Chapter 1: The Knock
Miles didn’t even hear the door open — just the sound of his own breath, shallow and tight, echoing too loud in the quiet room. He turned and there was Wes.
Standing in the doorway.
Breathing hard.
Jaw clenched.
Eyes locked on him like they weren’t allowed to look anywhere else.
“Wes?” Miles asked, his voice barely there.
He didn’t get a reply. Just footsteps. Two, maybe three, and then Wes was right in front of him.
The kiss hit like a wave: mouth first, tongue second, hands bracketing Miles’ face like Wes needed to hold him still to do this.
Miles gasped — actually gasped — and the sound made Wes groan deep in his throat. That noise alone nearly undid him.
Miles didn’t kiss back at first. Couldn’t. His brain was still doing the math:
— Wes.
— Kissing.
— Me.
— What the fuck.
But his body? His body already knew the answer.
He made a sound — somewhere between a whimper and a moan — and that must’ve been permission enough, because Wes pressed in harder, rougher, like he’d been holding this in for too long.
“Miles,” Wes said against his lips, breath hot. “Fuck.”
Then his hand was at Miles’ waistband.
And then — under it.
Miles’ knees almost buckled.
He let out a broken, startled moan — soft but involuntary — and Wes felt it, smirked against his neck like he liked the sound, like he’d collect it and keep it in his pocket.
“Jesus Christ,” Miles whispered, barely able to speak, “what are you—”
“Don’t talk.”
Wes’s fingers slid lower. Not far. Not enough. But just—just enough to make Miles feel like he was melting from the inside out.
And then—
Gone.
The warmth, the pressure, the weight of Wes’s body — gone in an instant.
He stepped back like he’d been caught doing something illegal. His chest was rising fast. His eyes wild, pinned on Miles like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss him again or run.
“I can’t—” Wes said, then stopped.
His hand was still trembling.
Miles tried to say something. Anything. But his mouth was open and useless.
The silence between them felt like an exposed wire — ready to shock, ready to burn.
Wes shook his head once, like he was trying to clear it, then yanked the door open and disappeared down the hallway without looking back.
Miles stood there, pants half-undone, heart thundering, lips kiss-bruised and thighs aching.
He exhaled slowly.
“Oh… my god.”
THREE DAYS EARLIER
Three days earlier, I didn’t think he even knew my name.
That’s not me being dramatic. That’s just dorm math. We lived on the same hall, maybe thirty feet apart, but we were worlds away. He was the guy with a worn leather basketball and a laugh that carried through drywall. I was the guy trying not to sweat through my shirt in a plastic folding chair during orientation.
It started there, actually.
Orientation.
Day one. August heat. No breeze. We were herded across campus in matching T-shirts like a lost group of campers. I was halfway into a daydream about what it would feel like to just leave when I saw them.
Wes. And her.
Upperclassmen. Group leaders. Tour gods. She had long legs and white sunglasses pushed up like a crown. He wore a lanyard around his neck like a joke and a whistle he clearly had no intention of using.
“Alright, newbies,” she called out, “we’re headed to the quad. If you’re not hydrated, that’s not my problem.”
She said it like she was the lead in a teen drama and we were all lucky to be extras.
Wes didn’t say much. But he looked at us — or through us. Until he didn’t.
Until he looked at me.
Just for a second. Maybe not even that. Maybe I imagined it.
But I felt it. Like a jolt straight through my ribs.
He turned back to her, nodded at something she said.
Probably nothing. Probably meant nothing.
But it stayed with me all day.
The laundry room was on the first floor. Tiled floor, bad lighting, two machines that worked when they felt like it.
It was late. Almost midnight. I’d waited until everyone else was asleep to drag down my dirty towels and a shirt that had somehow already started to smell like nerves.
The card reader wouldn’t take my laundry card. I tried once. Twice. Jiggled it. Flipped it. Nothing.
“Gotta tilt it,” someone said behind me.
I turned.
Wes stood in the doorway, one headphone in, gym shorts low on his hips, a sheen of sweat still on his neck like he’d just finished a workout. His hair was messy, like he hadn’t planned on seeing anyone. Like I wasn’t anyone.
Except… he was looking at me.
He walked over and took the card from my hand.
“Like this,” he said, angling it sideways and swiping slow. The machine beeped. He handed it back without making a big deal out of it.
“Thanks,” I said, and immediately hated how small my voice sounded.
“Machines are temperamental,” he said. “You just gotta speak their language.”
He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms.
I wasn’t sure if that meant he was staying.
“I’m Miles,” I said, after a beat.
He looked amused. “I know.”
“You do?”
“You’re 309. Bon Iver guy.”
I blinked. “How do you—”
“Your window’s always cracked,” he said. “You play good music.”
“Oh.”
He noticed. He actually noticed.
“I’m Wes,” he added.
I nodded, like I didn’t already know that.
There are moments when the universe shifts just slightly. Not enough for the ground to move, but enough for you to know something just changed.
This was one of them.
He didn’t say goodbye when he left. Just gave me a look I couldn’t quite read and disappeared up the stairs.
I stood there for a minute too long, listening to the low hum of the dryer and the way my pulse seemed to have moved up into my throat.
That night, the dorm hosted a welcome night thing — ping pong, music, pizza. Half-hearted mingling. The usual awkward mixer vibe where everyone’s pretending to be cooler than they feel.
I almost didn’t go. But staying in felt worse.
I didn’t see Wes at first. Then I did.
He walked in behind someone, hoodie sleeves shoved up, biting the edge of a red plastic cup. She wasn’t with him. The girlfriend. I noticed that immediately.
People drifted toward him. Like planets.
Somehow, we ended up at the ping pong table. Just us. Everyone else had migrated toward the couches or peeled off toward the card games.
“You play?” he asked, spinning the paddle casually between his fingers.
“Once or twice,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow like he didn’t believe me but tossed me the paddle anyway.
We played. He was good. I was okay until I wasn’t.
He kept smirking every time I missed.
“You always this competitive?” I asked, sweating and trying not to look like I was.
“I like to win,” he said. “Especially against guys who pretend they’re not trying.”
Flirting is weird when you don’t know if it’s actually flirting.
It’s like trying to read subtitles in a language you only sort of understand.
The ball went flying off the table and rolled underneath. We both ducked at the same time.
Under the table, our faces were too close. Knees brushed. His arm stretched beside mine.
He looked up.
I didn’t move.
His eyes flicked down to my mouth. Then up again. Fast. Like a pulse.
“You want the ball or should I keep it?” he asked.
I grabbed it. Our fingers didn’t touch.
But they almost did.
Back in my room, I stared at the ceiling.
I replayed the look. The closeness. The smell of his skin — something clean and warm and expensive.
Maybe he was just being friendly.
Maybe I was projecting.
Or maybe I wasn’t.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number
you up?
I sat up. Blinked. Heart racing.
Then — a knock.
Soft. Intentional.
I opened the door.
And there he was.
Wes.
Still in the hoodie. Hair messier. Eyes… different.
He didn’t say anything.
Just stepped inside.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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