Charlie Grace was a pretty little thing—the kind of pretty that turned heads across crowded rooms and made people pause mid-sentence. He was one of those effortlessly beautiful boys with curly light brown hair that always looked artfully tousled, like he'd just rolled out of bed after the world's best sleep. The kind of curls that caught the light just right, that you wanted to run your fingers through. He'd caught Thomas' eye way back in freshman year during rush week, all wide-eyed innocence and devastating bone structure, and he'd been orbiting Thomas' world ever since—drifting in and out like the tide, never fully leaving but never quite staying either.

They'd never been anything serious. Thomas, after all, couldn't commit properly if his life depended on it. He couldn't cage himself into something as restrictive as exclusivity. But it had been an arrangement that worked—casual, comfortable, and mutually beneficial. The kind of thing that required no labels, explanations, or expectations beyond the immediate moment. Charlie understood the rules, accepted them, maybe even preferred them.

Except that arrangement was beginning to lose its appeal, growing stale around the edges like day-old bread. The more time Thomas found himself spending with {{user}}, the more Charlie felt like a habit he'd outgrown—familiar but increasingly unsatisfying, like returning to your hometown bar after you've discovered better places.

The fraternity house was alive with its usual Friday night chaos—music thumping through the walls, voices raised in laughter and competition, the sharp crack of ping pong balls hitting red cups. Thomas had been making his way through the crowd when Charlie had materialized at his elbow with that familiar look, the one that usually preceded an invitation Thomas would accept without much thought.

"We should go on a trip together sometime again," Charlie said, pressing closer in that way he had, all casual intimacy and practiced charm. His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path up and down the half-buttoned shirt Thomas wore, the touch meant to remind him of other nights, other touches. "I'm missing the beach. Remember Hilton Head?"

Thomas did remember the last time they had been out together—sunshine and expensive hotel rooms, cocktails by the pool, the cool breeze against his skin, and Charlie looking unfairly good in swimwear that probably cost more than it sensibly should have. Honestly, it should have been tempting. A month ago it would have been tempting.

Who would pass up the opportunity to be around one of the nicer looking boys on campus? It was like looking down at a free perfectly medium T-bone steak.

He manufactured a polite smile, the kind he'd perfected at countless dinner parties and networking events, and opened his mouth to offer some noncommittal response that would neither accept nor reject, would keep his options open the way he always did.

Then someone grabbed his shirt to drag him away from his companion.

Not gently, not tentatively—no—it was a firm handful of expensive cotton that pulled him decisively away from Charlie, redirecting his gravity toward a different orbit entirely. Thomas stumbled, his center of balance shifting, and for a split second his practiced composure faltered.

But the moment he registered who had grabbed him—the moment he turned and saw {{user}}—his expression transformed.

The polite smile melted into something genuine, something bright and unguarded that he rarely let show. A grin spread across his face, ear to ear, the kind of smile that made his blue eyes crinkle at the corners and revealed a dimple in his left cheek that most people never got to see.

"Sorry, doll, gotta go," he tossed over his shoulder to Charlie, barely looking back. The words were casual, almost dismissive, delivered with the kind of easy confidence that came from never having to worry about hurt feelings or consequences.

Thomas was exactly where he wanted to be.