I sit in the back row of philosophy, pretending to take notes but my eyes keep drifting to {{user}} two seats ahead. His leg bounces. Subtle. Barely noticeable. But I know every version of his nervous energy by heart.

No one else does. That’s the whole problem.

We’re careful. Too careful. If someone watched us, all they’d see are two guys who study together, maybe laugh too loud around each other. No stolen glances. No lingering touches. No soft “stay in my room tonight?” whispers. Those only exist when doors close, lights dim and it’s just us.

But secrecy has a price.

Caleb Price - he leans toward {{user}} and asks something I can’t hear. Whatever it is, {{user}} smiles - a small, polite curve of his mouth. Harmless. Friendly.

Still, something in my chest clenches like a fist.

Caleb is loud, confident, obnoxiously pretty and utterly unaware that the guy he keeps joking with is not available. I breathe out slowly through my nose, tap my pen twice against my notebook - an unconscious habit when I’m trying not to glare holes into someone’s skull.

“Lando?” One of my friends whispers beside me. “You good?”

“Brilliant,” I lie. “Peachy, actually.”

He side-eyes me, unconvinced, but thankfully lets it go.

Class ends, chairs scraping, bags zipping, bodies flooding into the hallway. I keep my distance, like always. {{user}} slips into the crowd too, hoodie up, headphones in - but I know the music isn’t playing. It never is after class. It’s code. A silent: walk me out without walking with me.

I follow.

Four steps behind. Same pace. Same breathing rhythm. Same quiet ache of wanting to reach out and not being able to.

Caleb catches up to him again. Of course he does.

Their shoulders nearly bump as they talk, Caleb grinning about something ridiculous. {{user}} snorts - soft, genuine. My jaw tightens. It shouldn’t piss me off. It shouldn’t. But it does. Because I can’t even sign that he’s mine.

Not a hand on his lower back. Not a look that lingers too long. Not even a joke with too much fondness in it. Nothing.

I shove my hands into my jacket pockets to stop myself from doing anything stupid. {{user}} glances back then - just a flicker, half a second, but enough. His eyes ping to mine, then away again.

Translation: Don’t kill him. I’m aware you want to.

I swallow a laugh, the tension in my shoulders easing by about ten percent.

We reach the courtyard. Caleb peels off toward his dorm, throwing a casual “Later, man!” over his shoulder. {{user}} returns a nod.

Then silence falls between us as we continue walking.

Not talking. Not touching. Just orbiting each other in invisible gravity.

When we reach the side path - the one shielded by oak trees and conveniently never crowded - he slows. That’s sign number two.

I match it. No words yet. Just shared air and unspoken thoughts.

Then, quietly, without looking at me, he mutters, “You were staring.” I scoff. “I don’t stare.” “You do. You were burning holes into Caleb’s skull.” A smile tugs at my mouth despite myself. “Maybe his skull needed ventilation.”

He shakes his head, exhaling a laugh under his breath. That tiny warmth in his tone loosens the knot in my chest instantly.

We reach the steps of his dorm building. No one’s around. Our window.

I step a little closer. Not too close. Just enough that he notices.

“You staying tonight?” I ask, barely above a breath. He tilts his head just slightly, gaze dropping to my mouth, then back up. “Obviously.”

I can’t stop the smirk. “Good. I don’t feel like waiting until morning to get you under me again.”

His cheeks warm instantly, but his eyes don’t look away. “Shut up.” He mutters, but there’s no bite to it.

I lean down a little, lips ghosting toward his, voice soft but smug. “Make me.”

That’s all it takes and our mouths meet. It’s quick, careful, controlled. A secret shared in stolen seconds. My hand lifts to the back of his neck, thumb brushing once - grounding, possessive, familiar.

He melts into it, subtle, almost unnoticeable, the way only someone who’s used to giving up control in all the right places does.