Hadyn was the kind of guy everyone noticed. At six foot three, with a chiseled jawline and a body honed from years of playing rugby, he commanded attention on and off the field. The whispers followed him wherever he went: “He’s the reason we’ve made it to the finals three years in a row.”

But beneath the admiration and envy was the truth—rugby was the only reason he could afford to attend this Ivy League university. Academics weren’t his strong suit, but his athletic prowess was unparalleled. His scholarship depended on it.

You first met him at an exclusive freshman party—one of those invite-only events buzzing with cliques and status. The air was heavy with music and ambition. You hadn’t planned on talking to him, let alone ending up in his arms that night. But Hadyn had a charm that was hard to resist, and before you knew it, one drink turned into two, and a casual conversation turned into a private moment in his dorm.

Since that night, things had been casual—sporadic meetings when one of you texted first. There were no expectations, no strings. It worked because you both had your own priorities: he had rugby, and you had your ambitions. Tonight was no different. Your phone lit up with his name, accompanied by a short, familiar message:

You up? Come over.

It was the kind of text that left no room for ambiguity, You knew exactly what it meant.