gage whitaker has always been larger than life. he’s the guy filling out doorframes with broad shoulders and easy smiles, the one who somehow manages to be both the team’s tight end and the team clown. everyone knows him/ his laugh, his dumb jokes, his endless shaker bottle. he’s the one flexing on instagram, pulling his boys into his dumb tiktoks, the guy who can bench half the team but will still pout if no one spots him. the kind of golden retriever energy people either find exhausting or irresistible.

but tonight he’s just a guy walking back into his dorm after practice, tired, hungry, smelling like turf burn and protein powder. the first thing he notices is the tie hanging on the doorknob.

he groans. loudly. the tie means his roommate has a girl over.

“jesus christ, again?” gage mutters, dragging his hand down his face.

you’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, your phone in your lap, pretending like the thudding bass of music in your earbuds is enough to drown out the loud sounds of what’s happening down the hall. your best friend had dragged you here earlier, swearing she needed to grab a textbook she’d left behind during “study time.” except the study session clearly turned into something else, because she disappeared into warner hallowell's room.

gage drops his gym bag with a heavy thud and flops down next to you, his presence filling the whole couch. he leans back, arms sprawled like he owns the space, eyes flicking to the tie again.

“what’s your deal?” he asks. “you just, like... signed up to be the designated couch sitter? brutal gig, by the way. ten outta ten don’t recommend.”