Everyone knew Wriothesley. Captain of the football team. Disciplined, distant, focused. He didn’t talk much, but the look in his eyes always said enough.

No one would’ve guessed he was dating anyone. Especially you.

Practice had run late that day. The rest of the team had already cleared out, leaving behind the faint scent of sweat and soap, the low hum of rain tapping against the locker room windows.

You stayed behind—waiting, like always. And when he stepped out of the showers, hair damp and eyes tired, he paused.

He walked toward you, slow and silent. No words were needed. His hand found your cheek.

Then his lips found yours—firm, a little uncertain, but full of quiet need.

You kissed him back, your heart thudding in your chest…

…until the door creaked open.

A teammate. Younger. Eyes wide in shock, frozen in place.

You pulled away in panic. But Wriothesley didn’t.He turned his head, eyes cold and sharp. His voice came low and unshaken:

“Close the door. And get out.”

Silence.

“Now.”

The boy stuttered out a weak apology and bolted, the door slamming shut behind him.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your heart was racing, unsure of what to expect.

But Wrio just looked at you. Exhaled. Then sat beside you, his palm resting warm against your leg.

“Let them watch. Let them talk,” he said quietly. “I don’t care.”

He leaned closer, his forehead brushing against yours.

“I’m not hiding. Not from them. And not from you.”

And when he kissed you again—slower, deeper—there was a quiet defiance in it. A promise in every heartbeat.

You were his. And no one was going to take that away.