Just in time for the Tide’s Home Opener at Bryant-Denny, I hope you enjoy the continuation of Wyatt’s Junior year at Bama! As a writer, I love getting all your emails. I reply to everyone at [email protected]
Crimson Reserve
As we got to the third week of the semester, it was obvious Crawford wasn't Tate. Most of the juniors regretted voting for him, even if it was the slate. He'd promised efficiency, continuity, a steady hand. Instead, he gave the house petty grievances, passive-aggressive DMs, and a Consul's corner that felt less like a leadership hub and more like a bunker: hidden, paranoid, waiting for an attack that might never come.
At an IFC meeting that ran long, I was running on fumes even as an observer. Crawford spent most of it arguing about Greek Cup standings, his voice edging toward petulant. His tie was bright yellow, patterned with surfboards. It was the kind of tie you wore to a spring formal, not an IFC meeting. The other Consuls exchanged glances. No one said anything, but everyone was thinking it.
During an intermission, Grant found me by the breakout station.
"Tate left big shoes to fill; that one can’t even tie his own," he said, not quite looking at me.
My shoulders immediately tensed. "Excuse me?"
"Crawford. He's acting even more entitled than you did." Grant took a sip of his sweet tea and grimaced. "I didn't think that was possible."
"Are you trying to compliment me?"
"I'm trying to say that I miss Tate. And that's the saddest thing I've ever admitted at one of these things."
He walked away before I could respond. I stood there, ice cubes melting in my glass, wondering if I'd just witnessed something authentic or an attempt at gaslighting.
With Grant, it was always hard to tell, but it was obvious to the people on the IFC that Crawford was Sigma Chi’s Ray Perkins. Hand-picked successor by the legendary coach Bear Bryant, but doomed from the start. The only question was how long it would take people in Crawford’s camp to finally see it.
I didn't have to wait long for an answer.
The next week, the pledge bowling mixer at Lucky Strike ran til nearly 8 PM. Pins crashed, the shoes were fugly, and somehow no one lost a ball in the gutter more than three times in a row. By the time we piled back into the cars, everyone was hungry, but not for bowling alley food. The kind of hungry that demanded real pizza, eaten at hardwood tables, in a house that smelled like something other than tacos and sweaty rented shoes.
Owen, our Pro Consul, took charge. He was a senior, quiet, competent, the kind of guy who'd somehow avoided drama for four years, and most importantly, not in Crawford’s inner circle. "I'll order pizza," he said, sweeping his long black hair out of his eyes. "Someone grab the doors."
By the time the pizzas arrived, ten large boxes stacked on one of the dining room tables, the pledges were already circling. Some brothers filtered in, grabbing slices, finding seats. The dining room was loud with the sound of hungry young men, the kind of easy chaos that almost felt like family.
Crawford was already there. Sitting at the head of the table, trying to survey his domain. He hadn't taken a slice. Hadn't touched anything. Just sat there with his Mountain Dew, observing.
I should have clocked what he was up to sooner.
The pledges started to dig in. Arthur reached for a slice. So did a kid from Gadsden; I hadn't fully memorized the name of yet. The boxes opened and closed, the pizza dwindled, and the noise level rose.
Finn waited. He was still assessing. Learning the unspoken house rules before he moved. He'd told me once, weeks ago, at a pledge meeting, that his high school coach always said to map the green before you swing. Read the slope. See where the ball would go.
When Finn finally reached for a slice, when his hand was inches from the box, Crawford sprang to life.
He didn't so much as stand or raise his voice. Just reached out, methodical and calculated, pulled the box back, and shut the lid, just out of Finn’s reach.
The dining room didn't go silent all at once. It was a wave. The brothers nearest Crawford stopped talking first. Then the next group. Then the pledges. Until the only sound was the hum of the water dispenser and the faint squeak of Crawford's chair as he leaned back.
"Mr. AGA Scholarship," Crawford said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "You must be starving after all those spares."
Finn's hand was still in the air, empty. He didn't pull it back, didn't lower it. Just... froze out of pure unadulterated shock.
"Huntsville boys eat last," Crawford continued. "Something about the water up there. Makes 'em think they can take what they want when they want. But we teach that out of 'em here in Tuscaloosa."
“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked as I stepped beside Finn.
"Oh, look. The Magister found his spine!" Crawford said the title mockingly as he crossed his arms in his chair.
“He’s a pledge; he eats when they all eat,” I answered firmly.
Crawford stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor. The sound cut through the room like a well-aimed 7-10 split.
"My office," he said, his voice low and shaking. "Now, Briggs”
He didn't wait for a response. Just left his can of Mountain Dew, whirled back around, and stomped toward the Consul's corner, his footsteps heavy on the polished hardwood.
I looked back at Elliot. He was already moving with me.
"I didn't say you, Withers," Crawford called over his shoulder.
"You’ve got to deal with the Annotator too," Elliot said in a vengeful tone that shocked me. "Consider it a two-for-one offer."
Crawford didn't answer or look back; he just kept walking out of the dining room.
The Consul's Corner was the way Tate left it. Dark wood. Fancy incandescent lighting. Composite photos of past Consuls on the wall, Tate's among them, smirking down like a ghost who refused to leave.
Crawford was already sitting behind the desk, the big chair, the one that made him look like he was holding court.
He didn't offer me a seat, and I didn't lower myself to his level.
Elliot streamed in after me and slammed the door behind him, arms crossed, waiting on my next move.
"You embarrassed me out there," Crawford snapped. "In front of the pledges. In front of the whole damn house."
"I protected a pledge," I said. "From you. That's my job."
"Your job is to run pledge education. Not to undermine my authority."
"Your authority doesn't include hazing."
Crawford leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "You think you're better than me? Because your daddy's name is on a plaque and on a billboard?"
I didn't even blink, or let myself retreat.
"I know better," I said, starting to circle the desk, "because it's my fucking job."
The words landed between us like a lob ball; Crawford's mouth opened, then closed. He wasn't used to being called out, especially not like that.
"The Magister protects pledges," I continued. "That's the oath I took. Not protect them unless the Consul gets in the way. Not protect them unless their zip code isn't fancy enough. Just... protect them. So that's what I'm doing."
"You're undermining my authority as Consul." He pointed. His finger trembled slightly, just enough for Elliot and me to notice.
My body was still tense as a PBA competitor on approach to their lane. "Your authority doesn't include hazing." If that undermines you, maybe you should put down that gavel and ask yourself why."
Crawford stood, braced his hands on the desk, and leaned toward us. His face was red,
His jaw was unmoving until he finally spoke again.
“You don’t know what I’m capable of. Tate might have wanted you as officers. But I can make your lives a living hell."
The room went quiet. I could feel Elliot behind me, unmoving as an untouched number 10 pin.
Then, without warning, Elliot spoke.
"No," Elliot said. His voice was calm, calmer than I'd ever heard it. "You won't."
Crawford's eyes beelined to him. "Excuse me, Annotator?"
"We have video footage," Elliot continued. "Your gray 4-Runner backing into my Tesla in the house parking lot. Then again, you bent over Tate's muffler, shoving a potato into the exhaust pipe last year. You were laughing." He paused. "Sentry mode catches everything."
Crawford's face drained.
"So go ahead," Elliot said. "Make our lives hell. But for every single thing you do, we'll make sure everyone knows exactly who you are. Not Tate's successor. Not a leader. Just a petty, insecure brat from Homewood who doesn’t deserve to sit in that chair."
Consul’s lips twitched. No words came out.
Finally, he turned around. “Whatever, get the hell out of my office. I’m tired of babysitting Tate’s projects.”
I stood there beside the desk, unmoving, and so did Elliot.
For a full five seconds, no one breathed. The only sound was the grandfather clock in the corner, a faint reminder that the rest of the house was still out there, still living, still waiting.
Then Elliot turned and walked to the door. I followed.
After he pulled it open, Owen was standing right at the door frame. He didn't look flustered or embarrassed, as if we'd just caught him eavesdropping. He was there, hands in his pockets, like he'd been waiting for us to come out.
Owen met my eyes. "You did what you had to do."
It wasn't a question or an accusation. Just a statement of fact.
I nodded and closed the door behind me.
Owen nodded back. Then he walked down the hall, disappearing around the corner.
A few feet down the hall in the other direction stood Finn.
He was wiping his hands with a napkin. He wasn’t in the shadows or peeking around a door. He was just in the middle of the hall, watching everything unfold.
The same way he'd witnessed Arthur get humiliated at the introductory pledge meeting. The same expression he had when Crawford pulled the pizza box away.
But this time, he wasn't just watching. He was expecting our reaction, too.
"You both heard all that?" I asked.
Finn didn't answer. Just looked at me with those sky-blue eyes, calculating, measuring the distance between where he stood and where everyone expected him to be.
"We heard enough," he said finally.
The silence stretched.
"You didn't have to do that," he said. "Stand up for me. In front of everyone."
"Yes, I did."
"Why?"
I looked at Elliot. He just nodded in agreement.
"Because I was a pledge in two different houses," I said. "And no one stood up for me. I don't want that for you."
Finn was still for a second. Then he slipped the oily napkin into his pocket. His shoulders relaxed, just slightly.
"The Crimson Reserve," he said. "Saturday. 7 AM."
I blinked. "What?"
"I'm going to show you what the water in Huntsville can make boys do." His voice was clear, but there was something underneath it, a challenge, maybe. Or a promise. "You want to see what I'm made of? Come watch me play."
It was an invitation. Another test.
Elliot's hand brushed mine. His lips didn’t move, just a touch. That grounding presence.
"I'll be there," I said.
Finn nodded once, then turned and walked down the hall back toward the dining room. His footsteps were quiet on the marble tile. None of us looked back at the closed door.
Elliot and I stood there, alone in the dim light.
"That was stupid," he said.
"Probably."
"Also necessary."
"I know, and everyone saw."
He took my hand. Squeezed and pressed in his warmth. "Saturday. 7 AM. The Crimson Reserve. You’re going?"
"You're not going to try to talk me out of it?"
He shook his head. "I trust you, and I have a virtual portfolio review that day at 10 AM Eastern."
Those three words. After everything, the RISD package, the silence, the desperate, hollow intimacy, he still trusted me to find my way back to him.
"I won't let you down," I said.
"You never have."
He let go of my hand and walked upstairs toward our room, I followed close behind.
Behind us, the door to Crawford's office stayed closed.
Saturday morning came too early and not early enough.
I woke before Elliot, the glow of my phone the only light in the room. He was still asleep, his breathing slow and even, his hand resting on my chest. I didn't want to move. Didn't want to break the spell.
But Finn was waiting. And I had made him a promise.
I slipped out of bed as carefully as I could. Elliot stirred but didn't wake. I pulled on pajama pants and a hoodie, then padded downstairs in slippers to the kitchen.
The house was quiet. The kind of quiet that only exists before the world wakes up, before the brothers stumble down for cereal, before the athletes head to Mal M. Moore for their workout, before Crawford's shadow fell over everything again.
I opened the cabinet where we kept the coffee.
It was full of K-Cups and Member's Mark Colombian Supremo, not our Prevail beans. No backup bag. Nothing.
I stood still, staring at the empty space beside the K-Cup stand, trying to remember if we'd finished the last of it. But we hadn't. I saw the bag there yesterday. I was sure of it.
"Looking for something?"
I whipped around. Samuel was standing in the doorway, already dressed in his house manager polo, a spray bottle in his hand. He looked tired, the kind of tired that came from years of cleaning up other people's messes till 2 AM.
"Our coffee," I said. "It was here yesterday."
Samuel didn't answer right away. He just walked to the cabinet, looked inside, and shook his head.
"Crawford," he said apologetically. "Came down here after dinner last night. Told me to throw it out. Said insubordinates don’t get to keep their personal food stash in the kitchen.”
I clenched my teeth. "But you didn't."
Samuel opened another cabinet, reached behind something under the sink, and pulled out the bag of Prevail beans. He set it on the counter between us.
"I'm the house manager," he said. "I manage the house. Not his tantrums."
He walked out before I could respond.
I stood there for a while, staring at the bag. Then I made the coffee with Sweet ‘N Lo, the way Elliot took it, and carried the bag with two mugs back upstairs.
Elliot was awake when I came in. Sitting up against the headboard, watching the door.
"You're getting ready to go?" he said.
"If you still trust me."
He looked at the mugs. At the coffee, then at me.
"Crawford tried to have it thrown out," I said matter-of-factly. "Samuel saved it."
Elliot took the mug. Held it in both hands, letting the warmth seep into his palms.
“Are you going to wish me luck today?” He asked.
“Of course,” I smiled, brushing back his curls and kissing him on the forehead. “You’re going to use that one with the geese having a tailgate party, right?”
“I might,” Elliot laughed. You know that one was inspired by your family, right?”
“Oh, and you didn’t ask me first?”
“Didn’t think I needed to.” He shrugged.
“I’m joking; I knew exactly what it was. I sent Macy a picture, and she wants a print one day for her office. But what about me? I haven’t touched a golf club in two years.”
“You’ll get back into it. Just don’t bring home a used pair of white Nike Pros, or you’ll be sleeping on Samuel’s couch tonight.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said, finishing my coffee and setting the mug on my desk.
I pulled open the closet and thumbed for the same pale blue Callaway polo I'd worn freshman year. It still fit, somehow, even if I didn't suit the boy whose mom bought it for him anymore. Khaki shorts. White sneakers that had never seen a fraternity house basement. The uniform of someone trying to look like he belonged on a golf course at dawn.
Elliot watched me dress in silence. Then he got up, reached over to his desk, picked up the Tesla's key card, and tossed it to me.
I caught it. The plastic was cool and smooth in my palm.
"Don't scratch it," he said.
I slipped the card into my pocket, then paused at the door. We didn’t kiss again. I didn't want to make this into something it wasn't, at least not yet. I just nodded, walked out, and closed the door behind me.
The drive to the Crimson Reserve was short, less than ten minutes, most of it along Jack Warner Parkway, the Black Warrior River dark and still on my left. The sun wasn't up yet, but the sky was starting to lighten, shades of gray and pale orange bleeding over the horizon.
The clubhouse appeared around a bend: brick and stone, low-slung, built into the landscape as if it had survived the Union burning of 1865. This was why Finn wanted to play at Alabama.
The back of the building was modeled after the Gorgas Library, the brick reclaimed from Bryce Hospital, the old mental institution. Something was haunting about that. Something fitting.
It almost looked like Mountain Brook Club. Almost.
The main door to the clubhouse was propped open. I entered and saw the back-to-back national championships etched into the wall, the trophies from a decade I was still in elementary school.
Finn was waiting nearby in a lounge, sitting in a clean white armchair that looked straight out of a Flexform catalog. He was wearing gray golf shorts that rode just above his knee, and when he jiggled his legs, I caught a glimpse of white Nike Pro compression shorts underneath the hem, the logo familiar. His shirt was a checkered Nike Alabama Dri-fit golf polo, crimson and white, the ‘A’ logo stitched over his heart.
He didn't turn when I walked up. Just kept staring out the window at the fairway, the bunkers, the flagstick barely visible in the distance.
"You're early, Magister," he said.
"You're earlier."
He almost smiled. "I'm always early, so was the Lyft."
I stood beside him, following his gaze. The course stretched out before us, green and gold, the morning light just beginning to catch the dew on the Bermuda grass.
"It's beautiful," I said.
"It's a golf course…On our college campus," he replied. Then: “Is your dad on the donor list here, too?"
"I... don't remember.” I stumbled, caught off guard. “To be honest, I don't think he even pays attention to which campaign he's donating to or if he donated already."
We stood there for a while, not talking. Just watching one of the groundskeepers in a Gator move across the fairway.
Then Finn turned to me. His eyes were the same, sky-blue, watchful, calculating, but there was something else there, too. Something curious. “C’mon. Let’s get you some cleats and clubs and do this.”
The rental clubs were heavier than I remembered. Or maybe I was just weaker. Two years of fraternity life, of sitting in meetings, walking across campus, and even pickleball, hadn't kept me in shape for the simple act of swinging a club and carrying it in a bag.
Finn didn't comment on my first few swings. He didn't offer advice. Just watched, his blue eyes tracking the ball as it sliced right, then left, then, once, straight.
"You're thinking too much," he said finally.
"I'm always thinking too much."
He grinned. "That's your problem. Golf isn't about thinking. It's about feeling."
We walked in silence to the second hole. The sun was up now, starting to burn off the morning dew. The course stretched out before us, the bunker’s white sand, the flags barely moving in the still air.
I hit a better shot on the second. Not good, but better.
"Progress," Finn said.
"Progress," I agreed.
By the third hole, we'd fallen into a rhythm. Walk. Pause. Swing. Walk. The silence between shots was comfortable, easy, the kind of silence between two people who already respected each other.
Then Finn stopped.
We were standing in the middle of the fairway, the green still a hundred yards out. He was looking at me, not at the ball, not at the flag, at me.
"Magister," he said. "Can I ask you something?"
I tensed. "Sure, but you can call me Wyatt, too."
"You don't have to answer if you don't want to." He paused. "Was what they said about you in the news true?"
The world didn't stop. The birds kept chirping. The groundskeeper's vehicle hummed in the distance. But everything else went quiet.
My mind flashed back to the screenshot in the Crimson White. The statewide headlines. The scandal. The way my name had been splashed across the page like a warning to every other legacy kid who might think about stepping out of line.
"Which part?" I said finally.
Finn didn't push. Just waited for me to explain.
"The part about the donor pass," I said. "The part about the athletes. The part about..." I trailed off. "Yeah. Most of it was true."
Finn nodded slowly. He didn't look away from me out of disgust.
"Why are you asking?" I said.
"Because I wanted to hear it from you. Not from the Sophomores." He picked up his ball, tossed it in his hand, and set it back down.
“Are you still like that?” He asked again.
"I'd like to think I'm not," I said. "I went to therapy. Don't have the skybox anymore. And I swore I would protect any pledge. Athlete or not."
Finn held my gaze for a moment. Then he nodded.
We walked to the fourth hole in silence. Not the polite silence of before, the comfortable kind, the kind that comes after something important has been said and doesn't need to be resurrected again.
Finn hit first. A clean shot, straight down the fairway, the ball landing just short of the bunker.
"Show-off," I said.
He almost smiled. "Practice."
I stepped up to my ball. Swung. The ball sliced right, disappearing into the rough.
"Also practice," I said.
Finn snorted. Actual laughter, not just the almost-smile. "Sure."
We found my ball, and I hacked it out of the rough. Then we walked together.
By the fifth hole, the sun was even higher, the shadows shorter. Gameday Tuscaloosa was waking up, a few other players in the distance, a groundskeeper raking a bunker, the world moving on.
Finn was silent as we walked. Not uncomfortable. Just... contemplating.
Then he stopped again.
"Can I ask you another thing?" he said.
"You're going to anyway."
He almost smiled, then it faded.
"You and Elliot," he said. "Are you two really... together? Like, boyfriends?"
I wasn’t embarrassed at all about telling him. "Yeah. We are."
Finn nodded slowly. He didn't look shocked. Just... curious. "And the brothers? They don't care?"
"Some of them would," I said. "If we made a thing of it. So we don't. It's an unspoken thing. Everyone knows. No one talks about it."
"That's not the same as being okay with it."
"No," I agreed. "It's not. But it's how we survive."
He fumbled with a tee from his pocket and jiggled his leg. The same gesture as before. A nervous habit.
"How did you even..." He trailed off. "I mean, living in the Sigma Chi house, with that guy they call Tate. I've heard stories."
Even the pledge class had heard of Tate. The way he'd owned us. The way he'd called us his projects. The way he'd used our relationship as a leash and a shield.
"We were under Tate's protection," I elaborated. "He made it clear we were off-limits. Not because he cared about us, but because we were his. You don't touch the Consul's projects."
Finn's brow furrowed. "That sounds..."
"It was," I said. "But it also meant we survived pledging."
He was still for a moment, processing. Then he put down his tee and adjusted it.
"I was teased," he said, not looking at me. "In high school. For playing golf."
I let him finish.
"Not a real sport, they said. Not manly enough. Football players. Wrestlers. Guys who hit each other. They didn't understand that golf takes more focus than any of their sports. That you can't just muscle your way through eighteen holes."
He picked up his ball again. Tossed it and set it down.
"You learn to ignore it," he said. "Or you quit. I didn't quit."
We played the sixth hole in silence. Then the seventh. The sun was nearing its apex now, the morning cool burning off, replaced by the kind of heat that promised a long Alabama afternoon.
Finn's swing was still smooth, still practiced. Mine was... improving. Slowly.
By the eighth hole, something shifted.
Not in my swing. In my head.
We were standing on the tee box, looking out at the fairway, the green in the distance, the bunkers glowing white in the daylight. Finn was lining up his shot, his feet shifting, his hands adjusting on the club.
I watched him. Not the way I'd watched athletes before; the hunger, the curiosity, the pull of the familiar swoosh. I watched him the way a Magister watches a pledge. The way a survivor watches someone who reminds him of who he used to be.
The way a protector watches something he needs to keep safe.
And then I understood.
I hadn't been fixated on Finn because of his spandex, because he was a D1 athlete, or because of some leftover hunger from freshman year.
I was fixated because he was me. Two years ago. Before the scandal. Before Tate. Before I learned the intricacies and costs of the Machine.
He was the person I could have been if someone had stood up for me. And I wanted to be that person for him.
But standing up for him didn't mean what I'd thought it meant. It didn't mean wanting him. It didn't mean watching him. It meant protecting him, and then letting him go. Letting him become his own person. Letting him find his own way.
The same way Elliot had done for me.
Elliot was the one who'd seen me when I didn't want to be seen. He was the one who'd stayed. I had been so afraid of losing him that I'd almost forgotten how much more it means to just hold on.
At the end of the morning, Finn shot par. I stopped counting after the sixth.
We walked back to the clubhouse, returned the rental clubs, and stood in the parking lot, my hand feeling the small dent on the door Crawford had dinged.
"You hungry?" I asked.
Finn looked at me like every teenage boy does at exactly 6:28 PM in their mom’s kitchen. "Starving."
Another Broken Egg was busy, and the Riverwalk was just getting the day started, but we found a table on the back balcony, overlooking the Black Warrior River. The same river where I'd drowned the Samsung. The same river that had been there long before me and would be there long after.
We ordered. Coffee, black for me. Some kind of sweet latte for him. The food arrived: eggs, grits, bacon, and toast. Normal. Mundane. Perfect frat boy’s breakfast.
As we ate, I reminded myself how impossible this would have been if I were still in my father’s world. Driving around a scholarship athlete, then buying him food. With no donor pass around my neck, I didn’t care, nor would the NCAA bat an eye.
After brunch, I drove him back to Presidential Village. His dorm was a standard freshman high-rise, almost fitting that it was right across the street from Riverside.
He climbed out of the Tesla, then leaned back through the window.
"Thanks," he said. "For joining me for golf. For brunch. For... standing up for me."
"Anytime, Finn."
His almost-smile lit his face up again. Then he waved and walked up the path to his building.
I sat there for a second in the drive, watching the massive building envelop him. Then I put the Tesla in drive and headed back to the house.
The parking lot was now half-empty on a Saturday morning; most brothers were still asleep or already gone. I pulled into the lot, already thinking about the shower I needed, the nap I deserved, the way Elliot would look up from his desk when I walked in.
But after I pulled past the gate, I noticed something off.
Elliot's designated spot was taken.
A red F-150 with a 30A sticker on the tailgate sat where I should be parking the Tesla. Not Crawford's 4-Runner; he wouldn't be that obvious. But someone else’s vehicle was parked there, who was told to park there.
The Tesla's headlights washed over the truck for a moment. I idled there, motor running, staring at the violation of our space.
The audacity. The pettiness. The sheer fucking childishness of it.
Crawford couldn't touch us directly, not with the footage hanging over his head. So he did this and the coffee. Passive-aggressive. A reminder that he was still here, still Consul, still trying to assert control over things that didn't matter.
I pulled out my phone. Took a picture and sent it to Elliot.
His response came a moment later: Should I send Samuel to find out whose that is?
No, I typed. We’ll deal with it tomorrow.
I parked at the far end of the lot and walked to the house. As I climbed the stairs to our room, my legs heavy, my mind still half on Finn’s grin, half on Crawford’s antics. Some brothers were in the lounge watching College GameDay and didn’t even notice me come in.
I pushed open the door to our room and closed it behind me.
Elliot was at his desk, his back to me, his portfolio open. He was sliding sketches into plastic sleeves, methodical, careful: the same way he did everything. His laptop was closed. The RISD package was nowhere in sight.
But he was wearing my shorts.
The shiny green Lululemon. The ones I’d wiped him down with after the uninspired sex of that RISD standoff. They clung to him differently, looser in the waist, longer on his legs. But they were mine.
"Why are you wearing those?" I asked.
He didn't turn around. Just kept sliding sketches into sleeves.
"I wanted a piece of you during the interview," he said. "They wouldn't see what I was wearing under the desk anyway."
I stood in the doorway, watching him. The curve of his spine through his dress shirt. The way the shiny green fabric hugged his hips. The quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going.
"You're my only choice," I said.
He stopped moving.
"I've always known that," I said. "I just had to figure out what that meant."
Elliot turned then. His deep blue eyes searched my face, not for doubt, not for hesitation. Just for confirmation.
I crossed the room, then took his face in my hands and kissed him.
This wasn’t the desperate, hollow intimacy of the night after the RISD package or the frantic, compulsive energy of freshman year. It was something more mature. Something certain.
His hands found my chest, pushing my golf shirt up, over my head. I tugged at his tie, loosening it, pulling it free. His dress shirt followed, buttons slipping through buttonholes, revealing the pale skin beneath.
He unbuttoned my khaki shorts. I stepped out of them. Then he pulled me toward the bed.
I crawled over him, my knees bracketing his hips. His chest rose and fell beneath me, his breath uneven, his eyes half-closed. I reached down, my hand finding the familiar nylon of the green shorts.
I stroked his erection through the fabric. Slowly. Meticulously.
Elliot's back arched. A moan escaped his throat, loud, unguarded, the kind of sound he usually buried in a pillow.
"Shh," I cautioned, my mouth pressing into his nipple.
"Wy." he gasped. "I can't…."
His hips bucked into my hand. Another sound, louder this time. A breath that turned into a groan.
I glanced at the door. Still closed. But the walls in this house were thin.
"Someone's going to hear us," I said.
"Let them," he breathed.
I didn't let go. Didn't slow down. If anything, I sped up, my hand wrapped around him through the soft, sensual nylon, feeling every inch of him through the thin barrier.
Elliot's hips lifted off the bed, chasing the sensation, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. His head fell back against the pillow, his throat exposed, his lips parted.
He moaned again, even louder this time, and I thought I’d hear the door rattle.
Then, I felt him pulse through the shorts. Once, then again.
"Fuck," he gritted. "Fuckkkk….."
His body tensed, his hips bucking into my hand, and then he was coming, hot and sudden, the crotch of the green shorts darkening beneath my palm.
I kept stroking him through it, slow and steady, until his breathing started to even out, until his hips stopped trembling.
He lay there, chest heaving, eyes half-closed, his hand reaching up to cover his face.
"Jesus, Wyatt," he sighed, but he was already reaching into the nightstand to pull out a bottle of Swiss Navy Silicone, while I peeled the green shorts off him.
He tossed me the bottle. I caught it, my hands moving on their own, familiar with the weight of it, the slick feel of the pump. I kicked off my own underwear, the last barrier between us from seeing and feeling each other fully.
Elliot watched me, his eyes never looking away.
I lubed myself and he reached down, his fingers brushing mine, taking the bottle, slicking his own fingers.
"We can just…" I started.
"I want to feel you," he said. "I want you inside of me."
He lay back, pulling his knees up, and I lifted his legs, draping them over my shoulders. His skin was still vibrating, his thighs smooth against my chest.
I leaned forward, then pushed in slowly. The furnace of him, the tightness, the way he gasped, not from pain, but from the fullness of it.
"Ohhh, God," he rasped, his head falling back, his throat exposed.
I thrust forward, filling him. He moaned, loud, unguarded, the kind of sound that would have been stifled in our old bedroom further down the hall. Now he just let it out.
His hands found my hips, pulling me deeper. His deep blue eyes found mine.
We stayed like that for a moment, connected, still, watching each other. No words. No need.
Then I moved.
Unhurried at first. Then faster. Each thrust pushing him up closer to the headboard, his hands fisting the sheets, his moans growing louder.
I felt him clench around me, not a spasm, a rhythm. He was holding me, pulling me, wanting more.
"Wyatt, please…." he choked.
"I know."
I couldn't hold back anymore. I thrust deep, buried myself in him, and came, hot and sudden, filling him, my body shuddering over his.
He held me there, his naked legs still wrapped around me, his hands on my hips, keeping me inside.
"Don't move," he whispered.
I didn't.
We stayed like that for a few minutes: connected, still, our breathing slowly syncing. The furnace of him enveloping me, his chest rising and falling.
Then I pulled away, reaching for the discarded shorts to clean up, quick and quiet. The room had gone still again, the kind of stillness that only comes after a putt finally drops.
I didn’t get back up.
Instead, I shifted beside him, easing down onto my back and pulling him with me. Elliot followed without resistance, settling against my chest like it was instinct. His head found its place beneath my chin, his arm draped across my stomach, his leg tangled with mine.
For what felt like an eternity, neither of us spoke.
His breathing slowed first. Mine followed.
“I can still feel you,” he muttered, voice soft, almost distant.
I pressed my lips to his hair. “Yeah.”
We stayed like that, not moving, not needing to. The afternoon light stretched across the room, warm and quiet, catching on the edges of the desk, the bathroom door, the rumpled sheets beneath us. Somewhere downstairs, a door slammed. Someone laughed. The house kept going.
But up here, it didn’t touch us.
His fingers shifted slightly against my stomach, not searching, just… there. Present.
I let my eyes close.
For once, nothing felt like it was slipping away any time soon.
Eventually, we showered together in our private bath and got changed for the evening.
By the time we made it downstairs, the sun was lower, and the house had transformed. Game day was over, Alabama had won, of course, and the brothers were scattered between the basement, the dining room, and the lounge.
Some were still partying. We could hear them in the basement, the bass thumping, someone shouting over the music.
But a few of us were in the lounge, sprawled on the couches, watching TV, then eventually SNL. The cold open was some political sketch I wasn't really following. Someone barked out a laugh. Someone else shushed them.
Elliot was slouched against me, his head on my shoulder, his body heavy and warm. His breathing was slow, even; he was on the edge of sleep, his hand resting on my thigh, his fingers loosely curled.
I didn't move when I felt I needed to run to the washroom. Didn't want to wake him.
The show rolled on. A musical guest Caroline probably wouldn’t have even recognized. A sketch about something I couldn't follow. The brothers around us were half-watching, half-scrolling on their phones, the low hum of a late Saturday night settling over the house.
Then Owen appeared in the archway.
His long black hair was pulled back, his face expressionless. He stood there momentarily, watching Elliot asleep on my shoulder, watching the rest of the brothers absorbed in screens.
Then he nodded toward the hall.
“Briggs. Withers." His voice was low, meant only for us. "Need to see you both."
Elliot stirred when I scratched his head. He lifted his head and blinked.
"What's going on?" I asked.
Owen didn't answer. Just beckoned and walked down the hall.
Elliot and I exchanged a glance. Then we stood and followed.
He led us to the Formal Room, a library, really, with a white fireplace, built-in shelving, and the smell of old books. No one came in here except for alumni events and serious conversations. The fireplace hadn't been lit in years. The books on the shelves were bound in leather, their spines uncracked, touched only when Samuel did his weekly pass with a Swiffer.
Owen shut the glass-paneled door behind us.
The room was dim, the only light coming from a single lamp on an end table. The shadows stretched long across the floor.
"Crawford called a private meeting after the game," Owen said, leaning against the edge of a large sofa. "His inner circle. Or what's left of it."
He paused.
"No one was behind him anymore. Not even Quaestor or Tribune."
The implication hung in the air. I could feel Elliot beside me, still as stone.
"How do you know?" I asked. "How did you find out?"
Owen met my eyes. "Gibson told me."
I stiffened. "Grant?"
"We went to high school together," Owen said as if he were just revealing what he had for breakfast. "He's not a bad guy, Wyatt. He's just... Grant."
"Grant," I said again, remembering the venom that name once held on my lips.
“He doesn’t just wind of things in DKE. He has eyes and ears even on us, too, but not just for you anymore.”
Elliot scratched his shoulder. "What happens now?"
Owen pushed off the couch. "Tomorrow night, at the Chapter meeting. I'm putting forward a vote of confidence to remove him and temporarily install myself as Consul."
The immediate consequences of everything felt like a caddy dropping his bag after the 18th hole.
"Will it pass?" I asked.
Owen looked at me. "It already has. The votes are there. The Quaestor is done. He has zero support in the house." Then he paused. "Crawford will disappear after that.”
"What about his membership?" Elliot asked.
"He can't come back; even Tate can’t save him," Owen said. "Not even as Kustos."
The doorkeeper. The gatekeeper. The role he'd started in. Crawford couldn't even have that anymore.
"So what happens to Pro-Consul?" I asked. "Who takes over for you?"
Owen shrugged. "I haven’t thought that far ahead. I was hoping maybe you’d step up. It would only be natural if you wanted to be Consul in your Senior year."
I nodded slowly. Then it hit me. "What about Samuel?"
Owen blinked. "Samuel?"
"For Pro Consul," I said. "He knows the house better than anyone. He's been keeping it running while everyone else played politics. And he's got a spine; he defied Crawford to save our coffee."
Owen thought for a moment. His long black hair had fallen across his eyes again, and he didn't bother sweeping it away.
"I see it," he said finally. "But I wonder what the Alumni Board would think. Me, a Wasian Pre-Med as Consul, and Samuel, a fifth-year Ag student as Pro Consul."
I almost laughed. "Let them grumble. They didn't experience Crawford's incompetence firsthand."
Owen's lips twitched, almost a smile. "No. They didn't."
All of us stayed still. Someone shut one of the kitchen cabinets loudly next door. Elliot shifted beside me, his hand finding mine in the dim light.
"Can I ask you something?" I said, breaking the silence.
Owen raised an eyebrow.
"Why were you never Consul in the first place? Before Crawford. When Tate was picking his successor."
Owen didn't answer right away. He walked past us to the window, stared out at the empty concrete courtyard, the outdoor lights of the Rec fields glowing faintly in the distance.
"My dad's a neurosurgeon," he said finally. "He was born in Taiwan."
I didn't see where this was going at first. Then I did. White privilege. Elliot and I never had to think about any of this: about not fitting the mold, about instantly being seen as different, about how the name “Chen” looks on a donor plaque in Alabama.
"I don't fit the Mountain Brook legacy mold," Owen said. "Never have. Never will. Tate knew that. He chose someone who looked the part, even if he couldn't play it."
"You would have been much better," I said.
"Probably." Owen turned back to face us. "But better isn't always what gets chosen."
He walked to the door, then paused.
"Be at the meeting tomorrow night," he said. "Both of you. You’re the voices the brothers need to hear from the most."
Then he opened the door and was gone.
Elliot and I stood there in the dim light of the Formal Room, the weight of this weekend settling between us.
"He's right," Elliot said finally. "Better isn't always what gets chosen."
I took Elliot’s hand as we walked out of the room. “I know, but sometimes it is.”
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