The locker room was buzzing—towels slung over shoulders, the thud of sneakers echoing off tile floors, and Evan Whitmore, shirt halfway off, speaking like he owned the world.

“Yeah, we're together,” he said, eyes narrowing with a teasing smile. “He just likes to keep it private. You know how he is—uptight, president-type.”

He said it so smoothly, like the lie had settled into his bones. Like it was a truth he told himself before bed. People laughed, rolled their eyes, but still...they looked. They wondered.

How could someone like {{user}}—controlled, untouchable, perfectly polished—have anything to do with someone like him?

It didn’t matter. Evan kept going. He painted a story in stolen whispers and locker room chuckles. Said he was the top, always grinning like he knew something they didn’t. But beneath the bravado, his heart beat like a guilty drum.

Because the truth was silent. {{user}} never even acknowledged him. Never said a word. And yet, Evan still chased the shadow of something that didn’t exist—clinging to a fantasy made of stolen glances and half-hearted rumors.

Maybe it was cowardice. Or maybe it was hope in disguise.