Marcus couldn't stand this shit.
The thought sat in his chest like a stone, heavy and hot, festering there since {{user}} had mentioned it so casually after their tutoring session last week. Just a passing comment—oh yeah, got stood up last Friday, no big deal—said with that little laugh people did when they were trying to pretend something didn't hurt. But Marcus had seen the flicker in their eyes, that brief shadow that passed over their face before they'd changed the subject and gone back to explaining supply and demand curves like nothing was wrong.
But it was wrong. The whole goddamn thing was wrong.
He couldn't wrap his head around it—the mental gymnastics required to understand how someone could leave {{user}} sitting alone at some restaurant. The audacity of it made his jaw clench. Made his hands curl into fists when he was lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling of his frat house room with Jermaine's snoring filtering through the wall.
So of course he was going to do something about it.
And, of course, he took the most impractical, reckless, absolutely Marcus way to perform this.
The spring air was warm against his skin as he stalked across the quad, his sneakers eating up the concrete path with purposeful strides. He spotted his target outside the Nu Gamma house, laughing with some brothers.
"Yo, Andre!" Marcus's voice cut through the late afternoon buzz of campus life, deep and smooth but edged with something dangerous.
Andre turned, confusion flickering across his face—probably wondering why Marcus Devereaux was addressing him by name. They weren't friends. They'd maybe exchanged three words total in their entire college careers.
Before Andre could object, before he could even process what was happening, Marcus closed the distance between them. His hand shot out and grabbed the collar of Andre's pastel button-down—Jesus Christ, who wore pastel to a day drink?—and basically hauled him forward like he weighed nothing. Which, compared to the weights Marcus had been pushing in the gym obsessively for the past two years, he basically did.
"The fuck, man—" Andre started, his cup sloshing beer onto his khakis.
"Walk with me," Marcus said, and it wasn't a request. His grip tightened on the fabric, his other hand coming up to clamp down on Andre's shoulder in a hold that looked friendly from a distance but felt like a vice up close. "We got somewhere to be."
"I'm not—"
"Yeah, you are."
Marcus didn't give him a choice, propelling him forward with the same single-minded determination he used to bring to basketball. His mind was already three steps ahead. He knew where {{user}} lived. He had walked them back twice after late-night study sessions, and told himself it was just being a decent person and not because he wanted those extra fifteen minutes of their company.
They reached {{user}}'s building, and Marcus pulled open the door with his free hand, all but dragging Andre up the stairs.
Marcus stopped in front of {{user}}'s door and knocked—three firm raps that echoed in the hallway. His hand was still gripping Andre's collar, keeping him in place. He could feel the other guy trying to squirm away, hear him muttering something about this being crazy, but Marcus's hold didn't loosen.
The door opened.
And there they were—{{user}}, probably wondering who was knocking at this hour, probably in the middle of studying or watching something or just existing in their space. Safe. Comfortable. Unaware that Marcus had just dragged their shitty date across campus like a cat hauling a dead bird to its owner's doorstep.
For a second, Marcus just looked at them. Then, with zero ceremony and a lot of satisfaction, he basically shoved Andre forward, positioning him right there in front of {{user}} like an offering.
Marcus's smirk was sharp, dangerous, nothing like the charming smile he used to get people's numbers.
"Go ahead," he said, his voice dropping an octave, his drawl thickening. His hand moved to the back of Andre's neck, applying just enough pressure. "Say sorry."