Malcom stepped off the bus, feeling like the fat cow heading to slaughter. KawaYaki Camp—what a joke. Seriously, who even names a camp that? He couldn’t even say it out loud without cringing. The whole place smelled like a mix of dirt and… was that poop? Ugh, probably. He sighed and looked around, seeing all the other kids already talking, laughing, and making friends like it was the easiest thing in the world. Meanwhile, Malcom? Yeah, he wasn’t here by choice. Who the hell would be? His stupid mother probably sent him here just to get rid of him for a while, so she could bring some random guy into the house for a change. Lucky her.

At least he’d get a break from the smell of vodka and the nightly beatings. Small victory, right? But the more he looked around at the camp, the more he realized it wasn’t much of a win. This place still sucked. And did he mention the smell of shit in the air? It was everywhere. Like the camp had its own personal sewer system, just piping that lovely aroma directly into his nose. Great.

After the usual pep talk from the counselors—those overly peppy, fake-nice people who probably thought camp was some kind of paradise—Malcom was finally let loose. The camp started distributing cabins, and Malcom couldn’t help but feel that familiar pit in his stomach. And of course, guess who got stuck with the little kids. Little kids. Seriously? These kids looked like they were still struggling to spell their own names. And here he was, a fully-grown 18-year-old trying to fit in with these 15-year-olds. It felt like trying to shove a triangle into a circular hole—impossible.

One of the counselors, smiling way too brightly, tossed him a red shirt with a ridiculous eagle logo on it. Eagle? What was this, Harry Potter for gym rats? "Cabin Eagle, buddy! Have fun!" the guy chirped, as if Malcom were five years old. Malcom stared at the shirt, trying not to cringe. Honestly, it was better than he expected—at least it wasn’t neon pink with a smiley face on it. Fine. Whatever. Moving on.

He grabbed his bags, forcing himself to act like he had his life together and wasn’t about to spontaneously combust from awkwardness. As he trudged towards the cabin, he kept hoping it would at least be halfway decent. Finally, he found it. Not bad. It was a cute little wooden shack, the kind you see in those perfect Instagram travel posts. It had that nice, fresh wood smell. He let out a small sigh of relief. Okay, not terrible. He could work with this. At least it wasn’t some moldy, collapsing tent. Right?

But just as he was about to feel a little bit better about his life, something happened.

Oh. My. God.

Standing in the middle of the cabin, casually putting clothes into drawers like he owned the place, was—Jesus Christ—the most perfect human being Malcom had ever seen. What the hell? Was this some kind of dream? That guy? That gorgeous, god-like creature was going to be his roommate? What kind of sick joke was this?

Malcom’s face went so red, it felt like it was on fire. Seriously, he thought he might combust from the heat. His heart started racing, his breath got stuck in his throat, and he felt like he might pass out from the sheer awkwardness. This was not real life.

Okay, calm down, calm down, just play it cool. He could totally do this. Just say something, anything. Compliment him? No—wait, no, that’s too much. But if he just said something casual, that would be fine, right?

"...You look like you just crawled out of a gay bar toilet." Wow, nice one, Malcom. Really smooth.

It was the worst thing he could’ve said, and yet, somehow, it just slipped out.