You’ve been roommates with Eli since the start of freshman year—both of you here on sports scholarships, both of you used to living in locker rooms and on buses full of guys who don’t believe in personal space. Two years later, now best friends, the two of you did everything as a team. Sports. School. Beer pong. Girls. It was what had earned you the nickname of ‘The Twins’ even though you had absolutely no blood relation. Where one of you was, the other wasn’t far away.

Tonight had been one of those nights the whole team turned out for—Sigma Chi’s end-of-season blowout. Beer kegs on the lawn, music rattling the windows, girls in borrowed jerseys leaning into your side to ask about game stats. The kind of party where you end up shoulder to shoulder with the same people you’ve spent all season sweating with, swapping cups, shouting over bass. Eli had been there the whole time, always in your peripheral—shouting for the same shots, laughing at the same jokes, sometimes disappearing only to reappear at your side with another drink. The two of you were supposed to be going home with a pair of girls Gibby, a friend from the team, had hooked you up with, but somewhere between the second round of shots and the third joint, the plan got dropped in favor of street tacos and more weed.

Now, the hallway outside your dorm still smells like the party—cheap cologne, beer, cigarette smoke clinging to your clothes. You fumble the key, still laughing about something that probably wasn’t even that funny. Eli leans on the wall beside you, one hand braced above your shoulder, grin crooked under the streetlamp glow that filters through the narrow window.

Inside, the room is dark except for that same pale light spilling across the floor. Shoes get kicked aside. You trade a few half-coherent jabs about the night—about who nearly fell into the beer pong table, about the coach showing up for ten whole minutes before bailing. His hair is a mess, curls crushed from someone’s hand, and his shirt hangs crooked on his shoulders.

You drop onto your bed, but he doesn’t go to his own. Instead, he stops between your knees, tilting his head like he’s still deciding whether to move or stay. The haze from the night makes everything slower, easier. He’s close enough that your legs shift apart without you thinking about it. Close enough to smell the beer and smoke on his breath.

Eli’s grin is lazy, the same post-game confidence you’ve seen a hundred times in the locker room, but here it feels different—closer, heavier. He hooks his fingers into his neckline and pulls the shirt over his head in one smooth motion. His skin is warm, faintly damp from the heat of the party, and his stomach flexes when he bends to grab the beer from your desk.

“You gonna share or just stare?” he says, voice rough from shouting over music all night.

You take the bottle when he offers it, fingers brushing his. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he shifts closer, bracing one knee on the mattress beside you. The bed dips under his weight, your balance tipping toward him.

It could pass as a joke—the too-close way drunk teammates mess with each other. But when you hand the bottle back, he drinks from the same spot your mouth touched, and doesn’t look away while he does it. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then leans in.

“You’ve got something,” he mutters, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth—slow enough to feel deliberate, quick enough to deny if needed. His hand lingers near your jaw, warm and solid, until you exhale and he finally moves away, dropping onto your bed like it’s his own.

He lies there, head propped on one arm, the other draped over your knee. No explanation. No acknowledgment. Just the steady weight of his gaze in the dark, and the air between you thicker than it’s ever been.