Author's Note: Heres the part 2 and this is a slow paced story.
Daniel Dela Vega – Fragments of a Backstory
Daniel wasn’t always the effortless charmer with the loft full of fairy lights and a contacts list longer than most people’s regrets. He grew up in a cramped terraced house in South London, the kind where the walls were thin enough to hear the neighbours’ arguments and the garden was mostly concrete. His mum was Filipino-Spanish, a nurse who worked nights at the hospital and brought home stories of lives saved and lost in equal measure. His dad was gone before Daniel turned five—off to chase some vague dream in Madrid that never materialised. “Better without him,” Mum always said, but Daniel saw the way her eyes lingered on old photos sometimes.
He was the pretty boy from day one. Big dark eyes, soft curls that fell just right, a smile that could disarm teachers and make classmates stumble over their words. Primary school was easy—friends flocked to him like moths to a porch light. But secondary? That’s where it got complicated.
He realised he was gay around Year 8, during PE when the football captain—broad-shouldered, cocky, with a laugh that boomed across the pitch—tackled him a little too hard and lingered a second too long in the pile-up. Daniel’s heart hammered not from the impact, but from the heat of that body pressed against his. He didn’t tell anyone. Not then.
Instead, he threw himself into everything: drama club (where he learned to flirt like it was a script), parties (sneaking out to house bashes in Year 10, kissing boys in dark corners who tasted like cheap cider), and eventually, the social whirl of sixth form. He became the guy who knew everyone—who could get you into the club with a wink, who hosted the best pre-drinks, who made you feel like the centre of the universe for five minutes. It was armour. If he was always the life of the party, no one would see the quiet moments when he scrolled through his phone alone, wondering why the hot jocks he crushed on always went back to their girlfriends.
University hit like a revelation. Manchester—far enough from London to reinvent himself. He studied marketing (because why not turn charm into a career?), joined every society that sounded fun: LGBTQ+ alliance, where he volunteered at pride events and hooked up with a string of guys who looked suspiciously like rugby players—tall, built, with that easy athletic grace. His first real heartbreak was in second year: Alex, the uni team’s fly-half, who fucked him senseless in the dorms but introduced him as “a mate” in public. Daniel smiled through it, threw bigger parties, fucked harder to forget.
By the time he graduated and moved back to London for a job in events planning, he’d perfected the art of discreet pursuit. No drama, no scenes—just that slow, simmering attention that made targets feel seen, wanted, without ever committing to the chase outright. It was safer that way. Less chance of getting burned.
And then he met Charlie at a café near the British Library—both reaching for the last almond croissant, laughing about it. Charlie was sharp, quiet, with those intense blue eyes and a boyfriend who showed up ten minutes later looking like every quarterback fantasy Daniel had ever had: Nick Nelson, all broad chest and warm smiles. Charlie became a friend fast—easy conversations about books, mental health, the mess of growing up queer. But Nick? Nick was the type that stuck in Daniel’s brain like a hook.
He didn’t plan to flirt. Not really. But at that party, with the tequila flowing and the lights low, it was impossible not to test the waters. Just a brush of fingers, a lingering look. Nothing that couldn’t be laughed off as friendly.
Daniel told himself it was harmless. But late that night, after everyone left and he was alone in his too-big bed, he thought about Nick’s arm around Charlie’s waist—the possession in it, the heat—and wondered if maybe, just maybe, he’d finally found a fire worth getting close to.
Even if it meant getting singed.
\------
The Cafe and the Scheme – Wednesday Afternoon
The cafe was one of those trendy spots near Russell Square—exposed brick walls lined with mismatched bookshelves, the air thick with the scent of fresh-ground coffee and buttery pastries. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, casting warm patches on the wooden tables. It was midweek, post-lecture slump time, and the place was half-full with students buried in laptops or murmuring over revision notes.
Charlie arrived first, sliding into a corner booth with his battered messenger bag. He’d texted the group chat earlier: \*Cafe? Need caffeine before I die.\* Responses had trickled in—thumbs up from Imogen, a string of coffee emojis from Sahar, and a quick \*On my way\* from Daniel. Nick was at rugby training, so it was just the uni crew today: Charlie, Daniel, Imogen (the bubbly fashion major with pink-streaked hair), Sahar (the no-nonsense politics student who could debate anyone into the ground), and maybe Otis if he dragged himself away from his engineering lab.
Daniel showed up ten minutes later, looking effortlessly put-together in slim black jeans, a fitted white tee that hugged his lean frame, and a leather jacket slung over one shoulder. He spotted Charlie and flashed that megawatt smile, weaving through the tables like he owned the place.
“Spring,” he said, dropping into the seat across from Charlie with a dramatic sigh. “You look like you’ve been wrestling essays all morning. Latte? My treat.”
Charlie chuckled, pushing his curls out of his eyes. “Yeah, thanks. Double shot. How’d your presentation go?”
Daniel waved a hand. “Nailed it. Professor ate it up. But enough about me—tell me about that lit seminar you’re in. Still crushing on Austen?”
They chatted easily as the others trickled in. Imogen burst through the door like a whirlwind, hugging everyone and spilling stories about her latest thrift find. Sahar arrived with her signature eye-roll, complaining about a group project gone wrong. Otis texted \*Running late, save me a flat white.\*
The conversation flowed—uni gossip, weekend plans, a heated debate over the best Netflix binge (Sahar voted for documentaries, Imogen for rom-coms, Daniel for thrillers with “hot leads”). Charlie relaxed into it, the knot in his chest from a tough therapy session earlier loosening with each laugh.
Then Imogen clapped her hands, eyes sparkling. “Okay, big news! Party tonight. My flatmate’s birthday—theme’s ‘Glitter and Guilty Pleasures.’ Open bar, DJ, the works. You lot are coming, no excuses.”
Sahar groaned but smiled. “As long as there’s decent music and not just Imogen’s playlist of 2000s pop.”
“Hey, Britney is timeless!” Imogen protested.
Daniel leaned back, arms crossed, that easy grin in place. “I’m in. Sounds chaotic. Charlie? You bringing the boyfriend?”
Charlie hesitated for half a second—parties still weren’t his favourite, but with Nick there, it was bearable. “Yeah, probably. I’ll text him.”
“Perfect,” Daniel said, voice smooth. His eyes lingered on Charlie’s phone as he pulled it out to message Nick. “Speaking of—hey, random, but I should grab Nick’s number. You know, for group chats or whatever. Last time at my place, we were talking rugby, and I’ve got tickets to a match next month. Thought he might want in.”
Charlie blinked, thumbs pausing over the screen. It was casual, logical even—Daniel was part of the friend group now, and Nick did love rugby. “Oh, sure. Here, I’ll send it to you.”
Daniel’s phone buzzed a second later. He glanced at the contact—\*Nick Nelson\*—and his lips curved into something sharper, more private. “Cheers, mate. I’ll hit him up.”
What Charlie didn’t see—what no one saw—was the calculation behind Daniel’s eyes. He’d been plotting this since the morning after his party. Waking up alone in his loft, scrolling through his camera roll from the night: blurry shots of the crowd, a selfie with Imogen and Sahar, and then—there, in the background—Nick laughing with Charlie, arm slung possessively around his waist. Daniel had zoomed in on Nick’s face, the broad smile, the way his shirt clung to his chest after a spilled drink. \*Quarterback type,\* he’d thought, heat pooling low in his gut. \*Broad, strong, the kind that pins you down and makes you beg.\*
He wasn’t evil—not in the cartoon villain sense. Daniel didn’t twirl moustaches or plot world domination. But he was strategic. Ruthless in pursuit. Growing up, he’d learned early that wanting something meant taking it, piece by careful piece. No one handed you the hot jock on a platter; you charmed your way in, found the cracks, slipped through them like smoke.
So he’d “accidentally” run into Imogen at the student union that morning, planted the idea of hyping her flatmate’s party in the group chat. \*Make sure Charlie comes,\* he’d said with a wink. \*And drag Nick along.\* Imogen, ever the social butterfly, had bitten hook, line, and sinker.
Now, with Nick’s number in his pocket, Daniel pulled up Instagram while the others debated party outfits. His profile was a curated masterpiece: shirtless gym selfies with sweat-glistened abs, beach shots in low-slung swim trunks that left little to the imagination, artsy black-and-whites of him lounging in bed with rumpled sheets and a come-hither stare. Interspersed with travel pics, party crowds, and motivational quotes to keep it “balanced.” But the thirsty ones? Those were for hooks like this.
He composed the text to Nick: \*Hey man, Daniel from the other night. Charlie gave me your digits—thought we could chat rugby sometime. Follow me on IG if you want: @daniel\_delavega. Got some match highlights up there.\* Send.
Innocent enough. But Daniel knew the game. Nick would tap the handle, scroll the feed, see the photos—the ones where Daniel arched his back just so, where the lighting hit the V of his hips, where he bit his lip in a mirror selfie with water droplets trailing down his chest like invitations. Subtle thirst traps, designed to linger in the mind.
Evil? Maybe. But Daniel saw it as fair play. Charlie had Nick locked down, sure—but locks could be picked. And Daniel was patient. He’d flirt in pixels first, let Nick’s curiosity do the work.
Back at the cafe, Otis finally arrived, out of breath, and the conversation shifted to party logistics. “Who’s bringing what? I can grab mixers,” Otis offered.
“I’ll handle playlist vetoes,” Sahar said dryly.
Daniel chimed in with suggestions, all charm and laughs, but his phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t check it—not yet. Let it simmer.
Charlie, oblivious, sipped his latte and texted Nick about the party. \*You in? Imogen’s throwing it. Daniel’s coming too.\*
Nick’s reply came quick: \*Sure, if you want. Pick you up at 8?\*
Charlie smiled, warmth blooming in his chest. But later, when they all parted ways—hugs and promises to meet at Imogen’s—Daniel lingered a beat longer with Charlie.
“See you tonight,” Daniel said, voice low, eyes flicking to Charlie’s lips for a split second before meeting his gaze. “And tell Nick I said hi.”
Charlie nodded, a faint prickle at the back of his neck he couldn’t quite place. “Will do.”
As Daniel walked away, he finally checked his phone. A new follower: @nicknelsonrugby. And a text: \*Hey, followed. Those match pics look sick—let’s grab a pint sometime?\*
Daniel’s smile was slow, predatory. \*Hook set.\*
\*\*The Party Redux – That Night\*\*
Imogen’s flat was smaller than Daniel’s loft but made up for it in sheer energy. Glitter bombed every surface—floors sparkled under fairy lights, walls draped in metallic streamers, a disco ball spinning lazy fractals across the ceiling. The music was a guilty-pleasures playlist: early 2000s hits blasting from speakers, people already dancing in the cramped living room. Bottles cluttered the kitchen counter—tequila, vodka, neon mixers that glowed under blacklights.
Charlie and Nick arrived fashionably late, hands intertwined. Charlie in a simple black jumper and jeans, Nick in a fitted henley that stretched across his broad chest, sleeves pushed up to show the flex of his forearms. Heads turned as they walked in—Nick’s presence always did that, like he carried his own gravity.
Imogen squealed and hugged them both. “You made it! Shots?”
They obliged, clinking glasses with the group. Sahar was already tipsy, debating politics with Otis in the corner. Daniel was holding court by the drinks table, mixing cocktails with flair, his shirt unbuttoned one extra notch to show a sliver of smooth, tanned skin.
He spotted Nick immediately. Eyes locked across the room—Daniel raised his glass in a silent toast, lips curving into that knowing smile.
Nick nodded back, polite, then turned to Charlie. “Dance?” he murmured, breath warm against Charlie’s ear.
Charlie grinned. “You hate dancing.”
“With you? Love it.”
They moved to the makeshift dance floor, bodies pressing close as the bass thumped. Nick’s hands settled on Charlie’s hips, pulling him flush. Charlie looped his arms around Nick’s neck, their foreheads touching, swaying more than dancing. The world narrowed to the heat between them, the way Nick’s thumbs slipped under Charlie’s jumper to trace bare skin.
Daniel watched from the sidelines, nursing his drink. He’d posted a story earlier— a quick gym mirror pic, captioned \*Pre-party pump\* with a wink emoji. Nick had viewed it within minutes. Now, seeing them together, that possessive grind of hips, Daniel felt the familiar twist: envy laced with hunger.
He waited for his moment. When Charlie excused himself to the bathroom, Daniel sidled up to Nick at the drinks table.
“Nelson,” he said, voice pitched low under the music. “Glad you came. How’s the drink?”
Nick turned, easy smile. “Strong. You mix like a pro.”
Daniel laughed, stepping closer—close enough that their arms brushed. “Events planning major. Comes with the territory.” He pulled out his phone casually. “Hey, saw you followed. Posted some more rugby stuff today—check it out if you want tips on that scrum technique we talked about.”
Nick pulled his own phone, obliging. Daniel leaned in, pointing at the screen—his chest brushing Nick’s shoulder, breath ghosting his ear. “See? That pivot—game-changer.”
Nick scrolled, nodding. But then the feed shifted to older posts: Daniel in swim trunks, water beading on his abs; Daniel shirtless post-run, sweat-slick and flushed; Daniel in bed, sheets low, eyes half-lidded at the camera.
Nick’s thumb paused. His cheeks pinked slightly under the lights.
Daniel didn’t miss it. “Old pics,” he said lightly, but his voice dropped. “Keeps the followers happy.”
Nick cleared his throat, locking his phone. “Yeah. Cool feed.”
Before Nick could pull away, Daniel’s hand grazed his arm—fingers trailing lightly over bicep. “We should hang sometime. Just us. Talk shop.”
Nick’s eyes flicked to the bathroom door. “Maybe. With Charlie, though.”
Daniel’s smile didn’t waver. “Of course.”
Charlie returned then, sliding back into Nick’s side. Daniel melted away gracefully, but not before shooting Nick a look that said \*Think about it.\*
Later, in a quieter moment on the balcony—cool night air cutting the party heat—Nick pulled Charlie close, kissing him deep and slow.
“What was that for?” Charlie murmured, breathless.
Nick’s hands tightened. “Just… you.”
But in the back of his mind, those IG photos lingered. And Daniel, across the room, raised his glass again—patient, plotting, the slow burn flickering higher.
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