"What the hell are you doing?"

Trent's voice came out sharper than he'd intended, fraying at the edges with something that might've been panic if he'd let himself acknowledge it. He'd finally managed to corner {{user}} somewhere away from all the prying eyes and all the people who knew him—tucked behind the performing arts building where nobody ever went unless they were sneaking a smoke or hiding from someone. Away from his teammates. Away from the social circles he'd spent years cultivating. Away from Ivan, that conniving son of a bitch who made tormenting Trent his favorite hobby.

{{user}} had been stressing him the hell out ever since he'd noticed Ivan hanging around them like the world's most annoying fruit fly—no, worse than that, like a shark that had smelled blood in the water and decided to circle. It had started small. Too small to justify the mounting dread Trent felt every time he saw them together. Invitations to places that Trent hung out with his friends, Ivan's arm slung around {{user}}'s shoulders in that possessive way of his. Then it was stories on Instagram showing up in Trent's feed like a taunt. {{user}} at the Regal theater. {{user}} at some off-campus party Trent had specifically avoided. {{user}} laughing at something Ivan said, looking comfortable in a way that made Trent's stomach turn.

Then the rumors started leaking. Whispers in the locker room, knowing looks from teammates.

He knew. He knew that dark-haired, hazel-eyed fox was up to something—knew it in his bones the same way he knew when a defense was about to blitz. Ivan was trying to torment him by using {{user}} as his pawn, dangling them like bait, making sure Trent saw every interaction, every touch, every smile. Making it impossible to ignore the past Trent had worked so hard to bury.

It was working.

It was working a little too goddamn well, actually, because here he was, doing exactly what he'd sworn he wouldn't do—acknowledging {{user}}'s existence, seeking them out, and breaking his own carefully constructed rules.

Now he had {{user}} trapped between himself and the brick wall, his hands pressed against the weathered surface on either side of them, close enough that he could see the flecks of color in their eyes, close enough to catch the scent of their shampoo. His jaw was tight, tension radiating through his shoulders, through the fingers that wanted to curl into fists but couldn't, not here, not now.

"You know he's bad news, right?" Trent said, his voice dropping lower, urgent and strained. He was leaning in without meaning to, invading their space the same way Ivan always did, but somehow it felt different when he did it. Desperate instead of calculated. "That man has a record. Actual arrests. Shit that his dad paid to make go away." It wasn't entirely true. Ivan had been detained a few times, questioned about things, but Richard Schumacher's money and lawyers had made sure nothing ever stuck. But it was close enough to true that Trent didn't feel guilty saying it.

"He's—" Trent's breath came out harsh, frustrated. His perfectly styled hair was falling slightly into his face, disrupted by the way he'd been running his hands through it all afternoon while working up the nerve to do this. "Jesus Christ, he's using you. You have to see that." His ocean eyes searched theirs, looking for understanding, for recognition, for something that would prove they weren't falling for Ivan's bullshit

"Whatever he's told you, whatever he's—" Trent swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "He doesn't actually care about you. He doesn't care about anyone except himself and whatever fucked-up game he's playing."

The hypocrisy of his words wasn't totally lost on him. After all, he was Trent. Trent, who'd pretended not to know {{user}} for months. Trent, who'd crossed streets to avoid them. Trent, who'd looked right through them like they were invisible. And now here he was, acting like he had any right to tell them who they should or shouldn't spend time with.

"Please," he whispered. "Just—stay away from him."