into my head about my faith and my insecurities.”

He reaches over, his large hand resting briefly on the center console near mine. “Luca, never apologize for being yourself. I know it’s a lot to process. Reconciling your feelings and our faith is difficult. It’s not going to happen overnight; it takes time…a lot of time. And I’m here for all of it, by your side.”

“Thank you, Misael,” I say, resting my hand on his, and he quickly grabs mine.

I look at his sculpted profile in the fading light and feel a sudden, sharp pang of hunger that has nothing to do with my nerves. My stomach makes an audible grumble.

“Hungry?”

 “Yeah, actually, I haven't eaten since lunch, and I’m too tired to cook.”

Misael smirks, that half-smile lingering as he maneuvers the car. “Is that an invitation, Bunny?”

“Don't call me that,” I say, though I can't help the small smile tugging at my lips. “But yes, if you want to…it’s okay if you don’t want to.”

“I’d never say no to spending time with you. Where to, honey bunch?”

“Honey bunch?”

“Yeah…because of your sweet tooth.”

I gasp, “I guess. And you decide, I’m okay with anything.”

“No, you choose, anywhere you want.”

“Do you know any good Mexican places nearby?”

“Mexican it is then.”

We’re seated at a booth near the back of the restaurant. It feels vibrant and warm. The lighting is soft, and the music is kept at a low, melodic hum. The smell of charred meats and fresh cilantro fills the air, and for the first time in a week, my stomach doesn't feel like it’s tied in knots. Misael leans back, watching me with that calm gaze, as I reach for a chip and dip it into the salsa. The waitress brings us our drinks: water for me, beer for him.

“Want a sip?” he asked me.

“No, I’m okay.”

“No tipsy Luca tonight?” he says, leaning back, chuckling.

I look up at him, then go back to the menu, “No, maybe another night.”

He smirks and takes a big gulp of his beer. No breaking eye contact with me, his gaze makes me feel like he’s seeing me, the real me, not the introverted, shy guy that everyone else sees. We start talking about the fight, but the waitress comes over with our food. The waitress placed the steaming plates of enchiladas and fajitas between us. For a few moments, the only sound was the sizzle of the steak. I poked at my food, the weight of the last two weeks finally feeling too heavy to keep inside.

“Misael… about the fight... and what I said after Mass that day.”

He put his fork down, his blue eyes calm and attentive, giving me his full focus: “I'm listening, Luca.”

“I was so angry because I felt like you were dismissing me, our faith, and how I was feeling,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “I’ve spent my whole life being told that certain feelings are a line you just don't cross. When we kissed, I felt... I felt like I had broken something I couldn't fix, something that cannot be undone…”

Misael reached across the table, his large hand resting on top of mine. “And do you still feel that way? That our kiss was a sin?”

I looked at him, really looked at him, the way he wasn't trying to fix my thoughts or push me to say no.

I whisper, “That’s the part that scared me the most. It didn’t feel like a sin. It felt like…home. I was more afraid of that peace than I was of the guilt.”

“Luca,” Misael said, his voice soft-spoken yet firm, “Faith isn't supposed to be a cage. If our kiss was genuine, if it came from a place of kindness and care, how can that be the thing that brings you down?” He squeezed my hand. “I’m not a theologian, but how can caring for someone be sinful? Our kiss wasn’t out of lust, but out of care.”

“But what if I’m tempting you? What if a caring kiss leads us to something graver? I feel like I’ll fail you, myself, our faith.”

“You aren’t tempting me, and you aren’t failing. We’re human, we aren’t perfect.”

A tear escaped and trailed down my cheek. I didn’t try to hide it. I didn’t shrug him off this time when he wiped my tear away. “I've been so hard on myself. I thought I had to choose between being a good Catholic and being me.”

“You don’t,” Misael said decisively. “It takes a long time to reconcile those things, but you don't have to do it alone. I’ll wait as long as you need.”

I wiped my eyes and felt a genuine smile tug at my lips. The nauseating anticipation I usually felt around people was gone, replaced by a quiet, steady warmth. “Okay,” I said, leaning back.

We finished dinner in a comfortable, easy, and light conversation. When the check came, I reached for it first, beating him to the punch, but he easily pulled it out of my hands. So effortlessly. “You put up a good fight, but no, I’ll take care of it, don’t worry about it,” he says.

The drive back to the dorms was peaceful. He walked me to the door and pulled me into a warm embrace. “Goodnight, Luca,” he whispered.

“Goodnight,” I replied, feeling light and at ease. I bury my face in his chest, then look up.

We naturally lean into one another. He pulls back. But I pull him in. His hug tightens.

“Luca,” he whispered.

I get on my tiptoes. He leans his head down and kisses my cheek.

“Misael,” I murmured.

As I stepped inside and closed the door, my mind drifted to how life would be. I make my way to my bed, lying down. Taking a deep breath. Smiling.

 

Friday, September 30th, 3:14 PM

The gymnasium was a cavern of screeching sneakers and rhythmic thuds as the psychology department gathered for the Fall Welcome dodgeball practice. I stood near the bleachers with Bree and Laura, feeling acutely aware of my lack of athletic inclination.

“You look like you’re waiting for a root canal, Luca,” Laura teased, leaning against the wall in her gym gear.

“I just don't see how hurling rubber spheres at colleagues is team building,” I muttered.

“It’s about organizing, striving for a common goal, and counting on one another,” Bree said.

“So, who’s on the dream team?”

“Well, Brad, Max, George, AJ, Destiny, Laura, and I,” said Bree.

“You can still join,” said Laura.

“No, I’m okay…I’ll watch from the sidelines.”

Brad and the other guys walked toward us. Brad looked every bit the jock he joked about—tall, bearded, and radiating a charismatic authority that seemed to pull the oxygen out of the room. The other third years were already warming up, their voices loud and effortless.

“Glad you made it,” Brad said, his hand coming down to rest firmly on my shoulder. The weight was familiar, grounding yet subtly possessive, a silent claim made in front of the entire cohort. “I was worried you’d be buried in those midterms already.”

“I’m just here to spectate,” I said, trying to shift slightly under his grip.

The meeting was brief, led by AJ, an enthusiastic second year, but the tension underneath was thick. Brad’s eyes rarely left me, even when Max was shouting about strategy. I felt like a prize being guarded, a sensation that used to feel like being seen but was beginning to feel more like being monitored. As the teams split up to run drills, Brad leaned down, his deep voice vibrating near my ear, “Hang out after?”

“I can’t, Brad,” I said, finding my voice even as my heart hammered against my ribs. “I have a lot of reading to catch up on, and I’m hanging out with….”

Brad’s expression hardened, that possessive glint returning to his brown eyes, “The church guy?”

“No, with Laura. But it doesn’t matter who,” I replied, standing my ground despite the nauseating anxiety. 

He stared at me for a long beat, his hand finally dropping from my shoulder. “Right. Don't work too hard, Luca.”

After the practice was over, I walked out with Bree and Laura. They looked at me, “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just tired.”

“Luca…what is going on? Is Brad crossing a line?” Laura asked.

“He’s not…”

“Okay, but Luca, be careful. Set boundaries.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Wouldn’t have imagined Brad is the jealous type…does he know about Misael and Aiden?”

“He knows I’m friends with them…”

“Well, I think Brad is great,” said Bree.

“I’m not saying he’s not, but jealousy can be dangerous,” said Laura.

“Maybe Brad gets jealous and possessive for a reason. It could be a maladaptive response. Maybe something in his past conditioned him to become possessive of people he cares for. It’s not just something bad,” said Bree.

“I’ll talk to him about it,” I said.

 

Thursday, October 6th, 4:14 PM

The atmosphere in the gym was electric, a cacophony of shouting students, blowing whistles, and the rhythmic thwack of rubber balls hitting the floor. First time since orientation that all the graduate students were together in one place. Students were wearing departmental t-shirts, strutting department pride. The psychology department had these awful maroon t-shirts with inspirational quotes. Bree came up to me with a t-shirt. I held my tongue and politely put the shirt over the one I was wearing. I felt a familiar knot of social anxiety tightening in my chest as I stood near the sidelines, watching the political science team warm up on the adjacent court.

I spotted Aiden almost immediately. The political science team had these sleek navy-blue t-shirts with a minimalistic logo. He looked effortless, his muscular frame moving with a confidence that made my heart do a nervous flip. When he caught my eye, he broke away from his teammates and jogged toward me, a genuine smile lighting up his green eyes. 

“Hey, stranger,” he said, his voice low and warm, cutting through the gym’s noise.

“Hi, Aiden,” I replied, feeling my face flush. “I didn't know you were so competitive.”

“Only when it counts,” he teased, stepping closer until I could feel the heat radiating off him. He reached out, his hand resting lightly on my waist, pulling me into a quiet pocket of space away from the chaos. “You look a little uncomfortable, Luca.”

“I’m just...it’s a little too loud, and I can’t really focus…” I admitted.

Aiden’s expression softened, “Let’s go outside for a bit…”

I look up at him, “It’s okay, you can keep practicing…”

“I’d rather talk to you than practice.”

We step outside for a moment, a stark contrast from the jungle happening inside the gym. He pulled me into a slow, grounding hug. I buried my face into his chest for a second, savoring the ease and comfort that always seemed to come with his presence. As he pulled back, he leaned down and pressed a long, gentle kiss to my forehead. “You’re going to be fine,” he whispered. He leaned down for a kiss. Soft. Easy. Just us. 

I smiled, feeling a brief moment of peace, until I felt a shift in the air. I looked past Aiden’s shoulder and froze. A few yards away, Brad was standing with the rest of the psych team. His hand was gripped tightly around a dodgeball, his knuckles white. He wasn’t talking to the others; his gaze was fixed entirely on us, his eyes hardened into that familiar, possessive sight.

The alluring warmth Brad usually projected was gone, replaced by a cold, scheming stare that made my stomach drop. He straightened his posture, his large frame looking more imposing than ever as he watched Aiden’s hand linger on my waist.

“Luca? Everything okay?” Aiden asked, noticing my sudden rigidity.

“Umm…Yeah,” I lied, my voice trembling as I pulled further away from Aiden. “The game is about to start. Good luck.” As Aiden jogged back to his team, Brad didn’t move. He just stood there, the ball still gripped in his hand, watching me with a sense of pre-emptive ownership that felt like a silent challenge. The tournament hadn’t even begun, but I already felt like I was the one caught in the crossfire.

I make my way back into the gym. I take a seat with a group of classmates. We sit anxiously waiting for the first round to start. The tension in the gym felt palpable. I watched Brad rejoin the psychology team, his movements sharp and aggressive. He didn’t look at his teammates; his eyes were locked on the political science court, specifically on Aiden.

“Welcome to the thunder dome,” Matt said. He had noticed where my gaze was fixed. “Brad looks like he’s ready to commit a felony with that dodgeball.” 

"He’s just competitive," I whispered, though my heart was hammering against my ribs.

“Looks more than just competition…But I don’t know him that well,” he said.

The first whistle blew, and the tournament erupted. First up was Economics versus Philosophy. Next was Psychology versus Math. Psychology was dominant, largely due to Brad. He played with a relentless, punishing energy, his deep voice barking orders to the other first years. Every time he got someone out, he would glance toward me, seeking acknowledgment, a silent claim of look what I can do for you. Three rounds later, it was Political Science versus Physics. Aiden played differently, calculating and agile, dodging balls with a grace that seemed to infuriate Brad from across the hall.

I sat through 10 rounds of games, a blur of squeaking sneakers and rhythmic thuds. Semi-finals were up next: Psychology versus Economics and Business versus Political Science. The floor was electric. Brad was giving it all his best. He was fast on his feet. His arms stretched to catch the ball mid-air. And just like that, within 10 minutes, the game was over; psychology advanced to the finals. My chest felt heavy. I wanted Aiden’s team to beat the other team. But at the same time, I did not want Aiden and Brad to go face-to-face. Alas—Political Science advanced to the final. My heart sank. There was a brief 10-minute break before the final match.

The bracket was updated on the large digital screen: Psychology vs. Political Science. But I was reading it as “Brad vs. Aiden.” The air in the room seemed to vanish. The psychology department's maroon shirts and the political science team's navy blue were a blur of aggressive color as the final match began. I couldn’t sit, so I went to stand on the sidelines. Matt and others were beside me, their usual chatter silenced by the volatile energy vibrating.

The game started with a flurry of motion. Brad was a mountain of muscle, his movements predatory as he gripped a dodgeball with enough force to turn his knuckles white. On the opposite side, Aiden looked effortless, yet his green eyes were narrowed, focused entirely on Brad’s every move. Brad ignored everyone else, launching a ball directly at Aiden with a force that made the rubber screech. Aiden narrowly dodged it, but Brad was already grabbing another ball.

What started as a competitive spirit quickly soured. During a brief pause in play, Brad stepped toward the center line, his deep, charismatic voice dropping into a menacing growl.

“You're out of your league, Stewart,” Brad spat, his gaze flickering toward me before snapping back to Aiden. 

“Why don't you stick to your books and stay away from what’s mine?” Aiden let out a sharp, mocking laugh, stepping right up to the boundary. 

“What's yours, Aiden?” Brad shouted.

“Whatever goal I have, I achieve,” Aiden said.

“You can’t preemptively claim the trophy…”

“I’m not, I’m making a prediction.”

“I also have my predictions. And I don't like sharing, and I definitely don’t like you,” Brad countered, his chest heaving as he dropped the ball and stepped over the line.

“The feeling is mutual,” Aiden retorted, his jaw set. “Maybe if you weren't so busy trying to control everyone and everything…”

The air in the gym vanished. I turn to Bree for a split second. The gym erupted into chaos—whistles blowing, students shouting, and me standing there, nauseated, watching the two people I had started to trust tear each other apart over a sense of ownership I never gave them. The referee runs to separate them. Who started the fight? Not sure, but it was obvious neither of them was backing off. Bree and Laura gasped, and from the corner of my eye.

“Stop! Brad! Aiden!” I screamed from the sidelines, my heart hammering against my ribs as the two men tumbled to the floor in a tangle of limbs and department colors.

Brad lunged. He swung his massive arm, and the alluring warmth he usually projected was completely replaced by a fiery fury. Aiden didn't back down; he met the charge head-on, his muscular frame colliding with Brad’s with a sickening thud.

Matt, along with a few others, scrambled into the center of the court to pull the two apart. The gym was a cacophony of screeching sneakers and rhythmic thuds as they struggled to restrain them. I ran towards them, my heart hammering against my ribs, nauseating anxiety spurred. I scream, “Stop it! Brad, Aiden, both of you, stop!” desperately trying to stop them. In the blur of maroon and navy blue, the chaotic battle reached a fever pitch. As Matt and the others shoved to create distance between Brad and Aiden, I got caught in the crossfire. I don’t know who, but someone punched me on my left side above my ribs. The air was knocked out of me. I lost my balance and landed on the gym floor.

I hit the floor with a sickening thud, the impact knocking the breath out of me. I lay there, stunned. I felt more fragile and exposed than I ever had before. From the floor, looking up at the blurred colors of the two men fighting over me, the wilderness of my insecurities finally felt like it was swallowing me whole.

“Luca!” I hear Laura scream.

The cacophony of shouting died down into a heavy, suffocating silence. I just stared at the ceiling, my heart hammering against my ribs, wondering how a simple Fall Welcome had turned into the very thing I feared most: being seen by everybody. Before I could even find my breath, the two of them were there. Brad and Aiden scrambled toward me. 

“Luca! I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Brad’s deep, charismatic voice was uncharacteristically frantic as he reached out his hand to pull me up. 

At the same time, Aiden’s muscular frame leaned over me, his green eyes blown wide with concern. “Luca, are you hurt? Let me help you,” he urged, his hand resting lightly near my shoulder.

Bree and Laura stepped into a defense line, physically blocking the guys from getting any closer.

“Back off! Both of you!” Bree snapped, her chaotic and fun energy replaced by a sharp, protective edge. She and Laura reached down, their hands gentle and grounding as they hooked their arms under mine.

“We've got him,” Laura said, her voice relaxed and grounded but as firm as stone. They hoisted me up. I felt nauseated and flustered, my face turning red from the unwanted attention of the entire graduate student body. They get me outside. Brad and Aiden follow us out.

Once they sat me down, Frankie, Laura’s boyfriend, stepped forward to stand with Laura. He looked at Brad and Aiden, who were still standing in the middle of the court, looking confused and breathless.

“You guys need to give him room, step away,” Frankie stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. 

"He’s right. Look at him. You’re overwhelming him. Just leave him alone.” Laura added, glancing back at me with care and anguish. “You two have done enough. Go somewhere else and stay away from Luca…”

I sat there, trembling despite the heat, burying my face in my hands. I could feel Brad’s possessive gaze and Aiden’s observant stare lingering on me, but for the first time, I didn't rehearse a conversation or try to smile. I just wanted to shrink until I disappeared.

As I sat there with my head in my hands, the heavy drum of the gym began to settle into a hushed, awkward murmur as people exited the building. The dodgeball tournament had ended with no winner. I heard the rhythmic click of heels against the pavement, a sound that cut through the lingering tension of the fight.

“Give me a minute with Luca, please,” a voice commanded, sharp, calm, and unmistakably authoritative. I looked up to see Dr. Ella Rojas, my statistics professor, walking over. The others go back inside to grab their stuff. Brad was off to the side talking to his friends. Aiden was on the other side of the quad, talking to Bree.

“Dr. Rojas, I—” Brad began, his breathing still heavy.

She held up a single hand to silence him, her focus shifting entirely to me. She sat next to me.

“Luca,” she said, her voice dropping the lecture-hall edge for something more observant. “Are you hurt? Do we take you to the student health center?”

“No… I'm okay,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I tried to regain my composure. “I just... I lost my footing.”

“You were pushed in the middle of an altercation that had no business occurring on this campus,” she corrected me firmly, her eyes flicking toward Brad and Aiden, who both looked away, suddenly resembling shamed schoolboys rather than PhD candidates.

She turned back to me, her expression softening just enough for me to breathe. “Go sit down inside the lounge, get some water, and rest. Take Bree with you.” She calls Bree over. Bree helps me get up and walks me to the lounge. 

Dr. Rojas stood up, her silhouette tall and full. “Mr. Bradley Ford,” she said in a way that made my stomach drop for them. “My office. Now! I believe we need to discuss the appropriate PhD candidate behavior inside and outside of professional settings. Bring your friend too.”

As Bree and I are walking away, I turn back to see Brad and Aiden walking behind Dr. Rojas. Keeping their distance from one another. Bree tells me not to worry about that. To worry about how I am doing now. I kept my eyes on the floor as we made our way to the door. I could feel the eyes of the entire cohort on my back, but for once, I wasn't rehearsing what to say. I just wanted to reach safety. 

Thursday, October 6th, 7:32 PM

Bree helped me get back to my dorm. She got me to sit on the couch, and asked if she could take a look at my side where I got punched. I lifted my shirt; lo and behold, a bruise was already appearing.

“Ouch! Luca…who did this? Looks like it’s going to be a painful one,” she said.

“I bruise easily…”

“Not an answer. Was it Brad or Aiden?”

“I don’t know, it could have been from hitting the ground.”

“Luca. Don’t lie to me. Who was it?”

“I really don’t know. I don’t remember. Everything happened so fast. It’s a blur.”

“I’m going to kick their asses…Let me get you some ice, let’s help the healing process.”

She goes and grabs an ice pack. And gets me a glass of water and fixes me a plate of fruit. She asked if I wanted her to get me dinner. She calls Laura to pick up pizza for us. A few minutes later, Bree heads downstairs to help Laura with the food. In the meantime, Dr. Rojas calls me. 

“Luca, how are you feeling?”

“I’m okay, resting now. Waiting for Bree to bring pizza.”

“I’m glad you're resting and eating.”
“Um…can I ask what happened with the guys?”

“We settled the matter. But as it happened at a school-sponsored event, the dean of student affairs has to meet with them…and a few witnesses…and with you, Luca.”

“…Me, why me?”

“Because you got hurt. You fell. Even if it was an accident. All she is going to ask you is what happened. You be honest and transparent, that’s all you have to say.”

“Oh…okay. Do you know when I have to do this?”

“She’ll send you an email next week. Don’t worry about it.”

“Nobody is going to get in serious trouble. I can’t say what we talked about. But they apologized and settled not to fight again.”

“Okay…”

The sound of the door buzzer startled me, the vibration sending a sharp, stinging reminder through my ribs. I hang up with Dr. Rojas. Bree and Laura came back in, the scent of pepperoni filling the small apartment. “Dinner is served,” Bree said, though her usual spark was dimmed. She set the boxes on the coffee table and immediately checked the ice pack on my side. “How’s the pain?” I lied again, “Maybe a four,” sitting up slowly. “Dr. Rojas called.” Laura paused, a slice of pizza halfway to her plate. “And? Did she tear them a new one? Because honestly, Frankie and I were ready.” I explained the meeting with the dean of student affairs. The room went quiet. The reality of the situation was sinking in. This wasn't just a gym floor scuffle anymore.

“Good,” Laura said firmly, sitting on the edge of the armchair. “Luca, they were acting like animals. I don't care how protective they claim to be. They let their egos get in the way of the fact that you were standing right there. They didn’t even see you: they just saw each other.”

I looked down at my hands. “I just don't want to be the reason they get kicked out. Or the reason everyone in the department talks about me for the next five years.”

“Well, didn’t you say Rojas said nobody would get in trouble? They’ll probably just be told to apologize to each other. They’ll be fine.” Said Laura. “Don’t worry about it. If they get in trouble, it’s not on you.”

“You aren't the reason,” Bree added, her voice uncharacteristically stern. “Brad and Aiden’s temper is the reason. Their inability to de-escalate is the reason. You’re just the person who got hit because they couldn't keep their hands to themselves.”

My phone buzzed on the coffee table:

Aiden: “Luca, please tell me you’re okay. I’m sick to my stomach thinking about you falling. I never meant for things to go that far. Can I come by? Just for a second?”

“Who is it?” they both asked.

“Aiden. Apologizing. Asking to come over.”

“Fuck that, tell him no,” exhaled Bree.

“I’m going to ignore it…” I respond.

Laura countered, “No, don’t ignore it. Tell him you need space.” 

My phone buzzes again:

Brad: “I’m losing it, Luca. That’s not the type of guy I am. He provoked me, and I snapped because I can’t stand the way he looks at you. Can I come by? I want to see that you're okay.”

“What is he saying now?” Laura asked with anger in her voice.

“It’s Brad…he’s explaining what happened. Also wants to come over.”

“What an insensitive dick,” scoffed Bree.

“I’ll text both of them that I need space.”

Laura and Bree look at each other, “Set boundaries. Be firm with them. When you do talk to them, we can be there.”

“Aw, thanks, but I got this.”

I stared at the screen, the blue light reflecting in my eyes. The knot in my stomach tightened. I text them. They immediately respond. Double texts. My phone buzzes like crazy. And Brad calls me. My expression changes from nervous to scared. Laura and Bree notice. Laura finally asks, “What do you want to do, Luca? How can we help you right now?”

I looked at them, then at the bruise blooming on my skin. For the first time since I arrived at this university, the urge to be polite was drowned out by a desperate need for silence.

“I want them to leave me alone,” I said, my voice finally sounding steady. “I want to turn off my phone, eat this pizza, and pretend today didn't happen.”

“Done,” Bree said, grabbing my phone, answering Brad’s call. “Brad. It’s Bree. Luca needs space. Please stop calling and texting him… I don’t care… Bye! Don’t call or text him.”

After she calls Aiden and basically tells him the same thing.

Silence fills the apartment. We sit in silence, eating pizza. Suddenly, I start crying. The tears start flowing like a waterfall. The dam finally broke. After hours of tightening that knot of anxiety in your chest, of holding your breath in the gym, and of trying to play the polite mediator between two aggressive egos, the weight of it all just became too much. Bree and Laura didn't hesitate. Bree dropped her slice of pizza back into the box and slid across the couch, pulling me into a side-hug that avoided your bruised ribs, while Laura reached over to squeeze my hand. They didn't tell me to stop; they just let the quiet of the apartment absorb the sound of crying.

“It’s okay, Luca,” Bree whispered, her voice soft. “Let it out.”

“I just...” I choked out between sobs, “I feel so stupid. Everyone was watching. And they’re acting like I’m... like I’m a prize in a game. Like I’m something to be won, something they can fight to win…”

For a long time, the only sounds were the low hum of the refrigerator and my ragged breathing.

After a few minutes, the crying slowed to shaky hitches. Bree handed a napkin and a glass of water. “Better?” she asked gently.

“A little,” I murmured, wiping my eyes.

My phone buzzes. Laura furiously answered without even checking who it was, “LEAVE HIM ALONE….oh, sorry, Dr. DeHart. Let me see if he can talk…”

I take my phone and step into my room. 

“Hi Dr. DeHart…”

“Hi, Luca, are you okay? Rojas told me the whole story.”

“I’m okay…I’ll be fine.”

“You’re okay, or you’ll be fine? Those are two distinct statements.”

“I’ll be fine, need to rest for a bit,” I sigh.

“Okay, rest up. Call me tomorrow. Seems your friends are providing support.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course. Get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

 

Thursday, October 6th, 10:12 PM

The silence of the apartment felt heavy. I’m lying in bed, the ice pack long since melted, staring at the ceiling as my mind drifts back to the chaos of the gymnasium. Trying to recollect my thoughts. Brad’s charismatic authority and the way his deep voice and large frame usually made me feel safe. But I couldn't shake the memories of Brad’s hand on my shoulder, like a gesture that had shifted from grounding to feeling like a silent claim. I recalled how he, at one point, shrugged off my anxieties, ignoring my worries. Seeing the "fiery fury" in Brad’s eyes during the fight made me realize that Brad’s protectiveness had officially curdled into dangerous jealousy.

My mind shifts to Aiden: a different kind of conflict. Always observant. Making sure I am comfortable. How effortless it is to be with him. But now, that peace of mind is replaced with images of Aiden’s aggressive side. How easy it was for Brad to push Aiden over the edge, baiting him into a fight. 

As I lay there, the physical sting in my ribs served as a constant reminder of their failure to see me in the heat of their rivalry. I take a deep breath and have a profound sense of exhaustion from the realization that, in the middle of their fight, neither man had truly seen me; they had only seen their opponent. Despite having deep feelings for both, the feelings of warmth have started to cool. I thought that I would be respected by these two men, who seemed determined to fight over me rather than listen and see me, yet clearly their hostility blinded them.

I delicately adjusted the ice pack against my ribs, feeling the stinging reminder of the punch that had caught me in the crossfire. In the silence, the wilderness of my insecurities felt a little less vast, replaced by the simple, steady hum of my own breathing. Suddenly, the old scars on my thighs began to ache too. My mind drifted to those moments, the chaos that led to those scars. My mind began to play tricks on me, telling me that it was my fault Brad and Aiden got into a fight. But I quickly countered these thoughts.

Sunday, September 18th, 6:52AM

The cool, gentle breeze brushed up against my face as I walked to Church. My thoughts were a tangled mess of the week's events: the lingering warmth of Aiden’s kiss, the possessive weight of Brad’s hand on my waist, and the unresolved silence between Misael and me. I walk up to the entrance of the church, glancing at the cars, trying to find Misael’s car. I hope he shows up, not for me, but for himself, for his own sanctification. I slipped into my usual spot. Julia was already there, looking elegant in a floral dress. She beamed when she saw me. “Good morning, sweetie,” she whispered, patting the seat next to her. I greet her, trying to offer a genuine smile. She glanced at the empty space on my other side and then back at me, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. “No handsome friend today?”

I looked down at my lap, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. “He’s… I’m not sure if he’s coming today.”

“Oh,” she murmured, her tone softening. “A little rain on the parade? Don’t you worry, sweetie. Young love is like the weather in California: erratic, but the sun always comes back eventually.”

I nodded absentmindedly as Mass began. I tried to focus, but my mind kept drifting last week to the car ride where I had been so mad and wrathful. I felt a paroxysm of guilt for ignoring Misael’s texts, but the fear of failing something bigger than me still held a tight grip on my heart. Before I knew it, Mass had ended. Julia says goodbye and wishes me a good week. I stayed in the pew for a moment, letting the crowd thin out. As I finally stood up to leave, I turned toward the overflow seats at the back of the church. There, leaning against the back wall near the entrance, was Misael. He looked tired, his usual confidence replaced by a guarded, weary expression. My heart pounded as I tried to walk past him, but he stepped into my path.  

“Hi Luca,” he said, his voice soft-spoken yet firm.

“Hi Misael.” I say as I’m walking out of the church doors, his pace quickening following me.

“I stayed in the back. I didn't want to crowd you.” He reached out, his hand hovering near my arm before he pulled it back. “Can we talk? Please.”

“Ummm…I need more time, Misael,” I said, my voice trembling. “Maybe some other time.”

“Okay, but I can’t stand the silence,” he said. “I was wrong to dismiss how you felt. I want to make it right.”

“Misael, I…I still need time to process. I’m not ignoring you. I just need more time to understand this…myself.” I said, spinning around to face him on the sidewalk.

He was standing too close, his tall and full frame making me feel small and overwhelmed again. “You’re doing it again. You’re deciding what we’re doing and when we’re doing it.”

“I’m trying to fix this, Luca!” He insisted.

His blue eyes searched mine with a rampant current of care and anguish. “I understand, I’ll give you the space you need. Just don't shut me out.”

“I’m not shutting you out forever, I’m asking for a minute to breathe.” I felt the familiar sting of tears. “You’re pushing…a bit too much right now, and I’m still trying to figure out if I’m messing something up with my faith.”

He looked like I had physically struck him. He stepped back, finally giving me the distance I had been begging for. “I just… I don’t want to lose you to your fear, Luca." 

Wiping my eyes, “Misael…I don’t want to lose you either.”

He stared at me for a long time, his jaw tight. Finally, he nodded slowly. “You won’t.” He walks towards me, “Can I hug you?”

I look at him, nod, “Okay…”

He wraps his arms around me, then he wipes my tears. “Luca…You tell me what pace you want to take things, and I’ll match it. Even if it means just being your friend.”

“Okay, thank you…”

I start walking to my apartment, but I hear him saying, “Want a ride?”

“No thanks, the walk will help me clear my mind.”

“Okay, please let me know you get home safe.”

I nod, “Okay, you too.”

 

Thursday, September 22nd, 10:52PM

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Soft music playing. On the surface, I may look calm, but underneath, a chaotic battle is taking place. My thoughts race from Aiden to Brad to Misael. All three great guys. I can’t continue stringing them along. I don’t want to hurt them—never my intention. I would rather end things with all three of them than hurt any of them. Aiden’s presence comforts me. Brad’s forwardness pushes outside of my comfort zone. And Misael…safe, sound, myself—yet so much risk with him.

My mind moves to perhaps more practical matters. I’m trying to breathe without tripping over my own feet in this PhD program, terrified I’m falling behind. Midterms are creeping closer and closer. Although I’m doing well, on track, daily distractions take up more and more of my attention. I need to lock in and focus on why I’m here: graduate school. I need to focus on my studies, not on romance, drama, or fun. I don’t know what I would do if I got bad grades; it would end me. So maybe it’s for the best that I take a step back from everything else.

Adding to the chaos is my parents’ visit tomorrow. I am so glad and appreciative that they’re visiting. I miss them. Yet I know the subtle looks they will make. Judge my choices. And I know they will make several comments about my living situation. I know my dad is going to say something about the small space, the thin walls, the view of the grimy parking lot. Mom is also going to chime in about the small space, saying I don’t have enough space. Anticipating their comments and behavior is tiring. I’m rehearsing conversations in my head, trying to figure out how to explain my every move.

 

Friday, September 23rd, 7:02AM

The sun hadn’t even fully broken over the horizon when my phone buzzed. I reached for it with shaky hands, my heart already racing with the familiar nauseating anticipation of my parents' arrival.

"Hi, Mom," I said, my voice thick with sleep.

"Good morning, Bunny! We’re at the airport. Our flight leaves in 30 minutes.” My mom’s voice came through, sounding very energetic.

“Mom…what did we talk about… Bunny?”

“Sorry, Luca, I’ll try my best not to call you that. But I can’t promise anything.”

“Okay, just don’t say it around people,” I ask. “I can head to the airport soon and pick you guys up,” I offered, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. “I don't have class today, and I want to make sure you don't have to deal with LAX traffic on your own.”

“Oh, no, Bunny, thank you, but stay in bed,” she replied immediately. “Your father already has a rental car reserved. We have a few business meetings to attend to in the city first.”

“Okay, so, when will you be at the dorm?" I asked.

“Around 2:00 PM,” she said. “That gives you plenty of time to finish your reading and maybe tidy up that room of yours. I want to see how my PhD student is living!”

“It's clean, Mom,” I joked, though I knew I’d spend the next several hours cleaning and rehearsing conversations and scrubbing floors that were already spotless.

“I know, I know. We’ll see you soon. Love you, Luca.”

“Love you too,” I whispered as the line went dead.

I spring out of bed and start cleaning until they arrive. I have a few things to read, but nothing that would take too much time.

 

Friday, September 23rd, 1:34PM

I was pacing the length of my dorm room, my heart hammering against my ribs in a way that made me feel nauseated. I had already spent the morning cleaning and doing laundry to ensure everything was perfect, but it didn't stop me from overthinking every possible interaction. My mind was wandering into the wilderness of my insecurities, wondering what they would say.

My phone buzzed, breaking the silence. It was Brad.

"Hey, cutie," he said, his deep and charismatic voice vibrating through the speaker. “I'm heading to get some food. Want to join me for lunch?”

“Hi, I can’t today,” I said, trying to steady my breathing. “My parents are coming over. They'll be here any minute.”

"Ah, that’s fun…,” he chuckled. “Stressed?” We talked for a few minutes about the upcoming weekend, and I could feel my stomach tightening just hearing him speak. I explain everything, all the cleaning and stuff. Then he says:

“You’ve done all you could to prepare; it’s time to take a deep breath and relax.”

 “I know, but you just don’t know my parents…”

“I bet it’s nothing to worry about, breathe and relax a bit.”

“It’s not ‘nothing’ to me…” I muttered.

“I think you’re overthinking…” Brad said in an assertive, almost certain tone. But before I could respond, I got a call from my dad.

“Brad, I have to go, my dad is calling, I’ll talk later.” 

I answer the call, trying to take a deep breath.

“Hi, Dad,” I answered.

“Bunny, we’re just turning into the campus,” my father said, “We should be at your dorm in about five minutes.”

“Okay, I'm coming down now!”

I grabbed my keys, checked my reflection one last time, worrying about how I looked, and rushed downstairs. I burst through the front door of the building and made my way to the parking lot, standing under the hot California sun as I waited to greet them.

I watched as a sleek, black SUV pulled into the lot, and my heart did a nervous flip. My mom stepped out first, looking perfectly put-together, followed by my dad, who was already tucking his phone into his blazer pocket.

“Luca, Bunny!” my mom cried, pulling me into a vicious mama bear hug that smelled of expensive perfume. My dad hugged me, picking me up, squeezing me, “Bunny, so good to see you.”

“Mom, Dad, please don’t call me that.”

“Okay, but you’ll always be our little bunny,” my dad said.

"You look thin," she noted.

"I'm fine, Mom. Let's go up," I said, leading them toward the elevator.

The moment we stepped inside my dorm, the atmosphere shifted. My parents stood in the center of the small living area, looking around with visible skepticism.

“Goodness, Luca,” my mom murmured, running a manicured finger over the bookshelf Brad had helped me assemble. “It’s so... compact. How do you even breathe in here?” “It's a graduate apartment, Mom. It's supposed to be like this,” I explained, feeling small and fragile under their gaze. My dad paced the length of the room in three short strides. “You need more space, son. This isn't conducive to studying, for thriving,” he said, turning to face me. “If you need to move off-campus, a bigger apartment, just say the word.” “Thank you, but I’m doing well here, Dad,” I replied. 

Meanwhile, my mom had wandered into the kitchen and swung the fridge door open. She began inspecting my groceries. “Are you eating well? I see some veggies, but protein?” she asked, her concern sounding like an accusation. “You need to stay strong for your studies.” “I'm eating, I promise,” I said, desperate to shift their focus. “Would you like to see the rest of the school? I can take you on a tour of the campus and show you the lab.” My dad checked his watch, a habit I’d seen a thousand times. “Actually, that sounds like a productive use of time. Lead the way, Bun—Luca.”

We head out across campus. Mentioning things as we cross them. We arrive at Alexander Hall, the white stone buildings glowing in the afternoon heat. As we entered the building, the cool, conditioned air was a relief from the stupid hot weather outside. We go up to the third floor, where the lab is. As we get out of the elevator, I see Dr. DeHart. He was dressed in his usual professional attire, looking every bit, the great professor Brad had described.

“Hi, Dr. DeHart,” I called out, my voice sounding more confident than usual in front of my parents.

"Luca! Good to see you," he said, offering a warm smile.

I introduced him to my parents, “Dr. DeHart, this is my mom, Carolina, and my dad, Humberto.”

My dad immediately straightened his posture, shifting into his professional persona. They had a very nice chat, talking about “grown-up” stuff and about me. Dr. DeHart spoke highly of my transition into the program, which seemed to ease some of the tension in my dad’s shoulders.

Afterward, we headed back to the parking lot and drove to the upscale hotel where my parents were staying. The opulent lobby screamed wealth and privilege, which I have tried to distance myself from, yet it pulls me back. We make our way up to their suite. Bigger than my entire apartment. Being here made me feel small, my every insecurity amplified. What would my peers think of me if they saw me here? Or find out about my family’s social/financial status? Would they think I only got here because my parents just paid my way? Or that because I come from money, I’m less deserving of my accomplishments? My thoughts are interrupted by my dad, “Where do you want to go to dinner?”

“Doesn’t matter, you two choose.”

“Are you sure? You can pick anywhere,” he asked.

“Yes, you, or mom, choose.”

Once they had freshened up, we headed out again. My dad calls the front desk and gets a list of restaurants. After about thirty minutes in traffic, we arrive at an upscale restaurant. The atmosphere was a far cry from the loud clubs or crowded batting cages I’d visited with Brad and Misael. Strikingly different than eating In’n’Out in Aiden’s car. This place feels familiar, the crisp linens, the spotless silverware meticulously laid out. But I don’t feel myself here. On the other hand, my parents are in their natural habitat. The way they speak to waitstaff, already ordering exactly what they expect. My mind wanders to how I felt more like myself in that batting cage restaurant and eating in Aiden’s car.

My mom reached across the table, resting her hand over mine, “Now, Luca,” she said, her voice soft but aggressively attentive, “Tell us more about these friends you've made. Who are they exactly, and can we meet them?”

“Bree and Laura are great; they live in the dorms, so I can ask if they are free. We usually hang out in the pool area.”

“Sounds like fun. Why don’t you invite them to the hotel? There’s a great pool and other things you guys would like,” my dad suggests.

“I can ask them,” I say, worried.

“I’d love to meet them, but what about your other friends?” My mom asked.

I felt my stomach turning. I took a sip of my water, trying to breathe, as I prepared to navigate the most difficult part of the weekend. “Oh, well, there’s Aiden, Brad, and Misael. They’re good friends too, very different from me, don’t really know how we became friends…” I babble on.

“Invite them too, Luca, we’d love to meet all your new friends,” they both say in unison. But my dad’s brow was raised.

“So, these guys, are they good guys?” he gently, but strategically, asked.

“I think so, Brad helped me assemble that bookshelf. I met Misael at church; he is part of the bible study group. And Aiden is just a go with the flow guy, very helpful.”

“Sounds like three great guys,” my mom says.

“And they’re just friends?” my dad asks, raising his brow.

“Yes… just friends.”

After dinner, my parents dropped me off at the dorms. The meal had been an exercise in careful navigation, answering Mom’s playful interrogations about my friends while avoiding the specifics. “Good night, Bunny. We’ll call you in the morning.” I stepped out onto the sidewalk, the gentle evening breeze wrapping itself around me. The transition from the opulence of the restaurant back to the reality of my compact dorm felt jarring. I reached the front door, pulling out my keycard. Just as I was about to swipe it, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Brad, hoping that I was having fun with my parents, and to not overthink things. Well-meaning, but also dismissive of my feelings. I make my way to my apartment. Hopping into the shower and then into bed.

Saturday, September 24th, 9:15AM

The morning started peacefully. Enjoyed my breakfast and coffee calmly. Mom texted me, saying to be ready by 10AM. They picked me up to head to the nearby botanical gardens. The morning was cool and overcast. The botanical garden was teeming with families and elderly couples. The laughter of kids filled the space. My dad was marveling at the landscape and how the late summer flowers colored the fields. As a vineyard owner, his connection to the Californian landscape was deep, almost an extension of himself. We walked through the curated paths, and for a few hours, I didn't have to rehearse conversations or worry.

For lunch, I took them to my favorite spot, a quiet café where I didn't have to worry about the space we were occupying. After lunch, we walk around the shops. My dad sees the posters advertising the Sunday farmers’ market. “Oh, neat, Luca, we should check this out tomorrow, after Mass.” I nod along, mentioning that I sometimes come to the farmers’ market when I have time. My mom says, “You should go out more, Luca.” 

My dad then asks, “So what did your friends say? Are they coming over to the hotel?”

“Oh, I asked Bree and Laura, they’re both had plans with their boyfriends. But they can probably join us for the farmers’ market tomorrow, they are the ones I came with.”

“That sucks, but okay, we’ll see them tomorrow. What about the guys?” My mom chimes in.

“Oh…um…they can’t make it either, they have plans too. Maybe next time.”

“Luca…you’re a terrible liar. But okay,” my dad tells me.

“So what are we going to do now?” I ask them.

“Well, let’s go restock your fridge and pantry,” my mom answered immediately.

We make our way back to the car. We spent the afternoon at the grocery stores. My mom was in her element, filling the cart with high-end proteins, organic veggies, snacks, so many snacks. My dad is distracted in the wine section. Reviewing what is selling, what is not. I stand next to him, observing him. He shows me a wine, “See this one, our newest acquisition. Nice family, good wine makers.” He looks so proud. “You know, their son is gay, he’s a bit older than you…” I look at him, perplexed, “Okay? Good for them?” He gazes at me, “Just saying, you’re single, I think he is too. I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy, Dad. I don’t need help finding a guy,” I say. “I need help not attracting them, actually,” I mutter under my breath.

“What was that, Bunny?”

“Nothing, we should probably go rein in mom before she gets a third cart.”

“Very true. But, tell me, are those guys just your friends?” He asks me, as we start walking, looking for Mom.

“It’s complicated, Dad.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know…”

“Of course you do, I saw it in your eyes when you mentioned one of them. Your brain says that it’s complicated, but your heart already knows which one you want to be with.”

We found my mom before I could respond. The carts are overflowing. We make our way to check out. We somehow pile everything into the car. Unloading the car at the dorms is a herculean task. By the time we got everything up to the dorm, the kitchen was overflowing with enough food to last a month. We spent the late afternoon relaxing in the living room. 

“I’ve been looking at some apartment listings nearby, Luca,” he said, turning the screen toward me to show a series of luxury condos. Spacious and your style.”

I stare at him, “I feel good here, I’m literally on campus, can’t get more nearby than that. Plus, the lease is for a whole year, can’t break that.”

“Leases can be broken, I can talk to them, pay whatever fee, and we get you to a better place, no problem.” He continued, leaning back with a thoughtful expression, "I’m thinking of buying a house in the area. It would make it easier for your mother and me to visit often.”

“Another house? Why? I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Luca, you’re our youngest child. We miss you. The house feels so lonely without you. I want to visit you more often, see you more often, even if that’s just a weekend.” My mom adds.

“And you think buying a whole house just for weekends here and there is worth it?”

“No, but you are, Luca.” My dad said assertively.

“I understand what you guys are saying, but I need independence, my own space to grow, discover myself. I love you, Mom and Dad.”

“You are right, Luca, we won’t smother you. But we will visit a few times a year, we can’t stay away.” My mom says.

 

Sunday, September 25th, 6:45AM

The morning air was surprisingly cool as we walked toward the church. I felt a familiar tension in my chest, a mix of the social anxiety I always carried and the specific anxiety of seeing Misael. We found my usual spot, next to Juia. I introduce my parents. They quickly started chit-chatting about random things. After Mass ended, we made our way toward the exit. I saw Misael standing just outside the doors. I try to shake my head, trying to signal that I couldn’t talk. But my dad quickly asks me, “Who is that? Misael?” I nod.

"Hi, Misael," I said softly as we approached.

His piercing blue eyes gazing into mine, “Luca. Good morning.”

"Misael, these are my parents," I said, gesturing to them beside me. "Mom, Dad, this is Misael. He's my friend from church."

My mother’s eyes sharpened with playful curiosity as she said, “It's a pleasure to meet you, Misael. I’m Luca’s mother, Carolina Montemayor.”

"The pleasure is mine," Misael said. Then turned to my dad, “Nice to meet you, sir. I’m Misael Villarreal,” shaking my dad’s hand.

“Good handshake,” he said, “I’m Luca’s dad, Humberto Montemayor.”

"We were just heading to breakfast," my dad said, checking his watch with his usual fast-paced efficiency. “Would you care to join us, Misael? We’d love to meet Luca’s friends and hear more about the area from a local.”

Misael glanced at me, threading lightly as he looked for a signal. I gave a small, hesitant shake.

“Dad, I’m sure Misael has other things to do this morning.”

“Do you, Misael?” my mom asked.

Misael looked at me again, searching for a sign. But my dad catches my eye. “I don’t want to intrude on family time.”

“Nonsense, it’s our pleasure for you to join us.”

“I'd be honored,” he replied.

We drove to the same restaurant where Misael and I had gone a few weeks ago. As we walked in, the same waitress who had served us before approached our table with a bright smile.

“Back so soon?” she asked, looking between Misael and me. I felt my face turn red as I looked down at the menu, shyly avoiding my mother’s immediate, knowing gaze. Misael just smirked, his half-smile lingering as he pulled out a chair for my mother. My dad’s brow raises, and he makes eye contact with me. 

We order our food. No French toast this time. Dad goes into interrogation mode, asking Misael about his career, his life goals, and everything in between. I secretly texted Misael an apology for my dad’s questions. But Misael is crushing the answers, giving straightforward answers, leaving no room for misinterpretation. They go on and on about the real estate market. My dad looked impressed by his answers. Something difficult to do. Even my sister’s husband has only ever got a sympathetic nod from him. However, when my mom took her turn to ask questions, Misael turned into a confident man, into a deer in headlights.

“So are you single, Misael?” she asked.

“Mom…that’s too personal,” I interject.

“Bunny, let him answer.”

“MOM!”

“Bunny?” Misael chuckled, looking at me.

“When Luca was younger, he had a stuffed bunny that he would take everywhere. We got him a pet rabbit. So we have him the nickname, Bunny.” My dad retells the story.

“Aw, cute, well, it’s okay, your mom can ask me anything. Yes, I’m single.”

“Why?” she asked, looking at him, then at me.

“Focusing on my career first, I want to have a stable foundation before I bring someone into my life.”

“Smart,” my dad chimes in.

“Yes, smart move, but don’t you think building that stable foundation with someone enriches a relationship?” she counters.

“Sure, that argument can be made, but I also haven’t found someone to build that foundation yet.”

My mom looked at me and then said, “Interesting. Well, focusing on your career is good. Lucky person who finds you.”

“I think I’d be the lucky one,” he said, accidentally looking at me.

“Dad, Misael wants to get into investing. Do you have any tips for him?” I shout, trying to redirect the conversation. But my mom’s eyes widen, looking at me.

Thankfully, the food arrives, interrupting the moment. I feel relief. My dad starts to go on about investing. I start talking to my mom about my nieces and nephews. Which distracts her from the conversation. After breakfast, we head outside. My dad still wants to go to the farmers’ market. Again, my mom invites Misael to join us. I try to get Misael to leave, but I fail again. Things get out of hand because Bree and Laura are waiting for us. I introduce my parents and Misael to Bree and Laura. Immediately after, Bree and Laura isolate me from the rest, asking me who Misael is, what the situation is. I tell them that I will explain things later. Bree and Laura agree, and we rejoin the rest of them. My mom, Bree, and Laura start chatting about life. My dad and Misael are walking, talking about stocks. After about two hours at the farmers’ market, we sit down. My mom had gotten me more groceries. My dad offers to get us coffee, so he and Misael go grab it. 

The moment my mom wanted, “So, girls, are you going to tell me about this Misael guy?” Bree immediately says, “First time meeting him.” Laura said, “Yes, first time even hearing his name.” My mom looks at me, “So, what about Aiden?” Bree and Laura giggle, “Very handsome man, he’s also a PhD student, he’s very nice. He and Luca come to the farmers’ market all the time.” She continues, “And Brad?” Bree says, “Jock type PhD student, very hot, saved Luca from drowning.” My mom laughs, “Seems Luca is in a love triangle, or square, I should say.” They all laugh. 

My dad and Misael come back, distributing the coffees. Misael stands next to me, carefully. We enjoy the coffee, then walk back to the car. We all squeeze in. We are dropped off. My parents go to the hotel to check out. Bree and Laura leave Misael and me alone.

“I’m so sorry, Luca, I truly just wanted to say hi, that’s all.”

“It’s okay, it’s hard to tell my parents no, it’s okay.”

“Are we good?”

“Sort of, we still need to talk. I miss talking to you, Misael.”

“I miss you too. I know we can resolve this. But I will give you all the time you need.”

He hugs me, and I hug him back. His warm embrace feels so good.

“You want a ride to your car?” I ask him.

“It’s okay, it’s a short walk, I’ll survive.”

“You need help with your groceries, Bunny?” he asks me, as I’m holding three bags.

“Don’t call me that, please.”

“It’s cute, just like you.”

“Please don’t. But no, I got it, but help me open the door.”

He opens the door for me. And he walks away.

 

Sunday, September 25th, 4:45PM

My parents arrive one last time before heading out. They come up with pizza. We sit down to eat. It feels comfortable, a simple meal. No fuss, no shows, just us.

“So, what time is your flight?” I ask.

“Eight, we still have time, don’t worry.” My mom responds.

“You have good friends here,” my dad said.

“They’re pretty great.”

We continue eating. I’m hoping my mom does not bring up the guys. We finish eating, and my parents head out. I walk them to the parking lot. We say our goodbyes and hug. They drive off. 

Even though I was very nervous and was dreading the weekend, I was missing them as soon as they drove off.

A cool summer morning was the perfect time for a run. It was roughly 6:30AM, and the cool, gentle breeze was perfect. I (30M) live in a college town, so many horny college guys and professors lurk around. Running across campus was common, and you would normally see a lot more students, but as it was summer, it was pretty much elderly couples going for their morning walk. However, I spot a guy, roughly my age, cruising around. Average height, average body. Nothing remarkable made me stop, but I was horny, and the weather was perfect for a morning blowjob. It seemed like he was also out for a run, but lingering around. I get on Sniffies to see if he was on there or if it was just my wishful thinking. It seemed like I was the only one in the area. Made since, deserted college campus, early morning. I continue jogging and make a loop around the quad. As the morning cool faded, the blistering heat was creeping in. I sit for a bit. Check my phone again, still nothing. 

However, I see the guy again. It is very much obvious he’s looking. I make my way toward him. We pass by each other. I notice his huge bulge. After 100 or so feet, I slightly turned my head and noticed him walking behind me. I make a right turn toward the athletic center, and the tennis court restrooms are usually open. He turns right too. I get to the restroom, and he’s still behind me. I go inside, and so does he. 

He says, “hey,” in a deep masculine voice. 

“What's up, man?” I respond. 

To which he responds by whipping out his cock. I get on my knees and start sucking. It’s about 7 inches, thick, uncut, cotton candy pink tip. He grabs the back of my head and forces himself deep down my throat. His precum is filling my mouth, and it’s getting very sloppy. 

He says, “Let me suck yours.” I take it out, and he starts sucking. I’m about 6 inches thick, also uncut. He takes long strokes. After a few minutes, he says, “I wanna swallow.” I cum down his throat, and he shoots his load on the floor. He stands up, and he shows me his ass, it’s wet from the sloppy head I was giving him. I bend him over and eat his ass. He starts moaning loudly. I eat his ass for a few minutes. I get hard again. He asks if I have a condom, to which I say no. He says he doesn’t bareback. So he jerks me off, and I cum all over his ass. I hand him a paper towel to clean up.

But he lifts his shorts up and says, “I want my boyfriend to see the mess I got into this morning.” 

Let me know if you want to read more cruising stories.