Yeah, my name is Stuart, just like the mouse. My mother thought it was adorable when I was born, and I was stuck with the name, though by the time I was fourteen I sort of hated how well it fit. I was mousey. Quiet in the way teachers liked and other kids forgot existed. The kind of kid who got good grades without seeming to try, the one who never got in trouble, never drew attention, never made waves. People wondered about me, I think, why I didn’t date, why I always sat off to the side, why I didn’t join teams or clubs, but nobody ever said anything out loud. Not to me.
Middle school was the first time I got a taste of what suspicion looks like on the face of another kid. Eddie Neal was new, one of those boys who seemed to arrive already annoyed at the world. He had the kind of swagger that only comes from insecurity and too much time alone with older brothers. One afternoon, as we were waiting for the buses, he glanced at me, smirked a little too easily, and said, “Hey, gay boy.”
He didn’t even put any effort into it, no buildup, no bravado, just flicked the words at me like a gum wrapper. I remember freezing, my backpack strap digging into my shoulder, the air suddenly heavier. The worst part wasn’t even the insult; it was how casually he said it, like he was naming something obvious.
Before I could respond, someone else did.
Lindon Kavanaugh, the golden boy of Kenton Middle School, stepped between us like he’d been summoned. Lindon had that kind of presence that made teachers sigh with relief and kids straighten their posture, polite, funny, smart, athletic, the whole catalog. His dark blond hair was always a little sun-streaked from baseball, and he wore that permanently relaxed posture that comes naturally to boys who know they’ll be liked no matter what.
“You don’t talk like that here,” Lindon said, his voice steady and calm but edged with something sharp. “We don’t tolerate that shit in our school.”
The word “shit” hung in the air like a grenade, middle school profanity was currency, and he’d just thrown down a gold bar. Then he punched Eddie right in the ribs. Not a wild swing, not a dramatic shove. A precise, angry jab, like he’d imagined doing it before and finally had a reason.
Eddie doubled over with a noise somewhere between a cough and a squeak. He backed off, muttering something to save face, but nobody cared. Lindon’s eyes flicked to me, softening.
“You good?” he asked.
I nodded, because what else was I supposed to do? My throat had closed up, and all I could manage was a weak, unsteady, “Yeah.”
After that, he was my best friend. I didn’t ask for it; he just attached himself to me in this weird, steady way that felt natural before I even understood it was happening. He’d knocked a kid down for me and used the word “shit” in public. I was in awe.
I didn’t know I was gay then. Not really. I knew there was something in me that didn’t behave like the boys on TV when they talked about girls, and I knew I liked looking at certain guys in ways I pretended I didn’t. But I wasn’t one of those flamboyant types the media loved to overexaggerate; I didn’t have the clothing choices or the body language or the flair. I was quiet, bookish, soft-spoken. Invisible.
High school didn’t change that much. Sure, I crushed on a few guys, usually the quiet, thoughtful ones or the tall ones with easy smiles, but I didn’t dare say a word. My internal life was a private country with the borders sealed tight.
Lindon and I didn’t hang out socially, not the way he did with his baseball friends or his choir buddies. But we had this steady orbit around each other. We worked on school projects together. He helped me trim the hedge in my backyard, taught me how to fix a faulty sprinkler, showed up with a rake without being asked. And I helped him sand and stain his mom’s deck, carried heavy mulch bags around his yard, and once spent an entire Saturday helping him tear out a rotten fence panel.
We were like a pair of planets moving in parallel, not touching, not colliding, just circling close enough to share gravity.
And yeah. While he would drift into my head late at night when I touched myself, I would never have admitted that to him. That was one truth I buried so deep I convinced myself it wasn’t even there.
So it was a shock when, on the day before he left for college, he showed up at my house. It was late afternoon, the kind of warm, honey-colored light that makes the last days of summer feel unreal. His old Honda pulled into the driveway, rattling like it was being held together by optimism alone.
He got out and walked straight up to me with that loose, confident stride he’d always had. Then he pulled me into a bro hug, firm, warm, a little too long. Something in my stomach tightened.
“I’ve got something to tell you, man,” he said, stepping back but keeping his hands on my shoulders for a moment. “I wanted to tell you lots of times, but it just never seemed to be the right time.”
“Okay,” I said, my voice embarrassingly small.
“I’m gay.”
He looked me straight in the eyes, steady, brave, terrified.
I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. I just stood there, heart thumping, the world narrowing down to the freckles on his nose.
“You heard me, right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I managed.
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Well… I always thought you were cute, but I was afraid if I said anything you’d not want to be friends anymore.”
“I’m gay, too,” I blurted.
His eyes widened. “Fuck, man, why didn’t you tell me?”
I shrugged helplessly.
He started laughing, a bubbling, disbelieving sound. “Same reason I didn’t tell you, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Pretty much.”
He smirked, shaking his head. “Hell, we probably would’ve spent half our study time doing… other extracurriculars. We’d have flunked out and ended up washing dishes at the diner.”
“There’s next summer,” I said before I could stop myself.
That made him pause. Something flickered in his expression, hope, maybe regret, maybe both. “Next summer,” he echoed softly.
His smile faltered. “I… I need to go.”
The silence stretched.
“I love you, Stuart,” he said.
My chest clenched. “I love you, too, Lindon.”
He swallowed, nodded, then turned and got into his car. The engine coughed, shuddered, and then he was gone, taillights disappearing down the road like something precious slipping out of my hands.
I stood there for a long time. Long enough for the cicadas to start up their evening chorus. Long enough for the sun to dip behind the neighbor’s roof. Long enough to accept that whatever might’ve happened between us would live suspended in that moment.
The next morning, I started packing for my own college move.
The Dorm
My dorm room was… well, functional. The walls were a bland institutional light gray, rough-textured like they’d been painted a thousand times over. The kind of walls that begged for posters and pictures just to prove someone actually lived there. They doubled as bulletin boards; you could pin stuff up with thumbtacks without getting fined.
Two twin beds sat on opposite sides of the room, each with a built-in dresser at the foot and a narrow but tall closet. A small bathroom connected to the room, private, just for me and my roommate. Compared to the horror stories of communal showers and mildew-ridden floors, it was luxury.
I unpacked quickly, mostly because I didn’t own much. I chose the bed farthest from the bathroom, less traffic, I figured, and made it tightly, hospital-corner neat. Clothes went into the closet fast; books on the little desk shelf. Entire process: thirty minutes.
Then I sat on the bed with a paperback, trying to read but mostly drifting in that hazy half-sleep of travel fatigue and emotional leftovers from yesterday.
That was when the door burst open.
It was like a sitcom entrance, parents bustling in with armloads of stuff, voices overlapping, energy everywhere. If there were ever a TV show called The Nerds, this family would’ve been the main cast: matching glasses, matching earnest expressions, matching jeans that were perhaps a decade out of date.
And leading the parade was Elliot, my new roommate, prancing into the room with theatrical flair. He had perfectly styled hair, a bright patterned shirt, and the kind of confidence I envied.
I introduced myself and offered to help, but each family member was carrying something, a lamp, bedding, a stack of notebooks, so the entire room was suddenly filled with Elliot’s belongings without any need for me. They hugged him one by one in a tight, emotional chain, then finally left.
Within ten minutes, Elliot and I were alone.
“Well, Roomie,” he said, clapping his hands and spinning once in the center of the room. “Let’s talk rules. We need rules. Every good roommate situation has rules.”
“I… hadn’t thought about it,” I admitted. “Um… don’t hog the bathroom? No dirty clothes on the floor?”
“Good start,” he said approvingly. Then he slid my desk chair out, flipped it around, and sat facing me like an interviewer. “So. I’m gay.”
“Really?” I deadpanned.
He laughed loudly. “I know, right? I don’t exactly hide it.”
“It’s cool,” I said. “I’m gay too, but I guess I hide it well.”
“You do,” he said, leaning closer, examining me with exaggerated scrutiny. “I couldn’t tell at all. You’re like stealth-level gay.”
I felt a blush heat my neck.
“Now,” he continued, clasping his hands dramatically, “full disclosure: I intend to have a lot of sex. Freshman year is basically the sexual buffet of life. Would you prefer I go… elsewhere? Or should we have a schedule? A sock-on-the-door system?”
I blinked. “I mean… I’d like to study after dinner, most nights. If you’re, uh, planning on having guys over every night…”
He tapped a finger against his cheek as if genuinely considering that possibility. “Well. I do get awfully horny. But I’m not sure I could get that lucky. I’m not as good-looking as you are.”
I choked a little. “Yeah, well…”
My face was on fire.
“I’m on PrEP,” he added brightly. “So if you ever feel the need, just let me know.”
My dick twitched traitorously.
“I think,” I said carefully, “that roommates shouldn’t be… you know. Hookups. It could interfere with studying.”
Even as I said it, part of me wondered what it would feel like. Being wanted. Being touched. Not being alone.
He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Fair enough. But I’ll keep an open mind if you do.”
And strangely, I realized I wanted to.
The first six weeks of college passed in a strange blend of routine, tension, and quiet longing.
Classes hit hard from the start. My schedule wasn’t the kind the guidance counselor warned against, it was worse. English Composition, French I, Calculus, Biology with lab, and an Intro to Programming course that made me question everything I thought I knew about logic.
Most mornings started the same way: the alarm at 6:45, the gray early light creeping through the dorm window, Elliot groaning dramatically from his bed across the room.
“Oh my god, why is morning?” he’d mumble into his pillow.
“Because humans function in daylight,” I’d say, already sitting at my desk with a granola bar and a textbook.
“Not gay humans,” he would reply, kicking his covers off like a sulky cat.
“Most gay humans are simply humans,” I reminded him.
By week three, he’d given up on making it to his 8:00 a.m. class on time. Or at all.
The Classes
I kept to my routine, diving into my studies in the same way I’d once hidden inside library books in high school. English came easily; French was harder than I expected. Calculus was… calculus. Programming swung between exhilarating and humiliating depending on whether my code actually compiled.
Biology lab was the only place where things got complicated, emotionally complicated. My lab partner, Aaron, was a loud-laughing, dark-haired guy with forearms that looked sculpted by some minor Greek deity in charge of gym subscriptions. But he was also smart, kind, and, unfortunately, very obviously gay.
By the second week he was already flirting. “So, Stuart,” he said one afternoon while we measured enzyme activity, “you wanna grab coffee sometime? Off campus? Where the coffee doesn’t taste like burnt socks?”
He smiled the kind of smile that made it clear he wasn’t just talking about caffeine.
I should have said yes. Anyone would have said yes. But something tightened in my chest, this sudden pressure, like choosing him meant giving up something unnamed.
“Um… I have a lot of studying,” I said lamely.
He raised an eyebrow. “You study every day after class?”
“Pretty much.”
He chuckled. “Damn. Okay. But if you ever want to take a break, I’m around.”
I told myself I wasn’t rejecting him because of Lindon. That it was about being overwhelmed, or introverted, or focused on my academics. Lying to myself was becoming second nature.
But every time I started typing out a text to Lindon, Hey, how’s it going? or You’d never believe my Programming professor, my fingers froze.
The only text I had sent was the safe-arrival one: Made it. Dorm’s small but fine. Classes start Monday.
Lindon had replied: Good. Proud of you, Mouseman.
I’d stared at that nickname for ten minutes, feeling both cherished and gutted.
I kept wanting to message him again. But the fear held me: if I said too much, pushed too hard, revealed too many of the feelings I didn’t dare name, maybe I’d lose him altogether. Better a distant best friend than a never-lover.
The Mission
While I was drowning in coursework, Elliot was drowning in a very different pursuit. “I’m not dying a virgin,” he said one night, flopping onto his bed dramatically. “College is supposed to be full of gorgeous, horny men. And yet? Nada.”
“You’ve been here five weeks,” I reminded him.
“And how many times have you been asked out?”
I avoided his eyes. “That’s not the point,” I said. Maybe you’re trying too hard.
He waved me off. “I need the perfect first time. Not mediocre. Not rushed. Perfect.”
So he went online, forums, apps, blogs, advice columns. Our room became a research center for “ideal gay-first-time scenarios,” complete with charts and bookmarked pages.
By week five, he claimed he’d found “The One.”
“He’s thirty,” Elliot said breathlessly, showing me a filtered photo of a shirtless man who looked like he belonged in a cologne advertisement. “Athletic. Experienced. Gentle. He said he wants to make my first time special.”
I gave him a look.
“And he messaged you first?” I asked.
“He said I seemed sweet and cute!” Elliot beamed.
“You are sweet and cute,” I agreed, but my stomach twisted with worry. Plus I didn’t want to rain on his excitement. “Just be careful.”
“Mouse,” he said, he had picked up Lindon’s nickname somehow, “I will be so careful. But I deserve magic.”
Friday afternoon, he stood in front of the mirror fixing his hair for the sixth time.
“Do I look like someone he could fall for?” he asked.
“You look good,” I said honestly.
“He’s out of school and has a job. I bet he’s got money. Maybe he’ll take me to Cabo for Christmas. He could be my first and only.” He smiled, grabbed his bag, and practically floated out the door.
Three hours later, my phone buzzed while I was halfway through a French assignment.
Elliot: Stuart please come get me. Please. I’m at 1448 Westbrooke Apartments. Building D. Please.
Something cold dropped in my stomach.
I shoved on my shoes and hurried across the parking lot, power-walking toward my pick-up truck. The drive took me to a run-down place: peeling paint, dim parking lot lights, cracked walkways. When I found him standing near Building D, my chest tightened.
He was hugging himself, thin shoulders trembling. His mascara, yes, he’d worn some, was smudged below his eyes.
He climbed silently into the passenger seat of my truck, staring out the window the whole way back.
At the dorm, once the door shut behind us, he broke.
“He was at least fifty,” Elliot sobbed. “Not thirty. Not even close! And he, he just kept saying how young I looked and how cute my ass was and how tight I’d be, like I wasn’t even a person…”
He crumpled onto his bed. I sat next to him, unsure what to do except be there.
“I just wanted someone to want me,” he said through broken breaths. “Not like that. Not… like I was some… hole.”
“You’re not,” I said softly. “You’re worth more than that. A lot more.”
He looked at me through his tears, his eyes red-rimmed and shining under the dorm’s weak overhead light. “Then why doesn’t anyone want me, Stuart? Why can’t I find someone who actually likes me?”
His voice cracked on the last word, and the sound hit me somewhere low in the chest. I opened my mouth, searching for something comforting, something honest, but everything I thought of was either too sharp or too empty. I didn’t have an answer. Not one that wouldn’t only make the wound bleed harder.
Finally, I said, “Maybe you’re looking so hard that you’re missing someone who’s right here. There are lots of cute guys in the dorm. I know most of them are straight, but there are plenty of them who would be lucky to spend time with you.”
“But none of them have even looked at me.” Elliot crumpled forward, crying harder, his body folding into mine as if gravity had given up on him altogether. He buried his forehead against my shoulder, and I felt the shaking of his breath through the thin cotton of my shirt. My arms moved on instinct, awkward, hesitant at first, then I tightened the embrace, letting him lean as much of his weight on me as he needed.
I sat there holding him, feeling his heartbreak like a pulse of heat through the room.
And then, unexpectedly, terribly, the thought slipped into my mind like a trespasser:
I could offer.
My virginity. My body. Something to make him feel wanted. Something to make him stop crying.
Maybe it would calm the ache inside him.
Maybe it would fix something inside me too… the loneliness, the lingering shame, the empty longing for someone who wasn’t here.
He was my friend. He trusted me. He needed to feel valued. And part of me, a confused, soft, desperate part, believed maybe I could help.
Should I?
The thought made my stomach knot, the guilt twisting tight, but it didn’t leave. It sat there, simmering, horrible and tempting in all the ways a bad idea can be when emotion fogs logic.
Elliot sniffled, his cheek still pressed against me, his breath warming my skin as he dragged the back of his hand across his eyes. He looked small. Breakable. Like a kid who didn’t yet realize the world wasn’t built for soft hearts.
My lips were parting, I could feel the words forming, reckless and misguided, ready to spill out despite the warning bells in my head, when my phone buzzed on the desk.
The sound broke the moment like a slap.
I reached for it automatically, expecting a reminder from Aaron about our Biology worksheet or a Canvas notification.
But the name on the screen froze everything.
Lindon.
The message:
Hey, Mouseman. You busy? I’ve been thinking about you.
My breath left me in a rush. I grabbed the sides of my head, fingers digging into my scalp as if I could press the confusion away. I took a deep, shaky breath.
A sure thing, Elliot, sat beside me, warm and hurting and reachable.
But he wasn’t what I wanted.
Not really. Not in the way that mattered.
I could be what he wanted. I could give him something he thought would heal the cracks.
But what I wanted? What I truly wanted? That was just a text message away, glowing softly on my screen like a doorway I hadn’t dared touch.
Elliot looked up at me, eyes watery, voice hushed and raw. “I’m a mess. You probably wouldn’t want me now either.”
I forced a smile, gentle but honest. “You are a mess, your mascara’s all over your cheek. You look like a raccoon that lost a fistfight.”
A tiny snort of laughter escaped him.
“I think,” I continued, “you should take a relaxing shower.”
“So I can slit my wrists and not make a mess,” he muttered.
The words hit like a punch. Without thinking, I slapped him, not hard, but enough to make him snap his head up.
“That’s not funny,” I said sharply, my voice shaking. “That’s not even something to joke about.”
His hand went to the side of his face, startled. “I… I didn’t mean it.”
I pulled him into a tight hug before he could spiral again. “I know you didn’t. But I’m your roommate. And your friend. And I care about you. I just crossed half the scary part of town to get you. You don’t get to make jokes like that. Not with me.”
“You’re right,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“Go clean up,” I said, softening. “Wash your face. And leave the door open.”
Elliot nodded, got up, and shuffled into the bathroom. I watched him through the doorway as he caught sight of his reflection, eyes widening at the smudged mascara streaking down his cheeks in uneven black rivers. He shook his head, half-embarrassed, half-exasperated with himself.
The shower turned on, steam beginning to creep over the shower door.
I picked up my phone again and stared at Lindon’s message, my heart thumping like it wanted to burst through my ribs.I started typing:
Never too busy for you. Been thinking about you, too.
I hovered over the send button, wanting to write more, so much more, but the words wouldn’t come. Or maybe they were too scared to. I pushed send.
The screen suddenly flashed: Lindon is typing…
Before I could wonder what he’d say, there was a knock at the door.
A sharp, urgent rap. I sucked in a breath. What now?
I got up and opened the door.
A man, short, maybe five-foot-four, wearing a rumpled hoodie and athletic shorts, stood there with a worried expression. His eyes scanned the room anxiously.
“Is he okay?” he asked, stepping forward before I could answer. “I saw him coming across the parking lot like he’d been beat up. Where is he? Elliot?”
Before I could explain, Elliot appeared, completely naked, in the bathroom doorway.
“Yeah?” he called. “Change your mind?”
Then he saw the guy. His posture changed instantly.
“Jim? What are you doing here?”
Jim shrugged helplessly. “Me? I was worried, man. You looked upset; you looked like you’d been beat up. And… uh… fuck, that’s a great dick.”
Elliot’s flush spread from his cheeks to the tips of his ears.
“Elliot,” I said firmly, standing and pointing. “Bathroom. Shower. Now.”
He disappeared back inside.
“And you,” I said to Jim, “either sit on the bed and wait, or go scrub his back.”
Jim grinned unabashedly and followed him into the bathroom without hesitation.
“Close the door!” I called after them.
The door clicked shut. Hell, I thought, I bet this guy has been sitting at Elliot’s feet. I asked myself how he could be so clueless, but then, was I just as clueless?
I let out a long, slow breath and returned to my desk, my phone still waiting in my hand, Lindon’s name glowing on the screen like a beacon I was both terrified and desperate to touch.
I sat on the edge of my bed, my phone still warm in my hand, the sound of the water from the shower drifting out into the room. I could hear Elliot and Jim murmuring about something, water splashing, soft laughter, and for the first time all night, I felt a little of the panic lift from my chest. Elliot was safe. Distracted. Maybe even smiling again. That alone was a relief so sharp it made me slump forward, elbows on his knees.
My phone buzzed again. I lifted it and read the message on the screen.
Lindon: I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I drove away from your house. Can I drive to see you tomorrow? I want to talk to you in person.
The words didn’t just sink in; they detonated. A warmth spread through my chest that felt like sunlight breaking into a dark room. For a dizzying second I forgot about everything else, the tears, the panic, the almost–terrible decision I’d been about to make. My breath caught.
He was thinking about me.
He was going to drive to see me.
He wanted to talk to me in person.
My fingers trembled as he typed. I had to delete the first attempt because I couldn’t see through the weird, stinging blur in his eyes.
I tried again: Yes. Please. Yes.
I hesitated, staring at the blinking cursor, wondering if that seemed too eager. But before the anxiety could take hold, another message came in a second later.
Lindon: Good. I’ll start out early. I want the whole day with you, Mouseman. And do me a favor, get your homework out of the way tonight. We’ll have a lot to talk about.
My heart gave one solid, dangerous thump. A lot to talk about. I read the phrase again and again, each repetition sparking a new possibility. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it meant everything. Maybe Lindon just wanted to catch up.
But I didn’t believe that. I didn’t want to believe that. A grin I couldn’t fight pulled at my mouth, slow and breathless. I typed back: Okay. I will. Drive safe.
I hovered, debating whether that sounded too parental, then added: I can’t wait to see you.
I nearly deleted that. Nearly. But something steadier than fear guided my thumb, and I hit send before I could lose my nerve.
The bathroom door opened a crack and Elliot stuck his head out, cheeks still pink from the hot water, mascara finally gone. Jim’s laughter echoed faintly inside the bathroom behind him. “Hey,” Elliot said, voice soft. He looked calmer. Lighter. Human again.
“You okay?” I asked.
Elliot nodded. “Yeah. I think so. Jim’s… nice.”
I raised a brow. “Nice, huh.”
Elliot flushed and ducked back into the bathroom with a muttered, “Shut up,” and I snorted despite himself. I glanced back down at my phone. The last message from Lindon glowed on the screen like a lighthouse through fog.
Tomorrow. Lindon was coming tomorrow.
And suddenly the air in the room felt thinner, sweeter, charged.
I set the phone down on my pillow, leaned back, and pressed both hands over my face, a quiet laugh escaping me, relief, disbelief, and something dangerously close to hope all tangled together.
For the first time in weeks, the night didn’t feel heavy. For the first time in months, maybe years, I felt like something good might actually be on its way. Could Elliot and I both be on the way to something wonderful?
I finished the last lines of my French homework with a kind of frantic, shaky determination, my brain barely registering what I was conjugating anymore. I just needed it done. I needed everything possible out of the way before tomorrow. Before him.
By 11:30, I forced myself into bed.
The lights were off. The room was quiet in that pretending-not-to-be-quiet way that meant people were trying very hard not to be heard. Elliot and Jim were whispering, soft, muffled words slipping between breaths and little giggles. Then the unmistakable sound of Elliot’s mattress shifting. Cloth rustling. A low, pleased hum.
I rolled onto my side and dragged the blanket up to my chin, staring into the dark.
So. Elliot had done it. Had his “first time." I tried to be happy for him, tried to imagine him triumphant and glowing and not crying into my shirt this time. And then the thought hit me like a jolt, tomorrow night, that could be me and Lindon.
I swallowed hard. My chest tightened.
Or… maybe not.
What if I’d been wrong? What if I’d imagined all of it, the warmth in his voice, the lingering looks, the texts that made something bloom painfully in my chest? What if he had found someone else, someone perfect, someone he wanted in a way he never wanted me, and he was coming to tell me he was getting married someday?
What if he wanted me to be his best man?
The idea carved out a hollow place in me, one so deep it made my stomach ache. What if I’d waited too long? What if he’d moved on while I convinced myself friendship was safer?
I turned onto my back. Onto my stomach. Curled up on my side again. Sleep never came. My thoughts stomped in circles until the sky outside the window slowly shifted from black to muted blue.
At 6:30, my phone buzzed.
Lindon: Morning. I’m about 30 minutes away.
Every cell in my body vibrated at once.
I sat up too quickly and nearly got dizzy. Elliot and Jim were tangled together in Elliot’s bed, both shirtless, both completely passed out. Elliot’s face looked peaceful for the first time in days. Good. He needed that.
I grabbed my shower things and slipped out quietly.
The hot water helped. Sort of. Mostly it made me aware of how I was shaking.
I dressed slowly, carefully, my nicest short-sleeved button-down, the pale blue one that made my eyes look less tired, and khaki shorts that were casual but not sloppy. I must’ve checked myself in the mirror six times, fussing with my hair, trying to look like the version of me he remembered. Or maybe the version he wanted.
At 7:04, my phone buzzed again.
Lindon: I’m in Visitor Parking Lot B.
My breath caught.
I didn’t walk. I didn’t jog. I ran.
The campus felt fresh, washed in early-morning gold. I sprinted past the library, past the science building, heart pounding like some wild thing trying to break out of my chest. When I reached the lot, I slowed just enough to look, really look.
And there he was.
Leaning against a blue Chevy pickup that still smelled like new leather anytime you opened the door, his grandfather’s gift. He was standing with his hands in his pockets, one foot kicked up behind him against the truck, the sun catching in his blond curls.
When he saw me, he pushed off the truck so fast it made my breath catch again.
I started running. He started running. And then we met in the middle, our arms wrapping around each other in a way that was nothing like the half-hugs we used to give as teenagers. This one was tight. Real. A confession made with bodies instead of words.
I buried my face in his shoulder. He pressed his cheek against my neck. We held on so long that I didn’t know who pulled back first. Maybe we did it together.
His eyes, God, those green eyes, searched mine with a look I’d been waiting to see my whole life.
“Hi,” he breathed, voice soft and warm.
“Hi,” I whispered back, my throat too tight for anything more.
We climbed into the truck, his hand brushed mine, and both of us let out a small, helpless laugh. It felt like oxygen after drowning.
He let me guide him to the observation park overlooking the lake. The whole drive was a chaotic blend of laughter, stolen glances, and little moments where we almost said something big but didn’t.
Once we parked, everything got quiet. Still. Honest.
“I didn’t realize,” I said softly. “Not until after you left for college. Not until you were gone.”
He nodded, swallowing hard. “Same. And I didn’t know how to say anything. I thought I’d scare you off. Lose you.”
“You could never lose me,” I murmured.
He exhaled shakily and slid across the bench seat, closer, close enough that our thighs brushed. My heartbeat was in my throat, my ears, my fingertips.
Then he lifted a hand to my cheek, gentle and unsure but determined.
“Stuart,” he whispered. “Can I, ?”
“Yes,” I said before he even finished.
The kiss was soft at first, barely there. A question. A hope. Then it deepened by degrees, blooming into something slow and sweet and hungry, years of wanting poured into a single moment. I felt myself melt into him, felt his hand slide to the back of my neck, and my entire body lit up like someone had struck a match inside my ribs.
When we finally broke apart, our foreheads rested together, breath mixing, hearts racing.
We sat like that, gazing out at the lake, his arm around me, my head on his shoulder.
“Every time someone asked me out,” he said quietly, “it just made me miss you more. And if I’d said yes to any of them… it would’ve felt like cheating on you. Even if we weren’t, ” He swallowed. “Anything yet.”
A tremor went through me. “I felt the same. The two times someone asked me… I just… couldn’t.”
He turned his head and pressed a kiss to my temple. Soft. Certain.
“I don’t want to be apart anymore,” he said. “I’m transferring. As soon as I can. I want to be where you are.”
My breath caught. “Lindon…”
He took my hand, lacing our fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.
We spent the rest of the morning walking the trail around the lake, holding hands, stealing kisses whenever we rounded a quiet bend. Every step felt like stitching something back together inside me, a part I didn’t even know had been broken.
By noon, our stomachs demanded food, so we headed to Elaine’s Diner. The vinyl seats were cracked in that comforting way old diners always seem to be, and the smell of frying bacon clung to the air.
We sat across from each other in a booth, hands brushing on the table, and the realization, the full, overwhelming reality of us, hit me so hard my eyes burned.
“Hey,” he murmured, reaching across to thumb away a tear. “Hey, don’t cry.”
“I’m just, happy,” I whispered, voice trembling.
He held my hand tighter, eyes soft with something that made my whole chest ache in the best way.
“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time,” he said. “And I know we’re young, but… Stuart, I want to marry you after we graduate.” His voice didn’t waver. Not once. “I want a lifetime of feeling the way I do right now.”
My breath stopped. Completely.
He smiled, nervous, hopeful, radiant.
I felt the tears fall again. And for the first time in my life, the future didn’t scare me at all. It felt like a door swinging open. And Lindon standing there, waiting for me.
“Are you proposing now, or just telling me that you’re proposing?” I queried.
Lindon smiled. “I think I was telling you, but I should ask, right?”
I grinned and looked down at the table. “Maybe I should ask you. Will you marry me, Lindon, my one and only love?”
“Oh, this is such a surprise,” he said with the largest grin I’d ever seen him make. “I most certainly will. Nothing would make me happier.” Our fingertips laced together.
And in the silent moment between us, the waitress came up to the table. “More tea?”
We both burst out laughing.
When we got back to my dorm, the first thing I noticed was that both beds were made. Perfectly made, actually, tucked corners, pillows fluffed, blankets smoothed. That alone was suspicious. Elliot didn’t even make his own bed most days.
Then I saw the note on my desk.
I’ll be with Jim today, and I’m going to stay in his room tonight.
His roommate is gone for the weekend.
If you need me, text me. E.
I held it up so Lindon could see.
He laughed. “Well. That’s… convenient.”
“It is,” I said, feeling my face heat in that I-can’t-believe-this-is-my-life way. “Looks like we’ve got the room to ourselves.”
Lindon kicked off his shoes with a little groan of relief, his shoulders loosening. “Which bed is yours?”
“That one.” I pointed.
He walked to it, then sat down like he’d been coming here for years. Like he belonged. “C’mere. Sit with me.”
I did. The moment I sat, he tugged me closer with that easy confidence he’d always had, and our lips met again before I could think about it, slow, warm kisses that tasted like everything I’d wanted for so long. He cupped my jaw. I slid my hand up his chest. We kissed until I forgot where my breath ended and his began.
When we finally pulled apart for air, he let out a huge yawn.
I blinked. “Wow. I must be a boring kisser.”
He snorted, nudging his forehead against mine. “No, no. You’re perfect.” He rubbed his eyes. “I just… barely slept. Got up stupid early to get here.”
My heart squeezed. “I didn’t sleep well either,” I admitted. “Kept thinking about you. Wondering when I’d hear you knock on the door.”
That got me one of those soft, heart-melting Lindon smiles. The kind that made my stomach flip.
“Hey,” I said, touching his arm, “why don’t we take a nap? We’ve got the whole afternoon. No rush.”
“Only if I get to hold you.”
My face went hot. “I mean… that was the plan.”
I kicked off my shoes and stretched out on top of the bed, patting the pillow beside me. “I’ll share.”
Lindon’s smile softened even further, almost reverent. He lay down behind me, fitting himself along my back like we were puzzle pieces he’d been carrying around all his life. His arm slid around my waist, warm and sure. His chest pressed to my spine.
Then he dipped forward and pressed a slow kiss to the back of my neck.
My whole body lit up, not in a frantic way, but in a safe, glowing way. A home way.
“Mm,” I breathed, eyes drifting shut. “That’s nice.”
“It’s supposed to be,” he murmured, voice already thick with sleep.
And just like that, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the world quiet for the first time in days, we fell asleep within seconds, breathing in unison, like we’d been doing it our whole lives.
I woke up slowly, a warmth spreading through me that had nothing to do with the blankets. It was a solid, insistent pressure against my ass, a hard length nestled right between my cheeks. My own body responded instantly, a deep, interested throb starting in my groin. I blinked my eyes open to the dim, orange-tinted light of late afternoon filtering through the window blinds.
I shifted slightly, a tiny experimental roll of my hips, and the pressure behind me deepened with a soft groan. I turned my head, and my breath caught. Lindon was awake. He was propped up on an elbow, watching me with an expression so full of naked want and affection it made my chest ache. His hair was a mess, his eyes heavy-lidded, and his lips were slightly parted.
"Hey," he whispered, his voice a low rumble. "Have a good nap?"
"The best," I breathed, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Sorry I fell asleep on you."
"Don't be sorry." He leaned in and brushed his lips over mine, a feather-light touch that was somehow more electric than a full-on kiss. "I got to watch you sleep. And I got to wake up like this." He rocked his hips forward, letting me feel the full, rigid shape of his cock pressing against me. "With you."
My skin felt too tight. "Lindon…"
"Yeah?"
"Kiss me for real."
He did. It wasn't slow and sleepy this time. It was deep and sure, a kiss that said now. His tongue slid against mine, claiming and inviting all at once. My hand came up to tangle in his hair, holding him to me as our mouths moved together. His other hand, which had been resting on my hip, started to move, tracing the hem of my shirt, then slipping underneath to find the bare skin of my back. His fingers were warm, calloused in the best way, and they sent shivers racing up my spine.
I wanted more. I wanted all of him. I broke the kiss just long enough to pull my shirt over my head, tossing it to the floor. He followed suit, his own shirt joining mine. The feeling of his bare chest against my back, skin on skin, was a revelation. I twisted in his arms, turning to face him fully, and our bodies aligned. Our cocks, hard and straining against the fabric of our jeans, met. We both gasped at the contact.
"Stuart," he murmured against my mouth, his hands roaming over my shoulders, my back, my arms. "I want you."
"I want you, too," I said, my voice shaking. "So much."
We fumbled with each other's belts, our movements clumsy with urgency. The metallic clink of buckles and the soft hiss of zippers were the only sounds in the quiet room. We pushed our jeans and underwear down, kicking them away until there was nothing left between us. I lay back, pulling him with me, and the feeling of his naked body flush against mine was overwhelming. His weight, his heat, the hard lines of muscle and the soft hair on his legs, it was everything.
I explored him with my hands, learning the shape of his shoulders, the curve of his ass, the solid strength of his thighs. He did the same, his touch worshipful. He kissed a path down my neck, my chest, his tongue flicking over my nipples until I was arching against him, panting. He kept going, tracing the line of hair down my stomach until he was hovering over my straining cock.
He looked up at me, his eyes dark with question and desire. I just nodded, unable to speak. He dipped his head and took me into his mouth.
The wet, velvet heat was incredible. I cried out, my hands fisting in the sheets as he began to move, his tongue swirling, his lips creating a perfect, tight suction. It was clumsy and a little unsure, but it was Lindon, and it was the most intimate thing I had ever felt. I watched his head bob, his cheeks hollowing, and I knew I had to taste him, too.
"Let me," I gasped, gently tugging on his hair. "I want to taste you."
He released me and shifted, swinging his leg over my head so we were lying on our sides, face to cock. His own erection was beautiful, long and thick, the tip flushed and already leaking. I wrapped my hand around the base, feeling the weight and heat of him, and then I took him into my mouth. He tasted clean and uniquely male. I mimicked what he’d done to me, sucking and licking, learning his reactions. We fell into a rhythm, a slow, passionate dance of giving and taking pleasure, our moans and gasps muffled by each other's bodies.
After a few minutes, he pulled away, his breathing ragged. "Stuart, wait. I… I need more."
"Anything," I promised, my lips swollen and wet.
He rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow for a moment before turning to look at me over his shoulder. His expression was vulnerable, open. "I want you inside me."
My heart stopped. "Are you sure? I've never…"
"Me neither," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "But I know it's what I want. I want it to be you. Please."
I leaned down and kissed him, a slow, deep kiss of reassurance. "Okay. Yeah. Okay."
I moved down the bed, parting his cheeks. He was perfect. I leaned in and dragged my tongue over his hole, and he cried out, his whole body shuddering. I did it again, and again, circling the tight ring of muscle, probing gently until he was pushing back against me, begging for more. I ate him out until he was a writhing, needy mess, his hole slick and relaxed.
"Please, Stuart," he gasped. "Now. Fuck me, please."
I positioned myself between his legs, my cock so hard it ached. I spit into my hand and coated myself, then pressed the head against his entrance. I pushed in slowly, so slowly, watching as his body stretched to accommodate me. The head popped past the tight ring of muscle, and we both groaned.
"Okay?" I breathed, my whole body trembling with the effort of holding still.
"Yeah," he panted. "Don't stop. Keep going."
I pushed forward, inch by incredible inch, until I was fully sheathed inside him. The feeling was indescribable, a tight, clenching heat that was more intense than anything I had ever imagined. I stayed still for a moment, letting him adjust, letting us both absorb the reality of it. We were joined. Completely.
I began to move, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in. The friction was exquisite. I set a slow, deep rhythm, watching my cock disappear into his body, listening to the sounds he made, soft grunts and whimpers of pleasure. I reached around and took his cock in my hand, stroking him in time with my thrusts.
"Look at me," I said, my voice rough. He turned his head, his eyes glazed with ecstasy. I leaned down and kissed him, a messy, desperate kiss as I drove into him, faster now, chasing the release that was building low in my spine. I could feel his own orgasm approaching, his cock swelling in my hand.
"Come with me," I begged. "Lindon, come with me."
He cried out my name, and his body convulsed as he spilled over my fist and onto the sheets. The sight and feel of it sent me over the edge. I thrust deep one last time, burying myself as far inside him as I could go, and let go. My orgasm ripped through me, and I pumped him full of my release, marking him, claiming him, binding us together in the most primal way possible.
We collapsed onto the bed, a sweaty, breathless tangle of limbs. I stayed inside him as long as I could, not wanting the connection to end. When I finally slipped out, he rolled over and pulled me into his arms. We were sticky and messy, but I had never felt more perfect.
He kissed my forehead, my eyelids, the corner of my mouth. "Wow," he whispered.
I laughed, a tired, happy sound. "Yeah. Wow."
I looked at him, at the soft, contented smile on his face, and I knew. This wasn't just an afternoon. This wasn't just a first time. This was the beginning. I could see a whole lifetime of naps and lazy Saturday mornings and afternoons and nights just like this one, stretched out before us. And I couldn't wait to live every single moment of it with him.
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