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I never thought I'd see him again. Not like this.
Move-in day was already chaos. Parents shouting directions in the hallway, someone's speaker blasting rap way too loud, boxes stacked everywhere like a maze. I was sweating through my T-shirt by the time I dragged my suitcase and the last box of books up three flights of stairs. My arms ached, my glasses kept sliding down my nose, and all I wanted was to collapse on my bed and pretend the rest of the world didn't exist.
I pushed open the door to room 312, and there he was.
Jake Harlan.
He was standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed over a faded gray tank top that stuck to his chest from the heat. His duffel bag was already unzipped on the bed by the window, the one with the better view and the bigger desk. When he looked up and saw me, his face did this quick thing: surprise, then something darker, then that same old smirk I'd spent years trying to forget.
"You've got to be kidding me," he said.
I froze in the doorway, suitcase still in my hand. My stomach dropped so fast I thought I might actually be sick.
"No way," I said, voice quieter than I wanted.
He laughed once, short and sharp. "They seriously put us in the same room?"
I swallowed hard. "I didn't pick this."
"Yeah, well, neither did I, princess."
The nickname landed like it always did, straight to the chest. My face burned. I set my suitcase down on the empty bed, the one closer to the door, the worse one, and kicked the door shut behind me.
"Don't call me that," I said.
He raised an eyebrow, like he was surprised I'd even talk back. "What, you gonna cry about it?"
I didn't answer. I just started unpacking, slow and careful, folding shirts into the tiny dresser drawer. He watched me the whole time, leaning against his desk with his arms still crossed. I could feel his eyes on me, on the way my shirt clung to my back from the sweat, on how my jeans fit a little snug because I'd bought them online and they ran small.
Jake and I had been in the same grade since kindergarten. Back then he was just the loud kid who always got picked first for teams. I was the quiet one who read during recess and never raised my hand. Things were fine until middle school. That's when he started noticing me in a way that wasn't friendly.
It started small. A shove in the hallway. A "fairy" whispered behind my back. By eighth grade he'd upgraded to "princess." He'd say it loud enough for everyone to hear whenever I walked past the lunch tables, or when I had to run laps in gym because I couldn't keep up. Once he and his friends cornered me in the locker room after track practice and asked if I needed help tying my shoes, princess. They laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. I just stood there, cheeks on fire, until they got bored and left.
High school made it worse. He was on the football team, the lacrosse team, the track team. He was popular, good-looking, and everyone loved him. I was just the skinny kid with the too-long hair who spent lunch in the library. He'd knock my books out of my arms in the hallway, then act like it was an accident. He'd "accidentally" spill Gatorade on my backpack right before finals week. Once he told the whole cafeteria I was gay before I even knew it myself. I'd spent years pretending it didn't bother me, pretending I didn't notice the way his eyes followed me sometimes, like he was trying to figure something out.
I thought college would be different. New city, new people, no one who knew me as "that guy Jake used to mess with." I picked this school because it was three hours away. I applied for a single room in the honors dorm, got waitlisted, and ended up here, in a double with some random freshman.
Except it wasn't random.
After a minute of silence he snorted. "Still skinny as ever, huh?"
I kept my head down. "Still an asshole, huh?"
He laughed again, quieter this time, almost surprised. "Guess some things don't change."
I finally looked up at him. He was closer now, standing right in front of his bed. Three feet away, maybe less. The room smelled like his cologne, woodsy and expensive, the kind you only notice when someone's too close. A bead of sweat had rolled down the side of his neck and disappeared under the collar of his tank. I hated how my pulse kicked up.
"Listen," he said, voice lower than before. "We don't have to like each other. Just don't be weird and we'll be fine."
"I'm not the one who's been a dick since middle school," I muttered.
He stepped closer. Just one step. Close enough I could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell a little faster than normal.
"You always did talk big when no one else was around," he said.
I didn't back up. I should've, but I didn't. "Maybe I just got tired of your shit."
His eyes flicked down to my mouth. Just for a second. Then back up. The air in the room felt thick, like someone had turned the heat up ten degrees.
He smirked, but it wasn't the same cocky one from high school. It was slower. Something else in it. "Careful, Caleb. You keep talking like that, I might think you're flirting."
My heart slammed against my ribs. I opened my mouth to snap something back, but the words wouldn't come.
He held my stare for another long beat, then turned away as if nothing had happened. Grabbed his phone and earbuds off the desk. "I'm hitting the gym. Don't touch my stuff."
He left without looking back.
I stood there for a full minute, breathing too hard, staring at the door he'd just walked through. My hands were shaking. I didn't know if I was pissed or something else entirely.
This was going to be a long fucking year.
---------------------------------------------------
A month in, and yeah, the room was still kinda tense, but we'd sorted out how to not kill each other. I'd dip out early for my lit class before he even woke up. He'd crank his gym playlist late while I had AirPods in, staring at my screen like it mattered. Showers? We alternated without saying shit about it. His meal-prep chicken and shakes took the top of the mini-fridge. My ramen cups and Monster cans stayed on the counter or my desk. "Trash is full," or "Your turn for the shower," that was about the extent of it. Five words a day, max.
It worked. Kinda. Except it didn't, because every time he'd squeeze past me to grab something from the closet, the space felt too small. Like the air got heavier, warmer off his lightly bronzed skin. I'd tell myself it was just leftover bullshit from back home, that same old grudge. But grudges don't hit like this. Don't make you hyper-aware of how his bicep flexes when he reaches up, or the low rumble of his voice on a phone call when he thinks you're asleep.
I'd notice him glancing over. While I read or typed notes, his eyes would drift my way, holding a second too long on my neck, my hands, before snapping back to his phone. Like he got busted. I never called him on it. But I noticed. Made me wonder if there was something else under all the crap he'd pulled over the years. Or if I was just seeing what I wanted.
I looked too, more than I cared to admit. He'd return from practice, hair damp, face flushed, tank top riding up. He'd bulked up since high school. Chest broader, arms solid from real weights, not just show. I'd try to ignore it, but my gaze would trace him anyway.
Thursday night, it got real obvious.
I was kicked back on my bed, feet up on the wall, doomscrolling TikTok. Bio notes for Friday's quiz sat open on my laptop, ignored. The door banged open, and Jake walked in, breathing heavy. Gym bag dropped by his desk, shoes kicked aside. He didn't look my way at first. He just grabbed his soaked tank and pulled it off in one motion.I straight-up stopped breathing.
Sweat gleamed under the desk lamp, skin flushed from exertion. His chest rose and fell steadily. A drop traced from his collarbone, down the center of his pecs, slow and deliberate. It hit the groove between his abs, splitting to follow the deep cuts where muscle met muscle. Shadowed valleys channeled it lower. Another bead curved along a ridge, spilling toward his waistband. His core was tight, defined. Then lower: a neat trail of dark hair under his navel, vanishing beneath the low-sagging black shorts. The sharp V of his hips framed it all.
My brain went offline. Picturing what was next, the thickness under there, heavy, maybe half-hard from the workout. How it'd feel thick in my hand, skin hot, that trail leading right to it. Veins popping when he got close. The way it'd twitch if I--
The room went dead silent. No more scrolling sounds. No playlist thumping from next door.
I snapped my eyes up, and fuck, he was locked on me. Staring dead-on, one brow cocked, corner of his mouth twitching up. Shirt still balled in his fist, arm flexed without trying. Chest still moving fast.
"Like what you see or what?" he said, voice gravelly from the workout, not pissed, more like he was testing.
Heat blasted up my neck. I jerked my phone up higher, like that'd hide shit. I muttered something about not looking and turned up the volume on the tiktok that was playing.
He lets out this low chuckle, shakes his head. "Right. Keep telling yourself that, man."
Rustle of him grabbing his towel and caddy from the shelf by my bed. He has to step right up close, knee bumps the edge of my mattress. Smell hits me: fresh sweat, salty, mixed with his deodorant that's fading now, that woodsy body spray underneath. His bare arm grazes my shin. Light, but enough. Skin on skin. My heart speeds up.
He lingers there a sec, looking down at me. I keep my eyes on my screen, thumb frozen mid-swipe.
"You're red as hell for 'nothing'," he mutters, almost under his breath. Sounds half like a joke, half like something else.
Then he's gone, door clicking shut on his way to the showers down the hall.
I let out the breath I was holding, drop my phone on my chest. Stare at the ceiling tiles, counting cracks. Heart still hammering. Dick half-interested in my sweats, which is the worst part.
Finals week had worn us both down to the bone. The semester was finally ending, and I'd been cramming every spare minute, turning the dorm into my personal study bunker. Notes scattered across the bed, laptop always open, a row of empty coffee mugs collecting on the windowsill like some kind of trophy collection. The library was fine in short bursts, but I could concentrate so much better in the room with the door closed and my headphones on.
That Tuesday night, Jake came back from the gym. His hair was still damp from the quick shower he'd taken downstairs, and he had on a loose shirt and basketball shorts. He paused just inside the door, took one look at me surrounded by o-chem practice sheets on the bed, and let the door click shut behind him.
"You're still here?"
I tugged my earbuds out and rubbed my eyes. "Yeah. This final on Friday is going to destroy me if I don't get these mechanisms down."
He nodded, but instead of heading to his side like usual, he crossed his arms and stayed near the middle of the room. "I get that. I really do. But you've basically lived here for the last two weeks. I haven't had the room to myself even once."
I shifted a little, papers rustling under me. My hoodie was slung over his desk chair, my charger cord snaked across the floor, and one of my half-empty water bottles had ended up on his nightstand again.
"I'm not trying to take over," I said. "I just focus better here."
"I know." His voice was low, but there was a frustrated edge to it that made me look up. "It's not about you being loud or anything. It's that I can't fully relax. I can't scroll on my phone without headphones, can't even jerk off without wondering if you're going to walk back in any minute."
He said it matter-of-factly, no smirk, no joke to soften it like usual.
Heat flooded my face so fast I felt it in my ears. I dropped my gaze to the page in my lap. Maybe I had been staying in a lot, but I had to ace these exams.
"You could have just asked for space," I muttered.
"I'm asking now." He took another step closer, stopping at the foot of my bed. "I need the room for a couple of hours. Go to the library or grab coffee or whatever. Just... give me some time alone."
The frustrated edge to his voice grew with every word, almost like I was being scolded. But the closer he got, the more defiant I wanted to be. Something about making him flustered like this got me excited. The excitement traveled down to stir my dick away, so rushed to cover my lap with a textbook. He was close enough that I could smell the clean soap on his skin. My pulse picked up in a way I didn't want to look too much into.
"So you're telling me to get out."
"I'm asking you to leave for a bit. Yeah." His eyes stayed locked on mine, steady, almost challenging. "Is that going to be a problem?"
I held his stare for a few seconds, daring myself to say something else. Then I started gathering my papers, stacking them roughly before shoving everything into my backpack. I closed my laptop harder than necessary, grabbed my jacket, and stood up.
"Fine. You want the room, it's yours."
He didn't say anything as I zipped my bag and slung it over my shoulder. I brushed past him on the way to the door, close enough that my arm grazed his. He still didn't move out of the way.
At the door, I paused just long enough to glance back. "Enjoy yourself."
I pulled the door shut behind me and headed down the hall.
The cold night air hit me as soon as I stepped outside, sharp enough to sting my lungs. The wind whipped across the empty quad while I walked fast toward the library, trying to shake off the heat still lingering in my cheeks. My hair kept falling into my eyes, those soft brown waves that never stayed put, no matter how many times I pushed them back. The orange glow from the path lamps caught the light scatter of freckles across my nose and cheeks. My jacket hung a little loose over my narrow shoulders; I hadn't put on any real weight since high school, still slim and slight in a way that made hoodies look oversized.
I made it all the way to the wide stone steps of the library, hand already reaching for the heavy door, when I realized what I'd forgotten.
The charger. Still plugged into the wall next to my bed.
My laptop battery was sitting at barely twenty percent, and every single note, diagram, and practice quiz was on there.
I stopped dead on the steps, breath fogging in front of me, then turned and started the walk back. Shit.
--------------------------------------------------------------
I turned around on those library steps, the cold sinking deeper into my bones as I retraced my path back across the quad. The wind had picked up, rattling the bare branches overhead, and my mind raced to catch up with my feet. Maybe Jake was just crashing hard after the gym, needing a real nap without me rustling papers or tapping keys. That made sense, alone time to pass out for once. Finals had everyone wrecked. I could grab the charger quietly, slip back out before he even stirred. No big deal.
The dorm lobby was empty when I pushed through the outer doors, just the faint buzz of vending machines and some guy's music thumping from down the hall. I took the stairs two at a time to our floor, and the hallway lights dimmed low for the night shift. Room 312's door loomed at the end, a thin strip of light leaking from under it. No, wait, that was gone now. Pitch black. Good. He was out cold.
I fished my key from my pocket, turned it slowly in the lock, barely a whisper of metal. The knob rotated smoothly under my palm, and I eased the door open just wide enough to slip my backpack through sideways. The hinges didn't creak for once, thank god, and I stepped inside, pulling it shut behind me with the softest click, latching it as silently as I could.
The room was laid out simple, tight like every other double on the floor. Door opened right into the narrow space between our beds: mine on the left, closer to the entrance, and the closet crammed full of jackets and shoes; his on the right by the window, with the better view of the quad and that one outlet that never tripped the breaker. Desks backed up against the far wall, mine neat with books stacked, his cluttered with protein tubs and a lacrosse stick leaning crooked. Mini-fridge whirred low in the corner between the desks, window cracked an inch for air, even in the cold. Overhead light off, fairy lights unplugged, total dark except...
My eyes adjusted slowly, pupils widening to pull in what little streetlight filtered through the blinds. There, from Jake's bed: a soft white-blue glow pulsing faintly, spilling over the rumpled sheets and across the carpet toward my feet.
Then I heard it. A slick, wet sound. Rhythmic. Like skin sliding over skin, deliberate strokes with a faint schlick every time his fist twisted at the head. Low, breathy moans rolled out from him, muffled against the pillow his face was half-buried in, but clear enough in the quiet room. "Fuck... yeah... take it," he groaned, voice wrecked and rough, deeper than I'd ever heard it. Another wet glide, faster now, his breath hitching into a whine that twisted my gut.
Jake was on his back, sheet pushed down to his thighs, head sunk into the pillow. His eyes were closed tight, brows drawn together, lips parted. Phone propped on his chest, angled toward his face so the screen lit him from below: sharp jaw, throat working with each breath, chest rising and falling fast. One arm was bent behind his head, bicep flexed; the other moved between his legs in long, steady strokes.
My breath caught. I should have backed out. But I froze, eyes dropping lower where the light hit gold. His dick hung thick in his grip, cut and heavy, at least seven inches easy, maybe thicker around than my wrist. The shaft gleamed slick from base to tip, veins thick and raised bulging along the length, two fat ones twisting up the underside like ropes, pulsing with his heartbeat. Head flared wide, angry purple-red and shiny, leaking clear precum in a steady drip that coated his thumb each time he dragged it over the slit. His fist couldn't close all the way around the girth, knuckles white as he stroked base to tip in long, firm strokes. Balls hung low and full below, trimmed dark hair framing them, sparse, shifting with each pump. The whole thing throbbed visibly, twitching up toward his abs on the upstroke, a fresh bead of pre welling at the tip and spilling over to lube the next glide, schlick, schlick, louder now as he chased it.
His moans built, ragged gasps turning to grunts. "Shit... so close... fuck that hole..." Hips bucked shallow into his hand, sheet slipping lower to bare one firm cheek, the trail of dark hair vanishing down his taint.
Then his head lifted off the pillow. Eyes snapped open. He twisted just enough, catching my shadow in the phone glow.
"Fuck!" Jake jolted upright, whole body jerking like he'd been shocked. His hand flew off his cock, dick slapping heavy against his abs, still rock-hard and glistening, bobbing once before he scrambled to cover it with the sheet. The phone tumbled down, hitting the floor with a thud and spinning screen side up.
Porn froze mid-frame under the cracked case: two guys, one bent over a bench in what looked like a locker room, the other behind him buried balls-deep, ass stretched wide around a thick shaft that matched Jake's vibe a little too close. Moans cut off abruptly from the speaker, leaving just our breathing, his shocked pants, and my stunned silence.
The boy who bullied me for years, calling me gay and every name under the sun, was just watching gay porn.
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