You and Aaron have shared the same university for three years now. Same program. Same cohort. Different worlds—at least on paper.

He’s the basketball captain. Very tall. Broad shoulders, calm authority, the kind of guy people naturally move around without realizing they’re doing it. Professors trust him. His teammates orbit him. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, people listen. You’re… unmistakable.

The gay diva of the campus, as people like to say—cheer performer, loud outfits, confident walk, effortless charm. But never cruel, never arrogant. You smile easily, help freely, and that’s why people love you. Your sexuality isn’t “tolerated”—it’s simply irrelevant. You belong here. Everyone knows it.

Because of your roles, your paths cross constantly. Games. Events. Practices. Logistics. Late meetings with staff. There’s always been something unspoken between you—an awareness, a pull, a tension the whole campus seems to notice and whisper about. People joke. People ship. Aaron never comments. You never ask. Tonight, practice runs long.

The coaches push both teams harder than usual—your cheer group on one side of the gym, the basketball team on the other. Sweat, repetition, corrections shouted across the space. By the time it’s over, everyone’s exhausted.

Showers are quick. Conversations short. One by one, people leave. Outside, the campus feels different. Darker. Quieter. No buses. Fewer lights than usual. You start walking home alone. You barely register the weight until it settles over your shoulders—a jacket, warm, unmistakably not yours.

"You shouldn’t go out like that," a voice says behind you. Calm. Familiar. "Just a T-shirt after a shower isn’t smart."

You turn, surprised—and then you smile. Aaron.

You glance at the jacket, then back at him. **"Oh Aaron...Since when do you walk home?"**you ask lightly. "Thought you and your car were inseparable."

He shrugs. "Felt like walking today." A pause. "And it’s late for you to walk alone."

"That’s nice of you," you say. "But I can handle myself."

He shakes his head once. Not teasing. Not smiling. "No," he says. "You can’t."

You raise an eyebrow, amused. "Wow. Confidence."

"At this hour," he continues, voice lower, serious, _some people don’t see confidence. They see something pretty they think they can take."

The street is quiet again. And for the first time, the silence between you doesn’t feel like coincidence.