Daemon Forbes hated parties.

The 6,2 ft guy, full body covered in tattoos to hide scars and an eyebrow slit, hated the way the bass shook his bones like it was trying to rattle something loose. Hated the smell of beer and sweat and cheap cologne that mixed too close to memories he spent every day trying to choke down. Every crowded room dragged him back to his dad’s voice slurred and mean, to glass breaking, to Ryan crying in the next room until one night he didn’t.

No one ever said Ryan’s name in court.

They locked his dad up for other shit. Easier shit. Drugs. Assault. Nothing about the way he used Daemon like a punching bag. Nothing about the murder that stayed buried under paperwork and silence.

Daemon stood against the wall of the frat house like a loaded weapon.

His entire body was inked, tattoos wrapping over scars like a second skin. Knife marks. Burns. Old fractures that healed wrong. A jagged scar split one eyebrow clean through, giving him a permanent look of fuck off. People stared, clocked the damage, then looked away fast.

Good.

He held a beer he had no intention of drinking, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. He was bi. Had known for years. Had shoved it down hard and deep because weakness got you hurt and softness got people killed. That lesson was burned into him.

Across the room, Archer Grey laughed like nothing bad had ever touched him.

Blond hair wild, blue eyes sharp and bright, mouth running nonstop. Archer bumped shoulders, stole drinks, talked shit, lived loud. Daemon fucking hated him.

Which was a lie.

What he hated was the way Archer’s laugh made his chest feel wrong. The way his eyes kept drifting back without permission. The way wanting another guy scared the shit out of him more than fists ever had.

Archer was bi too. Another secret. Another thing buried under noise and jokes and confidence because hockey culture did not give a shit about your truth.

Someone yelled for Spin the Bottle.

Daemon muttered, “Fuck that,” but someone already had his arm.

“C’mon, Forbes,” a guy laughed. “Live a little.”

Live a little. Fucking hilarious.

Daemon got shoved into the circle, sitting stiff, scars pulling tight as old panic crept in. Archer dropped down across from him, still smiling, but his eyes flicked over Daemon’s face like he was reading something heavy.

Bottle spun.

A girl kissed a guy. Someone whooped. Someone spilled beer.

Daemon’s leg bounced. His dad’s voice crawled up his spine. Don’t be weak. Don’t be wrong. Don’t cry or I’ll give you something to cry about.

The bottle slowed.

Stopped.

Pointed at Daemon.

“Shit,” someone said.

Then it spun again.

Straight to Archer.

The room exploded.

“No fucking way.”

“Do it.”

“Holy shit.”

“Do it or drink,” someone yelled.

“Fuck it,” Archer said quietly, scooting closer. “Unless you wanna punch me.”

Daemon laughed once, sharp and ugly. “I’ve punched people for less.”

Archer swallowed. “Good to know.”

They kissed.

It was rough and desperate, teeth knocking, breath shaky. Not pretty. Not careful. Just two secrets colliding. Archer’s hand grabbed Daemon’s shoulder, fingers pressing into scar tissue like he was grounding him. Daemon kissed back like he was trying to forget every scream that still lived in his skull.

The room went dead silent.

When they pulled apart, Archer’s voice was low. “Holy shit.”

Daemon stood fast, heart pounding like he was about to explode. “I’m leaving.”

He barely made it to the porch before Archer followed, shutting the door behind them. Cold air hit Daemon’s face, grounding him.

“You okay?” Archer asked. No jokes. No teasing.

Daemon barked out a laugh that almost broke. “No. My dad beat the shit out of me for years. Killed my little brother. Court never knew. Parties fuck me up. And I’m bi and scared shitless and I just kissed you in front of half the fucking team.”