The Bench under the Oak

by tolovelikelarry

Summary:

Anyone who’s ever had to move house knows how hard it is to leave the place you grew up in—the one that holds most of your memories. Harry knows this better than anyone. He’s forced to leave his beloved countryside home behind and move to a city where the air will never be as calm and fresh as it was in the green stretches of the British countryside. And now that he’s at uni, dealing with an unbearable roommate only makes things worse. The trouble is, that roommate doesn’t just have the bluest eyes Harry has ever seen—he’s also got the most infuriating personality Harry’s ever had to put up with.

Or, in other words:

The one where Louis gives Harry a hard time right from the start, and Harry suddenly finds himself thrown into a uni life of parties and drama he’d never been part of before. And all because of Louis’s boyfriend—who, as it turns out, the smooth-haired guy might not be all that into…

(POV: Harry, written in first person)

Notes:

Hello everyone! It’s my first time writing in first person, so I’m excited (and a bit nervous) to share—hope you like it! This story was written to share Harry’s point of view, with the idea of maybe discovering Louis’s one day…
Wishing you a lovely read, and feedback, kudos and comments would be very much appreciated. Hope you’ll enjoy this Larry universe :)

Chapter 1: To Miss Someone

 

                                                                     

 

 

The worst way to miss someone is, to be seated right next to them and know you’ll never really have them.

That’s how I felt from the very first minute in his company, even though Louis hadn’t said a word. He kept staring at the ground, elbows resting on his knees, a few strands of hair falling across his face so I could only see part of it. Instinctively, I almost reached out to brush his hair aside, just to see him better—like I used to do when we were lying on my bed, or his, moving it off his forehead so I could lose myself completely in his eyes. But I pulled my hand back just in time, before Louis could notice that pointless, clumsy gesture. His gaze stayed fixed in the distance, not even a glance, not even a simple hello for me.

I sat there beside him for what felt like ages, too wound up to enjoy the fresh air of that quiet spot—the same air we’d breathed the first time we’d sat on that bench under the oak. Back then it had felt like our bench, though by now it was hardly ours anymore. It was right there, in front of that tree, that he had asked to see me again after our argument.

I couldn’t explain why he wouldn’t look at me, or why he was sitting so far away, as if we didn’t have a past that—at least I believed—still tied us together somehow. But the way he shifted away the moment I sat down, almost recoiling from my presence, made me realise—maybe for the first time since he blamed me for something he never even named—that I had lost him for good. And nothing, not even the fact I’d made it to the park on time, was ever going to change that.

 

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

Chapter 2: A Step Back

                                                     

 

The first time I moved to the quiet little town of Oakridge I was only ten. Too young to really take in the fact I’d have to make new friends, yet old enough not to forget the ones I was leaving behind.

Leaving our old house in the countryside, tucked away in the calm of the outskirts, felt like a punch to the chest. No matter how peaceful Oakridge was supposed to be, it could never match the fields I loved so much—those endless stretches of green surrounding my home, my grandparents’ place, and the houses of my schoolmates. Every morning it took us at least twenty minutes on foot to get to school, but the walk never felt heavy. We’d chatter all the way with the sound of crickets in the background, or run through the whole syllabus again before the test that was waiting for us. It was me, Javier and Olimpia—the trio I thought nothing could ever break. And yet it did, though I still couldn’t wrap my head around how.

I’d always been an early riser. I lived for the dew sparkling in the first light of dawn. As a kid, I’d sometimes even ask the birds to wake me up earlier than usual, just so I wouldn’t miss a moment of it. Even though it was Mum’s idea to raise me and my sister in the country, she never understood why I wanted to wake up so ridiculously early just to watch the dew form on every leaf. And yet I almost liked that it was my thing alone.
I also lived for the swing in our garden. Every evening I’d let it rock me, whether I was happy, savouring that hollow feeling in my stomach when I swung higher and higher, or sad, when that same emptiness seemed to take over my whole body as I reached for the sky, almost convinced I could touch it.

With time, I realised I’d always looked at the little things with such intensity that people often found me hard to understand. They’d never see those details as big as I did. I first noticed this when I started secondary school after we’d moved to Oakridge.
That’s when I understood I had my own way of being happy—like watching a bee hop from flower to flower, knowing it was working so hard just to make delicious honey. I also realised it was the place I’d grown up in that had shaped me in ways no city kid could ever be shaped—and I’d have bet my life on it, certain that even the sparks crackling in our fireplace couldn’t burn away that truth.

My sensitivity to the world around me often led me to find beauty everywhere—even in the tiniest ant carrying a crumb of wheat back to its nest. It broke my heart when I saw some of my new classmates casually squashing them during breaktime. By the age of ten I already knew what abuse of power looked like: these kids gave themselves the right to do whatever they wanted to those tiny creatures, and it was obvious they did it only because the ants could never fight back.

Living in town after that first move, I got a taste of what it meant to be around people cut from a completely different cloth. It pushed me to look around and to respect others. That’s what I valued most about having grown up in such a quiet place, under the careful eye of a mother who cared about things like that. Because every time I breathed in the open air of the silent countryside, all the petty cruelty I’d come across in Oakridge seemed to disappear—without me needing to lecture anyone about the innocence of those poor ants they stepped on so arrogantly.

Still, during our stay in town I was lucky enough to meet a few kids my age with a bit more sense, and I was really glad about that. But I was even happier when I found out we’d soon be moving back to our old house, even if it meant I’d probably never see those kids again. Just the thought of settling back into the routine of my little village brought me relief. At the time, though, no one told me the real reason we were moving back was because Mum had lost her job.

 

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

The big garden that wrapped around our beautiful home was where I spent most of my time—so much so that I came to think of it as home more than the house itself.

When my friend Javier moved away—back to his family in Argentina, just a year before our first move—he’d often tell me on the phone how much he missed his massive bedroom. Back in Hawthorne Green, the little village where we lived barely three minutes’ walk apart, he had a huge room. Funny thing was, it was still only about half the size of mine. He loved that room, and I can’t say I didn’t love mine too, especially since I never had anything as spacious once we moved to Oakridge. Still, a big room was never really my priority—I knew I’d be living at uni eventually, and the new house wasn’t somewhere I’d be spending that much time anyway.

The hardest part about moving to the city wasn’t losing the room, though—it was having to say goodbye to the trees. I could still hear their leaves rustling whenever I closed my eyes and really focused, but imagining it would never be the same as hearing it for real. Not that Oakridge had no trees at all, but the countryside had a peace and a quiet I knew I’d never find scattered here and there among city parks.

I felt that loss not once, but twice in my life. The first time, ten years ago, it was like starting over somewhere that wasn’t my favourite place in the world. The second was at the start of September, when Mum got called back by a company she’d sent her CV to—a proper job this time, permanent, the one she’d been waiting for her whole life of hard work and tucked-away dreams. It meant we’d be moving into a house far bigger than the one we’d lived in during my childhood—apart from my bedroom, of course, which was still smaller than the one I’d had before.

That first house was sold to a young couple expecting triplets. I still remember the day they came to view it, her belly so big I couldn’t help but hope that none of the babies she was carrying would ever think it was fun to squash an ant.

 

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

 

They say you don’t realise how much you love something until you lose it. I lost our home in Hawthorne Green twice, and the second time stung even more than the first.

Javier had been gone for ages by then, and it had been what felt like a lifetime since I’d last seen Olimpia. I’d always known she was in love with Javi, though she never admitted it to me. His leaving hit her hard—she sank into a sadness she never really managed to swim out of. I promised her I’d always be there for her, especially on the days she missed him more than usual. But, against all expectations, I ended up moving away myself the very next year. To this day, I still regret not being there for her longer, right after our other friend had left.

When I finally came back to Hawthorne Green, two years after Oakridge, Olimpia still seemed cross with me for having moved in the first place. Or maybe, truth be told, she’d simply have preferred Javier to be the one returning instead of me. The day we met again to walk our usual twenty minutes to school, I realised straight away that a link in our friendship chain had loosened for good. I never told Javi how badly things were going between me and her—it would have upset him more than it ever upset her.
Our little trio lasted only seven turns of the Earth around the Sun—seven years filled with walks to school in the morning and lazy afternoons in the countryside once the week’s homework was out of the way.

After that, the moves got the better of us, scattering us for good. In the years that followed, while Olimpia and I drifted apart, I made new friends at secondary school. But the thought of moving away again and losing them too weighed on me heavily. Those last few weeks of August were tougher than I’d expected. Everywhere I looked, I saw things, places and people that would remain right where they were—while I’d be off somewhere else. An hour and a half by car would separate us until the next summer, and I already knew I’d be far too busy with lessons and revision to come back as often as I wanted. There was no point feeling sorry for myself—I knew that much—but that little village, cut off from the rest of the world, was my safe place, and Oakridge could never replace it.

Still, I couldn’t bring myself to admit that I secretly hoped this second move wouldn’t last more than a few years—or that the real reason was simply so I could return to Hawthorne Green, where I’d grown up. Mum was genuinely thrilled about her new job, and it was clear she felt this one was right. I felt it too. And yet I had this nagging sense that saying goodbye to the fields of flowers and crops outside my window—without knowing when I’d see them again—would leave a lump in my chest. At twelve, I’d been luckier than I gave myself credit for, but this time I knew things would be different.

To my huge relief, though, Mum didn’t sell our countryside house like she’d done with the first one in town. She kept it, knowing a retreat in the green would always come in handy for the three of us. She took out a mortgage on the new house in Oakridge, confident her new salary would cover it quickly—and luckily, it did. I was so grateful she never let that house go. I’d lived through two very different phases of my life inside those walls, and both of them tied me to the place with a deep nostalgia. Maybe it seemed odd, being twenty and still so attached to the countryside that had raised me—but I wasn’t made for city life. I hadn’t become a city boy at ten, when we moved to Oakridge for the first time, and I wasn’t about to now. The second time round, I knew nothing and no one could ever make me love it more than I loved that enormous garden of mine—the one where I sometimes cheekily dropped a few crumbs for the ants, not to steal from them, but to make their work a bit easier and shorten the distance to their nest.

Back then, of course, I had no idea what was waiting for me after that move. A whole new life lay ahead, far from the countryside, and I’d never have believed that one day, I might even grow to like it.

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

Chapter 3: First Day

                                                                         

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

The morning after we’d finally settled in Oakridge, I woke up in a strange bed to the sound of an alarm clock, not birds perched on my windowsill. No chirping, no early start to catch the morning dew. Eight years had been enough for me to forget the shock of waking up to streets of houses instead of hills—and so it hit me all over again, like the first time.

“Bags are in the car already, Harold,” Mum called, cheerful as ever, just as I was burying my face into the pillow and trying to block out the sunlight streaming in. She always knew how to sound bright, even when I didn’t feel it.

“Shift your arse, Harry! We’ve been ready for ages!” was the next thing I heard, this time from my sister. Less cheerful, definitely, but it still made me grin as I dragged myself out of bed. Gemma wasn’t always that blunt, but when she was, I knew she was enjoying herself—teasing me, pretending she couldn’t wait to get rid of me. The truth, though, was something else entirely.

The night before, on my way to the shower, I’d walked past her room and thought I heard muffled sobs. I’d already caught her eyes shining over dinner, when Mum wished me luck for college. And it struck me then that Gemma’s silence wasn’t about me leaving so much as it was about everything we’d shared—moments she knew we wouldn’t get back until next summer.

We’d always been close, the two of us. Closer still after Dad walked out and never came back. From then on, it had always been the three of us, never apart for more than a few days at a time. So the idea of not living under the same roof anymore—at least for a while—was going to take her some getting used to.

I didn’t go in, though. Didn’t want to embarrass her. Still, it left me with a lump in my throat I couldn’t quite shake. So after my shower, I knocked out our usual five taps on her door—the goodnight code we’d kept since we were kids. She didn’t answer out loud. Just tapped five times back on her bedside table, the way we always did when we didn’t feel like talking but still wanted the other to know it was just one of those days.

That’s when I knew it was going to be a long night for both of us.

 

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

The hug I gave my two favourite women clung to me for the rest of the day, their perfume mixed with mine on the shirt I was wearing.

Watching their car shoot out of the gates hurt far more than I’d prepared myself for. I’d played that scene in my head a hundred times already, so I decided those final images of our goodbye would be enough. I didn’t turn back, not once. I just let the sound of the engine fade into the distance—partly because I was walking away from them, partly because they were driving away from me. I’ve always hated goodbyes, and seeing them vanish out of sight would have been too much to bear.

Luckily, I had something else to focus on. I handed over the bags—Mum’s and Gemma’s included—to one of the stewards who were helping new arrivals, and felt instantly lighter without the weight. Perfect excuse to wander round campus for a bit. It was huge—far bigger than it had seemed on the website.

Right in front of me, bold letters spelled out Oakridge Hall College across the massive façade. I only had a moment to take it in when someone bounced up at my side with a grin, clearly assigned as my guide.

“You must be Harry Styles, right? Recognised you straight off from your enrolment photo—those curls are unmistakable! But I’ve got to say, I wasn’t expecting you to be this tall! Blimey, you are. I’ll need stilts to keep up… or maybe you can just escort me back to the giants’ cave you clearly live in!”

The lad laughed at his own joke, awkward but endearing enough to make me laugh too. He had round purple-framed glasses, reddish hair, and a blue-and-white striped shirt held up with denim braces. His voice was sharp and a bit squeaky—nearly pierced an eardrum—but there was something so likeable about him I couldn’t bring myself to mind. I told myself I’d get used to it. And I did.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Harry,” I said, sticking out a hand. After all he’d just reeled off, most of which I hadn’t caught, it felt easiest to just introduce myself.

“Course you are—I literally just said your name!” he chuckled, giving my hand a firm shake that nearly wobbled my whole arm. “I’m Stephen, by the way. Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

He strode ahead, expecting me to follow.

“On our right is the dining hall. Bit odd having it right by the main entrance, don’t you think? Originally it was built further inside, but during the Second World War they moved it here so any passing soldiers could grab a hot meal. Some even stayed in the dorms for a night or two before moving on. Fun fact, eh?”

The way his eyes lit up told me immediately he was a History student, which he soon confirmed when we reached the Humanities buildings and he beamed at the one where his subject was taught.

“This is where you’ll find lectures for what I like to call the science of time,” he said proudly, and I couldn’t help smiling.

“Over there you’ve got Education, Management Techniques, Art History… basically, the humanities hub. Feels like home, doesn’t it? You’re down for English Literature and Classics, right? I read your application, but just wanted to double check.” He flicked through a folder in his hands. “You must be mad about books if you picked that course. Word is Professor Graham’s brilliant but a bit of a perfectionist—you’ll be buried in reading for months!” He finally looked up at me through thick lenses, his face kind, though his chatter nearly disguised how shy he probably was.

“You’re not wrong,” I admitted, “on either count.”
I ignored the twinge of nerves he’d planted with his warning about Graham, and let myself think instead of nights in the countryside, reading under the moonlight in my hammock. I made a mental note to set up a little reading spot in my new room—at least for the handful of books I’d brought with me. I’d have filled a library if I could, but the dorms definitely weren’t going to allow that.

“Well good on you, Harry! I really admire people who read all the time—I just never seem to find the hours…” Stephen sighed, shoving his glasses back up his nose with his finger.

“You’ll be swamped in history texts anyway. That still counts as reading,” I pointed out. He nodded, and I added, “But honestly, you can always make time for other books if you really want to. Saying you can’t is just an excuse.”

He suddenly looked bashful, and I worried I’d been too blunt. “N-not that I’m calling you lazy or anything, I just meant—”

“Ha! Did you actually think I was offended? Relax, Hazza. Your good old Stevie doesn’t get bothered by stuff like that. Easy-going, me… or at least that’s what they say. Might be a bit lazy though—you got me there!”

That nickname—Hazza—slipped out so naturally I realised I didn’t mind it one bit. But part of me suspected he had been a little stung, despite laughing it off.

“Maybe you’ll recommend me some books then, since you’ve probably read a million. Oh, and we could even read together sometimes! There’s a book club here—you’d love it!” His face lit up as he carried on, clearly convinced he’d found me the perfect match.

I let him ramble. Truth was, the idea of reading out loud to a group—or worse, in front of one—sounded like my personal nightmare.

Books had always been my private thing. I’d lost count of the lines that had made me cry, and I treasured those moments most when no one else was watching. Still, I loved sharing recommendations and reading reviews, so maybe Stephen’s club wasn’t the worst idea in the world. Even if I never joined, I already knew I wanted him as a friend.

 

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

After wandering round campus for most of the morning, I eventually headed over to the admin office to grab the keys to my room. It felt almost like checking in at a hotel, ready to start some sort of getaway. Only, the first few lectures with Professor Graham would soon make it painfully clear this wasn’t going to be a holiday. Not that I’d ever chosen English Lit for a bit of downtime—books had always been something I took seriously. What worried me was the thought of teachers who’d strip all the joy out of reading and turn it into a box-ticking exercise. Still, I had a whole day and a night to go before finding out.

For now, all I really wanted was a bed. I knew the rooms weren’t exactly spacious, but I wasn’t fussed. I was shattered, and the sticky city heat wasn’t helping.

I thanked Stephen for the tour and for walking me all the way up to my corridor. We said our goodbyes on the stairs before he went off to shepherd another bunch of freshers—and I honestly didn’t expect anyone to overhear.

“So, Stephen’s been showing you round as well, has he?” came a voice behind me, just as I was about to turn into the corridor. I hesitated, then smiled faintly, realising my tutor was clearly well known around here.

“You know him?” I asked.

In front of me stood a lad with poker-straight brown hair, though his fringe gave it a slight wave. Four others loitered behind him, watching. Hands stuffed in his pockets, not even bothering to smile back or shake my hand—should’ve been my first clue he wasn’t as friendly as I’d hoped.

“That weirdo? Unfortunately, yes. He does the grand tour for half the new intake, and he’s the one who swapped out my roommate without even asking.”

Didn’t take me long to bristle at how casually he dismissed Stephen, especially after he and I had just parted on good terms.

“I’ve been at Oakridge Hall for two years. This is my third. Tell me, does it sound normal to change someone’s roommate in their final year?” he went on, his tone sour.

I shot him a puzzled look but kept walking so we ended up side by side. “There’s probably a reason for it,” I said. As if I, who’d only just arrived, could possibly know how the place handled room allocations.

“If anyone’s to blame, it’s your pal Stevie. He’s the one who dishes out the dorms,” he said. That at least explained the grudge.

I let it drop—what was the point arguing?—but clearly he thought I was supposed to fix it.

“Tell him to sort it. I want Troy back as my roommate, and I mean now. I’m not waiting longer than a day.”

That actually made me laugh under my breath. I shook my head, glanced at my key to double-check the number, and carried on towards my door—5901.

“What’s up, Jacob?” his voice piped up behind me.

I knew he meant me, though my name obviously wasn’t Jacob. Took me half a second to realise: long hair, right. They’d branded me the bloody werewolf from Twilight. Not exactly the nickname I’d imagined when Stephen mentioned every corridor gave one to the newbies.

“Too good to answer?” the ringleader pressed.

Just then, a girl with braids stepped out of her room with a mate. They stopped talking the second they clocked the five of them circling me—or rather, one of them running his mouth while the rest just stood there. It looked to me that my eyes were seeing a leader and a bunch of his mates, members of a sort of Silence Club, since they didn’t seem to want to join the conversation.

“And what about your mates?” I shot back, reaching my door. “Lost their tongues, have they, or did you nick them all for yourself?”

That finally got a reaction from one of the silent ones. “We’ve got tongues, thanks. You’re the one who’s lost yours, seeing as you couldn’t even answer Louis.”

I slid the key into the lock and turned it. I wasn’t about to humour their nonsense. Who was this Louis to me, anyway? If he wanted Troy back so badly, he could sort it himself. Did I look like the housing office? Hardly.

So yeah—my grand entrance into the corridor couldn’t have gone better. New city, new campus, and already my first encounter was with a pack of complete tossers. Brilliant.

As that thought settled in, the girl with braids came closer. She had a stack of books in her arms and had clearly overheard everything.

“Don’t mind them, they do that with everyone,” she said gently, brushing my arm just above the elbow.

I’d already half turned the key, so I simply gave her a smile, twisted it the rest of the way, and stepped inside.

The room was simple: one bed already made, shelves full, laundry basket shoved in the corner. My bags had been dropped off in front of the empty bed. No sign of my roommate’s stuff, which meant he’d unpacked already and claimed the bed against the wall. That left me with the one under the window. No choice there, but I wasn’t complaining—mine overlooked the courtyard. At that point, I didn’t think about the noise that would drift in at night. My eyes went straight to a tall pine tree whose top reached beyond the building. For a moment, it felt like a scrap of Hawthorne Green had followed me here.

The only thing that could’ve calmed me down now was a long wander through the city park Stephen had mentioned earlier—before I’d stumbled into those five charmers. I couldn’t wait: a shower, some food, then the park. That was the plan.

 

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

Chapter 4: Like Flies Buzzing

                                                                 

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

I hadn’t exactly thought I’d ever warm to the city, but the park did the trick the second I walked in. It was nothing like the scruffy fields I used to tear around as a kid — much smarter, more polished — yet I couldn’t help admiring the triple-headed lamp posts with their globe lights, the little bridge over the stream, the kids’ play areas and the wide lawns where loads of Oakridgians were sprawled out enjoying themselves. Nothing could match the hush of the garden at Hawthorne Green, but that evening the park came pretty close.

After an hour or two of pottering about, I knew I’d be back. I phoned Gemma as I wheeled the bike off the path; we hadn’t spoken since that morning, but ten hours felt more than enough to ring her up and tell her about my discovery. It was mad we hadn’t known about the place when we were here before — it must be one of the biggest parks in the south, I told her, which was proper exciting.

I cycled the whole campus back to my halls while she chatted away, describing the place and marveling with her that it was odd we’d never used it during our first move. A bit of digging showed the park had been expanded by folding in two smaller green areas nearby — and they’d given the main entrance a proper grand makeover, not far from Oakridge’s monument quarter, with a tall ornate gate and all the trimmings. Between her telling me what she and Mum had bought on their shopping trip and me telling her I’d recommend they come visit, I told them both they really should one day.

“You lot need to check it out — soon,” I said, turning the key in my door as I said it. I knocked just in case my roommate had arrived already, but no answer. Still on the phone, I shut the door behind me and only then looked up.

“Christ — at least knock!!” my roommate shouted, swearing at me, just as I swung round to open the door again.

“I did knock… you’re the ones who didn’t answer!” I shot back, instantly put on the spot. I ripped the phone from my ear and cut Gemma off without explaining — I’d text her and apologise later for hanging up on her so abruptly. Right now I needed to get this damn door open. I yanked the handle again and again, but it wouldn’t budge. Of course it would choose now to stick.

“Didn’t you see there was a sock on the bloody handle??” my roommate added, getting out of bed as the other lad stayed sprawled on his mattress.

“Give it ‘ere!” he snapped, shoving me aside and grabbing the handle himself. “I’ve been asking to get this fucking door fixed for ages!” he complained, fiddling with the lock until finally it swung open.

“You gonna tell your four-eyes mate that then?” he glared at me, shoving me out of the way as he pushed me into the corridor. Only then did we both see that the sock had in fact fallen off the handle well before I arrived — but he probably assumed I’d knocked it down. He bent to pick it up, clipped it back onto the knob and hollered, “If I were you, I wouldn’t come back tonight — or I’ll get you moved rooms for real.” And slammed the door in my face. I was left standing there in the near-empty corridor.

With the door twenty centimetres from my nose, I finally noticed the name labels stuck to it — and, to top it off, that bloke’s rude attitude irritated me even more. I snorted, shook my head, then lifted a corner of my T-shirt and wiped the name off with it — the High School Musical lad’s name who’d been smooching my roommate when I walked in. I grabbed the magnetic marker clipped to the board and wrote, big and bold, Harry — twice, in fact.

Not having anyone push me around was non-negotiable. Least of all by the rudest roommate I could’ve landed.

 

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

I let it slide that night. I was too knackered to start a row in the middle of the night. So my very first sleep at uni ended up being on a bench in the courtyard outside my room—my room, because from the morning onwards it bloody well would be. That was a promise.

I woke up stiff as hell to the sound of a familiar voice.
“H–Harry?? Mate, what the hell? What are you doing out here? Rooms exist for a reason, you know! Why aren’t you in your bed?”

Stephen, my tutor, clearly hadn’t expected to find me passed out in the campus garden like some lunatic. Either that or some other student had dobbed me in, thinking some weirdo had broken into campus and crashed out for the night. That weirdo being me.

Dragging myself up off the bench, every bone in my back protesting, I groaned. “Stev–ie…” I muttered, stretching as much as my locked-up neck would allow. As I rolled it from side to side, I noticed we weren’t alone—standing next to him was the girl with the braids from yesterday, though today her hair was loose.

“It was Diana who told me you were out here. Care to explain?” Stephen pressed, his tone more worried than annoyed, and he handed me a bottle of water like I might keel over any second. Maybe he thought I was hungover. My throat was too dry to bother correcting him, so I took it and downed half in one go.

“Maybe because I got kicked out of my room,” I shot back once I’d finished gulping. Stephen’s face froze.

“Kicked out??” he repeated. “But how—oh wait…” His eyes narrowed, putting two and two together. “It was Louis, wasn’t it? All because he wanted to keep sharing the room with his boyfriend… Hazza, I swear I tried my best not to split them up, but the numbers didn’t work out this year. And Troy isn’t even in English Lit! I bent the rules for two years but this time it was impossible, especially with all the requests I had to juggle—”

He didn’t need to justify himself to me. Louis was the prick here, not Stephen. And hearing that his precious Troy wasn’t even meant to be in that block made the whole thing sound even more ridiculous.

“Don’t worry, they sorted it,” I cut across him. “They spent the night together anyway. And shagged, I bet”

“Not exactly the first shag those walls have ever seen…” Diana chimed in, which earned her a look of pure disgust from me. Stephen clocked immediately I wasn’t in the mood to laugh and gently suggested she head off.

“Fair point though,” he said, steering back to business. “Anyway—cheers for letting me know where he was. You can head to class now.”

The word class made my stomach drop.
“Shit—my first lecture!” I yelped, jumping up off the bench like I’d been electrocuted. “Thanks, Stev—see you later!” I shoved the half-empty bottle back into his hand and bolted towards the dorms, my words trailing off and fading as I sprinted away. Behind me, Stephen and Diana were left watching me leg it across the courtyard—him probably worried, her definitely amused, and me thoroughly humiliated after being caught sleeping out there like some idiot.

 

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

I headed downstairs after the most peaceful few minutes I’d had in ages — a whole empty room, all to myself. Bliss. I’d even tried to make myself half-presentable before stepping out of the hall, hoping the splash of perfume I’d put on would somehow distract from the bags under my eyes. No clue what trick of the light I thought might save me.

Outside the door, there was Diana, cappuccino in one hand and a paper bag in the other.

“Got you something. Figured you’d be starving,” she said, as if the growling of my stomach on every step down the stairwell had reached her all the way at ground level.

“What are you still doing here? Don’t you have class too?” I blurted out, taking the cup from her like someone who hadn’t expected her to actually be waiting.

“Yeah, I do. But two people late draw less heat than one person on their own — that’s just how college works.” She gave me this smug little look, and I couldn’t help cracking a smile. She clocked it straight away, staring at my lips for half a second before glancing away, suddenly shy.

“Come on, then. Late’s fine, but not too late… you’ll thank me later,” she added, nodding towards the path ahead. And she wasn’t wrong — the breakfast alone deserved a thank-you, never mind the fact she’d actually waited around for me, which was very kind of her.

Right after that, we picked up the pace and, once we finally got to the lecture hall, I held the door open for her.

“Thanks,” she whispered, slipping inside on tiptoe.

A dead silence fell over the room the moment we stepped in, following us all the way down to the last two free chairs. The lecturer’s eyes tracked us without pause, without a single word, until we’d sat ourselves down.

It was then that two horrible truths hit me: one, everyone else had their textbooks out on the desk — mine were still back in my room, abandoned in favour of combing my hair; and two, written neatly in the corner of the board, was a name I recognised straight away. Graham. In perfect cursive. So this was the pretentious professor Steven warned me about.

“You must be Styles Edward,” he said, staring right at me. He wore his tie so tight I honestly wondered how he could breathe, and the suit — expensive, sharp, immaculate. I suddenly hoped my black shirt didn’t look too sloppy by comparison, though judging by the rest of the class, casual was the norm.

“Harry, actually,” I corrected quickly. “That’s me.” Probably too fussy for a first word, but whatever.

“And you, Miss Turner—” He turned to Diana. I raked a hand through my hair while she fidgeted with her knees under the desk, clearly mortified. She didn’t even get a chance to answer before he went on.

“Still haven’t learned, have you? Stick with the limping and you start limping yourself. Owens was a poor influence last year, and here you are again. I do hope you’re not aiming to fail my class two years in a row. That would be a real shame.”

From what Stephen had told me, Graham had once been decent enough. Even funny, apparently. But these last couple of years he’d turned sour, biting at everyone. I couldn’t imagine what had happened to make him think that being a miserable git was the best way to run a class.

While he droned at Diana, my eye caught some other words on the board — the title of one of my favourite books. Instantly, my mind started flicking through chapters, for what I remembered from the last time I read them.

“No, sir. So-Sorry. Won’t happen again,” Diana promised, voice small. He didn’t even look at her — just picked up the marker and carried on scribbling. She looked crushed, so I brushed her shoulder lightly. She gave me the tiniest grateful smile. She was shyer than Stephen had let on.

The whole class was still wrapped in silence. I figured someone needed to break it.

“Paul had a limp as well,” I said out loud.

Graham froze mid-word, turned back to us. “Who said that?”

I didn’t bother answering. Just carried on.

“The main character in Me, My Walking Stick and I — he walked with a limp, didn’t he? And still ended up a perfectly good companion for Grazia.”

Before Graham could retort, another student cut in.

“That’s just what he thinks,” the latter chipped in. I’d caught the voice from the left side of the room, and sure enough, there he was. I turned, and my roommate’s grin immediately ruined my morning. Somehow, I hadn’t even thought that sharing a dorm might mean he was in English Lit too. First impressions? Total disappointment.

Graham, though, wasn’t fazed by him at all. If anything, he prompted Louis to elaborate.

“De Pretis spends whole chapters showing them as this devoted couple,” Louis started. “He writes about Grazia cooking for Paolo, him showering her with praise for every dish, and her doing everything she could to help him stand, so they could dance each evening after dinner without him needing his stick. Most people just focus on that sweet gesture, or that Paolo went along with it even though he hated dancing, simply because Grazia asked him every day since their wedding. But hardly anyone stops to think about how she felt the day he walked out, without giving her a single reason.”

I couldn’t sit there listening to more of his rubbish. “I think the reason’s obvious,” I said. “If he’d told her, she’d have followed him.” My words collided with his, like flies buzzing straight at each other in midair.

“If he were the devoted husband you make him out to be, he would’ve let her,” Louis shot back. “The truth is, Paolo never truly appreciated Grazia being there or helping him. If I were her, I wouldn’t have danced every night for thirty years, only to watch him walk away without a single one of those dances meaning enough to keep him by my side.” His glare was sharp, full of the same nasty spark he’d shown from the moment we met in the corridor— a full-on fly-swatting stare-off.

Meanwhile, Graham sank back into his chair, watching us quietly. Diana looked a bit embarrassed by the debate I’d sparked, though really, the only one who should’ve been ashamed for missing the beauty in De Pretis’ story was Louis.

“But she couldn’t have known he’d leave,” I said, a faint smile breaking through. Honestly, I was stunned at how badly he’d misread the story.

“That’s the whole point of the novel,” I continued, determined to make it clear. “Even if Grazia had known, she’d have danced anyway—every single day of those thirty years. By the time Paolo’s illness peaked, he realised he needed to dance alone at least once. That’s why he left. He knew he didn’t have long left and had one last wish. He could have gone sooner if he didn’t love her, but he couldn’t leave her for more than a few days—not her, the woman he respected most. So he let himself die in the stables, close enough to home for him to be alone, but far enough that she wouldn’t see him dying. He wanted to die alone, dancing with his stick, supported this time only by himself.”

Every word was drenched in my love for the novel, and I didn’t once break eye contact with my roommate. Louis, however, barely met my gaze for more than a few seconds, clearly uninterested in catching my point of view.

I’d almost forgotten how much I loved this book after two years of not reading it. And I’d almost forgotten how much I despised Louis, too—after that night in the courtyard, alone and thankfully far from his unsolicited judgment.

“And that’s why he never truly loved her,” Louis snapped. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have chosen those awkward stables over their house. He didn’t leave her to spare her seeing him die—he left because he could never accept her being his support in old age more than that stick ever could. That’s the truth. Pure selfishness, not some noble desire for time alone like you’re claiming.”

I felt like I’d been talking to a brick wall the entire time. Therefore, I didn’t even bother trying to drill the point home. A stubborn, unromantic git like him would never get it, even if the lecturer stepped in himself.

“And who knows more about selfishness than you, after all? Right?” I said, just as the bell rang, cutting him off before he could mutter a reply.

When it ended, Graham gave a slow, deliberate clap—unexpected, but clearly impressed.

“Very interesting debate, Styles and Tomlinson,” he said, collecting his briefcase. Hearing our surnames together sent a shiver of pure disgust down my spine.

“If there’s time, we’ll continue next week. In the meantime, for those who haven’t finished the book, I expect you to do so before then. I want a minimum three-page essay on your view of the novel and the protagonists’ relationship. And you two,” he added, nodding at Louis and me, “dig a little deeper into the discussion.”

While everyone else packed up, I had nothing to gather, so I walked toeard the door empty-handed.

“And Styles,” the professor called me, stopping me from exiting the room “Maybe steer clear of the insults aimed at Mr Tomlinson regarding his selfishness in your essay. And remember to bring your textbooks next time, or I’ll make you read five more,” the lecturer warned. For me, extra reading wasn’t punishment—but the look Louis shot me? Pure hate.

His little smirk vanished quickly, though, after Graham gave him a warning too:

“I wouldn’t laugh too hard if I were you, Tomlinson. I expect better attention to punctuation—it’s always been your weak point. If this essay isn’t up to the standard of this course, I’ll have no choice but to fail you again.”

Considering this was meant to be his final year, failing would push graduation back a year—unlike the rest of his friends. I could see real panic in his eyes as he promised the professor he’d do his best to write something acceptable.

I couldn’t help it. Seeing my usually insufferable roommate humbled, a little smirk of mine slipped out.

 

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

Chapter 5: Freshers’ Initiation

 

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

I left that lecture certain I’d done enough to defend both my beloved Paolo Magnani and the author who had brought him to life. Still, the rest of my morning was soured by the way Louis had cut across me, first of all, and then strutted about as if he were the cleverest man in the room.

Not only had he kicked me out of my own room, he’d also had the cheek to contradict me right in front of what looked like the strictest lecturer in the entire college. Maybe that had been his plan all along—show off in front of Graham with some “original” take on the novel that nobody else had ever put forward. And I’d read a lot of reviews. It wasn’t that he wasn’t allowed to have his own view—of course he was. But I was pretty sure he’d forced malice into Paolo’s last wish purely to get under my skin. Walking away from Grazia, choosing to dance with nothing but his stick, was De Pretis’s way of showing Paolo’s inner life—not his lack of gratitude. And Louis knew that. He just wanted to wind me up. And, annoyingly, he’d managed it.

The afternoon was spent in better company—Diana and some of her second-year friends she introduced me to. Each of them, in their own way, was a pleasant surprise, proof that there were indeed sociable souls in this college. Apart from Stephen, of course, though I only bumped into him twice: once in the canteen and later out in the quad. I even started hoping we could merge his lot with Diana’s, make one bigger group. When I mentioned it to her, she was just as keen.

On the way back from dinner, I caught Diana giving me a sidelong glance, smiling to herself.
“What’s with the grin?” I asked. Truth be told, I’d noticed her sneaking looks at me all day, but only then did I pluck up the courage to ask. Before, I hadn’t wanted to risk embarrassing her into stopping. And honestly, I’d quite enjoyed the attention. She really was a beautiful girl, and by the end of the evening I found myself wanting to know her better.
“Oh, nothing…” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Just that you seem a lot lighter than this morning. It’s nice to see.” She dipped her head, smiling shyly at the grass as we crossed the courtyard, which somehow looked even lovelier under the night sky.

We stopped walking, and so did she. Immersed in her company all day, I’d practically forgotten Louis existed, and I hadn’t even noticed he’d skipped all three of the afternoon’s lectures—until Diana brought it up. Or maybe it was precisely his absence that made it easy not to think of him.

“Is it really that obvious?” I asked, running a hand through my curls before shoving it back in my pocket. The moon was full, and when I looked at her I noticed her eyes were slightly wet—soft, but sparkling—and that she had dimples, just like me. She always seemed to be smiling around me, which I couldn’t help but like.
“That he does your head in?” she shot back, clearly meaning my roommate. Her sarcasm made me laugh out loud, no need for a witty comeback.
“Just a bit… not much, though,” she added, and we both cracked up.

“Don’t let it get to you. We all know Paolo and Grazia loved each other. Who cares if he can’t admit it?” Her words brought another smile to my face. I hadn’t known she’d read Me, My Walking Stick and I. Finding out warmed me, especially hearing her sum up—so neatly—that the love between Paolo and Grazia was real. For once, I didn’t feel like the only one who saw the novel the way I did, like my mum had once put it. It wasn’t that Diana had gone into huge detail, but it was a start—a far better one than Louis had managed.

“Besides,” she went on, “sometimes love shows in the little things, not the big gestures. If Louis didn’t spot them…” She trailed off, letting me finish the thought.
“…Then he wasn’t paying enough attention,” I said, making it both a jab at Louis and a quiet confirmation that she and I were on the same page.

She didn’t push it further. Instead, her eyes flicked to my lips, and before I knew it she was leaning closer, her mouth finding mine. At first I thought it would be quick, but her hands cupping my face made it last.

We kissed for minutes, not caring about the students walking past. My hands roamed over her waist and hips, and hers weren’t exactly shy either—fingers tugging at my shirt, slipping into my hair. By the time we got into the hall we were already half-gone, and in the staff lift we just gave up pretending. Her tongue pushed into my mouth, desperate, and she pressed herself so tight against me it made my head spin. Then she grabbed me, properly grabbed me through my jeans, and I let out a low groan into her lips, hard and aching for her.

She took my hand, slid it up under her top, and laid it right on her breast, watching my eyes widen before making me squeeze. She wanted it—wanted me—and the raw hunger in her nearly undid me there and then.

When the lift doors opened onto our corridor, we glanced around—nobody there.
“Hilary’s not in tonight,” Diana panted against the wall while I kissed her neck, talking about her roommate. Before I could answer, she was kissing me again, breathless.
“She’s gone home for the weekend…” she added between kisses, and I knew exactly what she was hinting at.

But I pulled back a little, even though her arms were still tight around my neck. She kissed my cheek instead, coaxing me to keep going, but I shook my head slightly.
“Thing is… I think I’m just gonna crash,” I muttered, ruffling my curls, certain they were as wild as her hair by now. She looked at me then, and I had no idea what made me stop—maybe the exhaustion of the first day, maybe just stubbornness about not giving Louis the satisfaction of me missing another night in my own bed.

“Sleep?” she echoed, surprised, and I could tell it had slipped out before she could hide it. The disappointment in her face made my stomach twist.
“Right… okay. I get it,” she murmured after a long silence, refusing to meet my eyes. When she finally did, frustration flickered there.
“We’ll have another go some other time, I promise,” I said quickly, wanting to reassure her. She kissed like a dream, and I wasn’t about to let her think I didn’t mean it.

I kissed her once more before walking her to her door and wishing her goodnight, hoping she wouldn’t take it the wrong way—and that there really would be another time.

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

I gave my hair another quick fix before fishing out the keys from my pocket and entering my room. Our room, technically.

Honestly, I’d rather have crashed on that bench again than walk back in and face him. Just thinking about that smug face was enough to set me off. And yet—why the hell had I memorised it so vividly in the first place?

I took a deep breath, shoved the key in the lock, and prayed my charming roommate wouldn’t start yelling the second I stepped inside. I pushed the door open with as much confidence as I could scrape together, ready with a comeback in case he tried to kick me out—or worse, if I caught him at it with Troy Bolton again. The thought alone made my stomach turn, but luckily it vanished the next second, replaced by sweet, blessed silence. The place was empty. No trace of Mr Slick.

“God, that’s bliss,” I muttered, kicking off my shoes and tugging my T-shirt over my head. I flopped onto the bed and finally picked up my phone. Mum had texted me about an hour ago, but between dinner with Diana and the lads and everything that happened afterwards, my phone had been the last thing on my mind.

Her message came with a picture—her and Gemma at the park, probably taken that same afternoon.

 

 

My grin was instant. Couldn’t have asked for a better way to end the day, knowing they’d found the park as brilliant as I had. I wrote back saying they looked gorgeous, and that I couldn’t wait to go with them. Suggested Sunday, and Mum shot back a definite yes.

Then Gemma’s voice note popped up in the group chat, claiming she had no interest in seeing me but might make an exception for the park. It cracked me up way more than it should’ve. I’d just started recording my comeback when a sudden bang from the bathroom door made me stop and delete it.

“What the fuck?!” I blurted, startled. Out came Louis, dripping wet, nothing but a towel slung around his hips, grinning like the cocky bastard he was. “Didn’t think anyone was here!”

“Oh, my bad, Jacob,” he mocked, voice dripping sarcasm, not even pretending to be sorry. “Did I interrupt your little wank session? Searching for porn while you had the place to yourself?” He even fluttered his lashes as he ruffled his damp hair back.

“Don’t let me stop you. We’re mates, right? Nothing I haven’t seen before. I lost counts of the amount of dicks I’ve seen in my life, yours adding up with the others wouldn’t shock me, if that’s your concern.” He smirked, and I had to laugh—him calling us mates was funnier than his casual brag about the number of cocks he’d supposedly seen.

“I bet,” I shot back. “But if you’re desperate for one tonight, you’ll have to ask Troy. Shame though—must be hard to sneak across campus after hours now the two of you don’t share a dorm anymore. Real tragedy.” I laid on the fake sympathy thick, enjoying myself.

“You’re such a dickhead, Jacob,” he said, shaking his head. The way he said it basically handed me my punchline on a plate.

“You’re just pissed Troy’s not here to give you just that- a memorable head. And to sing you into bed with his next big musical number, too, of course.” My grin widened as his smirk faltered. To my surprise, instead of snapping, Louis plonked himself down on the edge of my bed, gave my shoulder a friendly pat, and—God help me—even smiled.

“Look, Jack. I’m actually trying to be decent here.” I tilted my head like, sure you are. “See? I didn’t chuck you out this time. And I even had Troy clear your wardrobe for you in one day.” That jab reminded me I still hadn’t unpacked my suitcase. Normally the first thing I did anywhere, but with Louis around… things hadn’t exactly gone to plan.

“I’d like to be friends, honestly. You seem like a decent bloke,” he added, and even if the compliment was laced with sarcasm, it still threw me off.

I let him carry on, curious where he was heading with this sudden change of tune. He leaned a bit closer, almost conspiratorial.
“There’s a freshers’ initiation. Big deal every year—meant to get the first-years integrated with older students, help you find your way around. Happens in every dorm.”

I cut in just to poke at him: “So you and Troy never did one together, huh? Must’ve been rough for a clingy pair like you two.” His jaw tightened at “clingy,” though he tried to hide it.

“Actually, Troy always found a way to sneak into ours. But that’s not the point,” he brushed it off—of course it was typical of Troy to sneak into places he wasn’t allowed.

I raised a brow. “That an invite? You should know I’d turn up with or without you asking.” Truth was, I hadn’t heard a word about this from Diana, which only made me more suspicious.

“Oh no, Jacob. This isn’t the sort of event you’re picturing,” Louis said, eyes glinting. That instantly explained why Diana might’ve kept quiet. It didn’t sound like your standard welcome party—not with Louis in charge.

“Plenty of freshers show up solo and earn themselves a reputation that sticks the whole year. Not sure you’d fancy that.”

“Well, lucky me—I’ve already got an escort. A female one, even,” I smirked, watching his eyes flicker at the obvious jab.

But Louis, as always, had a ready comeback. “No, mate. You’re not getting it.” He folded his arms, deadly serious now.
“The organisers are always final-years. And this year, that includes me. The only way you’re getting through it without the seniors chewing you up is if one of us brings you along.”

He licked his lips after dropping the bomb, clearly enjoying himself. I crossed my arms back, waiting for him to play all his cards.

“I see. So it’s you and your four mates from the Silence Club running the show?” I asked, grinning to myself at the memory of that first encounter in the corridor—me making a crack about the rest of them standing mute while Louis barked orders. The joke still amused me; him, not so much. He skipped the banter and cut straight to the point.

“Not all of us. Only two were picked. I’m one of them. It’s pretty selective,” he explained, clearly annoyed I was interrupting with questions.

“How many of you are there?” I pressed, figuring I might as well squeeze some intel out of my very own insider.

“Six. Each of us gets to pick one fresher to bring along,” he said flatly. “You should count yourself lucky I chose you.”

That set me off. I burst out laughing so hard I had to sit up, clutching my stomach. “Sorry—what? Run that by me again?” Louis, of course, wasn’t laughing.

“Do you think this is funny?” he snapped, shifting back with a scowl. “Maybe you still don’t get how serious this is. Last year, freshers who thought they could wing it woke up to beds covered in whipped cream, clothes ripped to shreds in the laundry, and false rumours spread about them for the rest of the year. That was the organisers’ way of making their point.”

I stared at him, gobsmacked. “So let me get this straight—you were selected to run it this year?”

He nodded, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t brag about being picked. Not when every third-year student who’s ever run it spent the year acting like a complete prick,” I said. It was insane—he seemed almost proud to be part of the tormentors, when the worst reputation of all belonged to the organisers themselves.

“It’s not as bad as you’re making it sound,” Louis dared to counter. “But you know who it will be bad for? You, if you don’t show up with me.”

For a moment, I almost felt stupid for not spotting his angle sooner. Then it clicked—he was just dragging it out.

“The point of the escort is to walk the fresher in and give them a leg-up the whole way through. I can’t spoil the details, but trust me—you go in without a senior and you’re in for a year of hell.” He leaned in, voice low. “It’s unmissable. And it’s sexual, too. The organisers hand over their rooms for anyone who fancies some fun, and wants to have a shag. Only time the wardens look the other way.”

That little revelation made my eyes go wide.

“So, what’s it gonna be? Come with me, or spend the night wanking to porn while the rest of us have a lot of real sex?” His stare dared me to answer.

“Ah, so that’s why Troy Bolton always found a way in,” I said, buying myself a second. That earned me the first real smile I’d seen on his face.

“Alright, I’m in. But only if Diana can come too,” I added. The mention of sex made me instantly think of making up for that lost chance with her. I regretted saying goodnight outside her door earlier—regretted it even more now that Louis had cornered me with this whole spiel.

That was when Louis finally got up off my bed. I’d almost forgotten how close he’d been sitting this whole time—less than a metre away, when an hour ago I wouldn’t have tolerated him even at binocular distance.

“Anyone can turn up, mate,” he said, giving me his back as he adjusted his towel and sat down on his own bed. Couldn’t help noticing he had a decent back on him—not that I’d ever tell him. He’d dine out on it for the rest of the year.

I smirked to myself at his answer. At least it meant another shot at time alone with Diana. I hadn’t stopped thinking about her since I came back in.

“So, you’ll let me escort you then?” Louis pressed again, impatience creeping into his tone. He looked bored of dragging the whole thing out.

“Fine. I accept.”

For a brief moment, I forgot all about the poor sods who didn’t have a dodgy roommate like mine—one minute humiliating me in front of my very first lecturer, the next practically begging to save my arse from whatever nasty tricks the other organisers might pull. The whole good-guy act was so unlike him it made me suspicious. And my gut told me I was right to be.

“Good,” Louis said firmly. “Then I’ll be your escort. But on one condition.”

I didn’t even have time to roll my eyes before he laid it out: “You’re writing Graham’s essay for me. Punctuation and all.”

My face must’ve been a picture.

“Excuse me? What exactly am I supposed to do?” I asked, dumbfounded, shifting back on the bed until my feet touched the floor. “Pretend I hate Paolo, and that he wasn’t truly in love with Grazia? That he never realised she wanted to be his crutch in old age? That he was nothing but a selfish bastard?” I echoed word for word some of the lines Louis himself had thrown at me when I’d defended one of my favourite literary characters of all time.

“It won’t be that hard, Styles. Don’t be so dramatic,” he shot back. I kept staring at him lounging comfortably, legs crossed on his bed and his back against the wall, while at the same time ordering me to do whatever he wanted.

He’d only offered to be my escort if I wrote his paper for him. His sheer cheek left me speechless, though I knew I’d better find the words to make him see just how absurd his idea was. But he beat me to it:
“You wouldn’t want to throw away your chance to shag Diana at your very first initiation, would you?” he added.

The way he assumed I saw Diana—just as someone to bed at the first university party—made my stomach turn. I knew better. I knew I saw her differently. Inviting her to the rite at my side, I thought, would reassure her of my genuine intentions.

After we’d kissed—first in the courtyard, then in the lift—I realised I wanted more. If I hadn’t come back to my room, if I’d gone to sleep with her instead, I wouldn’t have run into Louis and his outrageous demands. He was now staring at me from across the room, towel still clinging damply to his waist, not taking his eyes off me. Then again, if I hadn’t walked in right at that moment, I wouldn’t have learnt about the rite that very night. And his “offer”—which felt more like blackmail than anything else—would simply have been postponed. But either way, I wouldn’t have been able to avoid it forever.

“The fact is, it goes against my principles. Writing is something deeply personal—just like interpreting a novel. You, of all people, in your third and final year of Literature, should know that,” I told him. At the time I thought pretending to still be considering his offer was the smartest move.

“Didn’t seem like you were granting me much interpretative freedom in class this morning,” he retorted. That comeback shut me right up, and for once I had to admit he wasn’t entirely wrong.

“Look, Jacob—” he began, but I cut across him.
“Harry,” I corrected.

He kept staring at me, my face half-lit by the warm glow of our bedside lamps, before letting out a heavy sigh. Part of him clearly didn’t want to give in, but in the end he did. He must’ve really needed that essay done properly.

For the first time, I heard him say my real name:
“Harry,” he repeated.

Having convinced him not to call me Jacob felt like scoring a small victory.

“You’ll write your own essay, and at the same time, you’ll give equal care to mine. You’ll mind the punctuation, as I asked. And in return, you’ll get to bring Diana to the rite. I’ll act as your escort, and thanks to me your reputation will remain untarnished—if anything, it’ll improve.”

I let him finish his speech without interruption.

“As for the essay, obviously you’ll show me each paragraph as you go, and I’ll tell you what needs changing.” He spoke as if he were doing me a favour by reviewing the very work I’d be writing for him.

“I’ve left some notes for you on the desk to get you started. Oh, and I didn’t bother repeating what you contradicted me on in class. I assume you remember clearly all those points you tore apart in my—what was it—‘free and personal interpretation’ of the book. Am I wrong?”

I glanced over at my desk as soon as he mentioned it, ignoring the sarcasm in his tone. A sheet of paper was lying right on top. I wondered how I hadn’t noticed it earlier, when I’d tossed my T-shirt on the chair. Maybe because I’d been too distracted, replaying that kiss with Diana in my head. Yes, that had to be it.

“We’ll see if I have the displeasure of asking you to repeat those points a second time,” I replied. “For now, unfortunately, I still remember them.”

That made him smile again—something I’d managed to draw out of him more than once that night. Then he got up without another word and shut himself in the bathroom once more, the same bathroom he’d burst out of half an hour earlier, giving me a proper fright.

I sank back into my bed and picked up my phone, letting the hum of the hairdryer he’d just switched on soothe me a little. Only then did I realise I’d forgotten to reply to the voice message Gemma had sent from Mum’s mobile. In the meantime, since I hadn’t answered, they’d both wished me goodnight.

By the time I checked the clock again, it was already one in the morning.

 

 

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

Chapter 6: Wear it, or you’re screwed

 

Luckily, the next morning my roommate and I didn’t end up in another row or dragged-out chat like the one the night before. Instead, we woke up at basically the same time, and as soon as Louis clocked me he glanced over at my bed and gave me the first “good morning” of the year.
“Morning, my little writer,” he said, rolling onto his side with that smug grin plastered on his face. Just the reminder that I now had two essays to churn out was enough to make me grimace.
“And morning to you, my escort,” I shot back, winding him up a bit in return. Then I hopped out of bed, grabbed what I’d wear for the day and slipped into the bathroom.

When I came back out, Louis was still sprawled across his bed, phone in hand, stretched out right on top of the sheet. I couldn’t help but notice he was in briefs rather than boxers—no idea why I even clocked that, it wasn’t as if I gave a toss about him.
“Aren’t you getting ready for class?” I asked, sounding exactly like a nagging mum reminding her son he’d get nowhere if he stayed in bed all day. What surprised me was that he hadn’t moaned about how long I’d hogged the bathroom, nor had he bolted straight in after me.
For a moment he actually looked worried, as if he hadn’t realised the time—until he checked again. “We’ve still got an hour and a half!” he sighed in relief, almost telling me off for winding him up. “What the hell are you ready so early for, then?” he asked, lowering his phone to squint at me as I paced back and forth between the bathroom and our room tidying up.

A glance at the clock on my bedside table confirmed it was me who was way too early.

“Oh, right—meeting Diana for breakfast,” I said out loud, realising it myself as I spoke. We’d arranged it at dinner the night before: meet by the dorm entrance around half seven, then head to the canteen café.

At that, Louis gave the most indifferent little shrug, like he couldn’t care less.
“Well, I’m not going, am I? So stop stressing me out. I’ll get ready when I fancy—if I fancy,” he snapped, all sharp and sulky.

Not that his cheery “good morning” earlier had been genuine—I knew it wasn’t, just as mine hadn’t been. We still couldn’t stand each other and only put up with it because we had to. But there had been something oddly warm in his tone when he first spoke; now it was gone. I should’ve expected as much from an opportunist like him. Odds were, he’d only been all smiles last night to soften me up about that bloody essay. And now? The second it was about my plans for the day, he couldn’t give a shit. He was a dick, and he’d stay a dick. I promised myself not to bother with him again—not even to warn him about lessons, like I’d just done. He didn’t deserve the courtesy. We weren’t mates and never would be.

Still, Stephen had told me attendance was compulsory—so many hours per module if you wanted to sit the exams at the end of term. Louis had already skipped six hours on day one, and this morning we had Ancient Lit again. Whether I liked it or not, part of me worried for him. I didn’t know when I’d started caring about his coursework, but I’d already done more than enough by agreeing—well, being cornered—into writing his stupid essay for Graham. If he wanted to treat me like dirt even while I was doing him a favour, then fine. Best to pretend he didn’t exist. Not easy, seeing as he slept less than three metres away, but I’d do my best for the sake of my sanity.

Without giving him the satisfaction of an answer, I finished making my bed, stuffed the books I needed into my bag, slung it over my shoulder and left the room, slamming the door behind me.

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

I went down the stairs with my nerves jangling, but the second I stepped outside and spotted Diana where we’d agreed to meet, a big grin spread across my face. She had a couple of books in her hands, just like the very first time I’d seen her.
“Morning,” I said, dropping a quick kiss on the top of her head. I tried to read her body language, half-wondering if she’d rather have a proper kiss, but she seemed happy enough with that.
“Hi,” she beamed back, dazzling smile and all. A moment later the rest of her lot caught up with us, and we all set off for the cantine together.

“All right, mate? You look a bit down,” one of them asked, coming up alongside me and sticking out his hand for a shake.
Seeing Diana again had cheered me up enough to almost forget Louis and his attitude, but apparently I hadn’t managed to hide it that well.
“Y-yeah, Joe, I’m fine,” I said automatically. But then I caught Diana watching me, concern written all over her face, so I added, “Honestly, it’s nothing—just the usual bickering with my roommate.” She slipped an arm round my waist, partly under my T-shirt, and I slung mine over her shoulder.
“He never quits being the biggest arse in this hall, does he?” she huffed, almost as annoyed as I was. That was all it took for the others to twig who we were talking about.

“No way—don’t tell me you’re the one who split up Troy and Louis? Holy shit, he’s never gonna let you live that down!” Daniel cut in, letting out a half-laugh.
“Yep, that’s me—the homewrecker,” I said, half-joking, figuring humour was the only way I’d get through it without winding myself up.

Next thing, though, Diana—clearly still fuming—killed the playful mood. “If he gives you grief again, I’ll have a word with him. It’s ridiculous he can’t cope with being in a different room from his boyfriend. Look at us, for example—we didn’t make a big song and dance about being split into separate rooms. And not just because we’re a boy and a girl. Even if we’d had the option of sharing, we wouldn’t have gone ballistic at our roommates over it. But for Louis, it’s like the end of the world!”

Her last words made my eyes widen and even slowed my steps. The others stopped too, right in the middle of the quad, staring at her in surprise.

“You and who?” Chloe demanded, seizing on the way Diana had phrased it, almost announcing something his friends had to be informed about. Announced what, exactly, though? We’d only kissed, that was all. I didn’t think there was something left untold between us, something I clearly wasn’t seeing, but I started questioning it at that point.
“You two are a couple??” she squealed, already over the moon about something that hadn’t even happened. I was left totally speechless for a few seconds, no clue what to say.

Diana started stammering and shooting me these pleading looks, practically begging me to take over. Trouble was, I hadn’t the faintest idea what she was trying to hint at. Her shyness came flooding back, thick enough you could’ve cut it with a knife.
“N-no, I mean—no… no, we’re not a couple,” I blurted out at last, getting all shy. The stunned faces of her mates mirrored my own confusion, but it was Diana’s sort-of-disappointed expression that really got to me. I’d already let her down the night before—kissing her like I wanted to sleep with her, then backing out when she asked me to—so I couldn’t do it again. Not again so soon after the first time.
“…Not yet, anyway,” I added quickly. “But we are seeing each other.”

I felt her hand tighten around my waist, and when I glanced down she was smirking.

The next few minutes were drowned out by Chloe, Joe, and Daniel shrieking and teasing us about how we were now officially “a thing”—even though all I’d really done was guess at what Diana had meant. Then, looking up, I spotted at least three purple-and-gold banners strung between the trees in the quad.

 

 

Louis hadn’t exactly mentioned that the whole thing was happening that very Saturday. I’d been planning to ask Diana out for dinner somewhere nice in town that evening and use the chance to tell her I wanted her to come to the initiation with me. But clearly, she was more of a “drop-it-in-the-conversation” type, the same way I’d basically just done in front of all her closest mates.

“And speaking of which,” I cut across their congratulations, “I was thinking of taking you to the rite tonight. You know, going together.” Saying it out loud suddenly made me realise I had no clue what the hell I was going to wear.

“Your first rite!?” she asked straight away, sounding almost surprised. I caught Chloe practically bouncing on the spot with excitement for her, while Diana herself tried to rein it in, though she couldn’t stop smiling at me. I just nodded in reply.

“Bloody hell, mate…” Joe butted in, tugging me aside for a moment. “You sure you’re not actually together? ’Cause asking one girl to an initiation rite is basically turning up as her boyfriend.” He made his point loud and clear. We’d stepped just far enough away, but I wouldn’t have bet money the others hadn’t overheard. Sure enough, when we wandered back over, Diana looked half-judging, half-amused: first she shot me a glance, then fixed Joe with a proper death stare. I turned to see him shrugging back at her like I didn’t tell him anything bad, don’t look at me like that. Whatever silent conversation they were having, it was tense enough, but when Diana slipped her arm through mine and pulled me in against her side, it settled me down—if only a little. Still, Joe’s warning had shaken me.

Truth was, I had no idea what the rite actually involved. All I’d been told was the organisers usually came up with some right bastardly challenges, and that there were six of them in charge. Only a minute before asking Diana, I’d clocked the banner with this year’s theme: The Game of Rooms. Whether that was new or the same every year, I couldn’t say. What I did know was it was bound to involve sex, parties, and a night of freedom for the whole halls. Which meant, if you brought someone with you, you were basically ruling out any other “opportunities.”

That hadn’t even crossed my mind until Joe spelled it out. But honestly, it didn’t feel like a problem. I liked Diana. And if the thought of going with her had come to me naturally—without even weighing up the chance of getting with anyone else—it had to mean I was serious about seeing her. Even if, right there in the quad, in front of her mates and half the faculty’s students, I’d more or less managed to stumble into being her boyfriend without even realising it.

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

We ran into Stephen in the cafeteria, and Diana and I jumped at the chance to ask if we could join his lot for breakfast. Stevie agreed straightaway, and we spent ages chatting about nothing in particular with his mates from History before the lessons started. Things only turned a little heavier when I brought up the initiation.

“You’re actually thinking of going?” he asked, surprised I’d even consider it.

“Of course I am. It’s my first one,” I said, as if it was obvious. I couldn’t imagine a fresher in their right mind choosing to miss it. Diana, who’d been deep in conversation with one of her friends, immediately tuned back in.

“Yeah, it might be your first,” Stephen said, tugging awkwardly at his braces, “but honestly, it’s shite—pardon the language. Never seen so much abuse of power wrapped up in the hands of six blokes who only organise it for the chance to sleep with anyone they fancy.”

The moment he said abuse of power, my mind flicked back to the playground at secondary school, watching those nasty kids torment ant hills for fun. I couldn’t unsee it now: the organisers were definitely the type who’d stamped on ants when they were little. Louis would have been one of them too—I was sure of it. The thought gave me a shiver. I couldn’t have ended up with a worse roommate.

“But Harry’s going with me,” Diana cut in suddenly, looping both hands round my arm and stroking it, a grin plastered across her face. “We’re seeing each other.”

Stephen blinked. “Oh.” He searched for my eyes, but I dodged, catching Diana’s instead, who was still clinging to me, giving me that look that made it hard to breathe. Stevie gave us both a long once-over, then fixed on me again, his voice gentler this time.

“Well, I’m happy for you, mate. I am. But I just wanted you to know—those rites aren’t nearly as great as they’re made out to be. Over the years they’ve thrown sex into the mix just to lure more students in, but the truth is they’ve got a knack for wrecking friendships, and worse—”

Before he could finish, Diana cut him off sharply. “There’s no need to spell it out, Stephen. You know spoilers aren’t allowed. Harry’s got every right to go, and he’ll decide for himself whether it’s rubbish or not. You might not like it, but you only get one shot at being a fresher. He’d be mad not to go.”

Her comeback sounded a bit too bold to me, considering how much I valued Stephen’s advice. I was waiting to hear the rest of his warning, to understand why he hated it all so much. For a moment, I even wondered if he’d been targeted at his own initiation—that maybe that’s why Louis had called him weird when we first met. Probably the label the organisers had slapped on him last year, knowing full well that someone quiet and reserved like Stephen wouldn’t fight back.

The more I thought about it, the more it fit. The idea made my stomach twist. Stephen was the last person who deserved that. He was the sort who wouldn’t hurt an ant, even if you put a gun to his head. I knew it without even asking. Normally I had my own ritual—a question I always asked people I thought might end up being important to me. Javier and Olimpia had been the first: both said they respected ants for their hard graft, sometimes even helping them carry crumbs back to the nest, too, just like I did sometimes. Back then I’d assumed everyone felt that way, like me and my mates from Hawthorne Green. Moving to Oakridge taught me otherwise. Since then, I’d only asked people I really trusted—or people, like Stephen, whose kindness made it unnecessary.

Diana was different. I couldn’t swear she’d never crush an ant and that uncertainty of mine made her look hard to be trusted, even if just for a moment, at least not as easily as Stephen proved me to be. The doubt came to me at seeing her so straightforward and sharp-tongued, almost as she didn’t really take into consideration the possibility of upsetting others, or hurting them. I noticed this first with Louis and second, back when that conversation with Stephen took place at the cantine. Not that I cared about Louis feeling upset, as he did everything to upset me, but I definitely cared about Stephen. She was determined to go to the rite with me, so much so that she didn’t even bother to listen to what he wanted to say about it, something that had him quite stressed about me taking part of it. Paying attention to Stephen’s reaction at being silenced by her, that’s when a bit of my excitement to join the initiation left my body. I wanted to believe she wouldn’t step on innocent ants just as easily as she disrespected my friend, especially because I hoped that single episode was nothing but that, but I hadn’t had the chance to ask her yet. I already knew I wanted to—it felt important—but things between us had moved so fast that I hadn’t had the moment. And now here I was, her arms wrapped round mine, wondering if she was the kind of person who might.

I’d only had one proper girlfriend before, Viola. That lasted four years before we split for reasons I don’t often feel like dragging up. Her parents were both Italian, moved first to Oakridge for work, then to Hawthorne Green for a garden and a quieter life, like they’d had back home. I fell for Viola straightaway. Even now I say she was the first person I truly loved. She was the second girl I ever asked my question. And of course, with her country childhood, she didn’t need to think twice before saying no—she’d never kill an ant. When I asked her, though, I didn’t even know yet how deeply she loved nature. But for me, the question was essential. Always had been.

To me it was simple: if you can crush something as small and harmless as an ant, what’s to stop you from crushing something far more fragile—like a heart you’d learnt to get to know more and more? Wouldn’t it be easy for you to hurt someone who’s trusted you with all their weak spots, abusing of the power they allowed you to have on them? I would bet it was.

I’d had plenty of friendships where the question never came up, though, so I wouldn’t say I was paranoid. But when I did ask it, that was my way of saying I was ready to give myself fully, to let them see every side of me—maybe even share lines from my favourite books.

With Diana, I felt I would ask, eventually. But we’d burned through stages too quickly, and now I wasn’t sure. With Stephen, though, I trusted him already. He was my first real mate here, and it was clear he was trying to warn me off for my own good. Whatever he hadn’t managed to say before Diana cut him off, it was obviously something I needed to know. On the other hand, Diana was buzzing with excitement, desperate for me to go with her, which made me realise she really cared about me.

I didn’t know which way to turn.

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

I only ran into Louis once all day, not counting that morning, and it happened just as he was leaving our room before I came back after dinner. He hadn’t shown up to any lectures that day either, and judging by the way he was dressed, I guessed he was off to meet the other organisers to make sure everything was set for the big night.

When we crossed paths, he only glanced at me the second he realised I was opening the door.

“H-hi,” I stammered, caught off guard. I didn’t plan to sound as nice as he’d never been towards me, but my hello sounded just like that. Though he didn’t seem to care, nor to want to reply in a nice way too, or to reply at all. Without a flicker of recognition, he just gave me a sharp, appraising look and stayed silent. Buttoning the last of his shirt buttons, he practically bolted out of the room while I held the door open for him too. He strode down the corridor with quick, precise steps, and I watched him go from a distance.

I rolled my eyes, irritated, as his back disappeared from view. “Asshole,” I muttered under my breath. Then I shut the door behind me.

As usual, the first thing I did was kick off my shoes, ready to flop onto the bed after such a long day, but something on the sheet caught my attention and stopped me. A blue bandana with white patterns lay neatly on the bed, and beside it was a note.

 

 

Every freshman with an escort has to wear something that links them to the person accompanying them. I picked this for you. Wear it, or you’re screwed.

 

I read it, then noticed a little arrow in the bottom right corner. I flipped the note over and found more words on the back:

 

P.S.: I see you haven’t started my paper yet. Get cracking, if you don’t want my escorting you to be wasted.

 

Truth be told, I hadn’t started my own essay either. But Louis was right: the sooner I got down to it, the better—though I still hated that he was basically holding this over my head.

I sighed, set the note back on the bed, and picked up the blue bandana. I knew Stephen might never forgive me, but I had no choice. I was going to that initiation. I just had to.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

Chapter 7: The Game of Rooms

 

                                                       

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

I reached the common room with Louis’s bandana round my neck and Diana holding my hand. In the crowd I immediately spotted my escort — he’d got the same bandana on, which made me almost grin. Not that it was unexpected, since the message he left on my bed was pretty clear, but I had to say that seeing it on his neck too had some effect on me, especially since it implied we’d be matching.

Normally the common room had a couple of tables and armchairs scattered about for people to flop into. Tonight it’d been rejigged: the chairs were shoved against one wall, more seats had been dragged in, and bottles had been placed on the tables — the sort of booze they’d put out to loosen people up and let the party begin. The music was loud as soon as we walked in and we shoved ourselves into the mêlée: some students kept to themselves, others were already pouring drinks and introducing themselves to anyone within grabbing distance. Diana paused now and then to say hello; sometimes she properly introduced me, sometimes she just smiled at someone without moving closer, and with a few people she pretended not to see them at all, looking embarrassed. I asked who they were, but she clammed up.

“Look — it’s about to start,” she said instead, pointing out one of the organisers fiddling with a mic to see if it worked. I watched as the guy tested it.

“Check, check, check” he said, drawing everyone’s attention. “Can you hear me, freshers?!” he shouted, and the room answered back, loud and eager.

“Welcome to your first Initiation Rite!!” he cried, and the place erupted into cheering and clapping. Diana’s hand brushed my arm and she smiled at me. She was clearly chuffed I’d turned up.

“If none of the older students has been a bastard and told you how this works,” came a ripple of laughter, “then you’ll be just as clueless as you were the first time you had sex— tonight’s a mystery!” More laughter, and Diana giggled too. She looked radiant in that glittery red dress and silver jewellery — honestly, she seemed even more excited than I felt, without being a fresher.

As that organiser spoke, I kept glancing over at Louis every now and then. He’d done his hair in a way that actually suited him tonight, which probably explained why I kept looking. What surprised me was he kept looking back: once or twice he turned and caught my eye — maybe I was the one staring a bit too much, or maybe he noticed me stealing glances. I wasn’t only watching him, though; I was scanning for anyone else wearing matching bandanas or something like that, curious what the organisers had handed out to other escorts. No one else had anything that obvious, though; that struck me as odd.

While I was still checking, another organiser took the mic as the first wandered off to pour himself a drink.

“This year we’ve called it ‘The Game of Rooms’,” the new speaker announced. “You’re probably wondering what that means, and we’re here to tell you.” From the way he said it, the theme wasn’t necessarily the same every year — they clearly liked to build a bit of suspense. The fact Diana was second-year and therefore knew the drill gave me a tiny boost of confidence. Still, this year’s theme was different, so it was a surprise for everyone.

“Last week we told you we’d have the whole hall to ourselves tonight — you know what that means?” came the chorus of obligatory “oohs.” “It means we, the organisers, are making our rooms available for you to have a good time in. And, apologies to our roommates for having rented their rooms without asking — they’ll be more than compensated with some top-notch sex,” the organiser added, and I felt Louis shoot me a look. He even smiled at me; I smiled back and gave him a little sarcastic nod, as if to say thanks for the chance. By the time another organiser grabbed the mic, I caught Diana staring at me and I went instant shy, flicking my eyes away. She looked confused, and frankly I couldn’t blame her — we’d spent all evening slagging him off, so why were we suddenly smiling at each other?

Luckily, the woman on the mic took over quickly. “Compliments aside, here’s how things will actually go: besides our six rooms, some friends have made theirs available too, so we’ve got more than six rooms to use. Not everyone will get into a room — space is limited. We have ten rooms in total, but there’s a lot of you, so we’ll manage.” I listened to the instructions more closely than I’d listened to any lecture that week. Meanwhile, Louis kept giving glances only to look somewhere else as soon as he noticed I was looking back. This whole thing started to tense me up. What did he want from me?

“Only a handful of you will get into the rooms, and those who do will be blindfolded. The six of us will lead them into the rooms, strap them to chairs, and whoever goes in will decide how to tease them. We’ve got until five in the morning, and you’ll get twenty minutes each — fifteen in the room plus five to dress — so make it count.” The buzz in the room was electric. The music, the chat, the shouts — sometimes the mic was drowned out by the excitement — but I caught every word. Honestly? It sounded… thrilling. Maybe this rite wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“You won’t be able to pick your fresher,” Louis said, stepping up to the mic as the next organiser, and immediately my ears pricked up. “We call them prey and predators, for short: if you want to be a predator, you can only choose the sex of the prey you’re after, if you care. You might also not care and play around. Hence the free mode, for all of you bitches” He chuckled and a lot of people cheered.

“On the table behind us there are two jars and slips of paper. Write your name on a note and put it in the jar: one for prey, one for predators. When we draw the predators, you’ll come up and we’ll assign a room at random. Because we don’t have time to let predators in one by one, we might let more than one into a room — form packs if you dare.” He made air-quotes around packs. “Your call. This isn’t really for anyone who’s jealous of their prey, though, so let’s see who’s brave enough” he finished, and the room got curious— everyone except Diana, who didn’t find it funny, differently from several other students already planning to form packs.

“I am a bit jealous, actually,” Diana admitted, flashing me a sideways smile and pulling me closer. “So I hope I get your room,” she said, and kissed me.

“Didn’t Joe say that bringing someone suggests you’re basically a couple?” I asked, remembering Joe’s earlier warning that asking one person meant basically arriving as their partner. That was why I’d told him I wanted Diana by my side — to make up for the awkwardness from the other night and finally have a night with her.

“Yeah, so what? Even if we’re together, the rite is about having random sex,” Diana replied, almost as if being a couple involved no loyalty. I wasn’t sure how she defined jealousy, but it didn’t sound like the possessive type.

“Still,” she leaned in and whispered in my left ear, “if I have you in my claws, I’ll know exactly what to do with you. And I wouldn’t mind.” The predator-prey line made me forget that we’d sort-of announced we were a thing. She was right — tonight was for messing about, so I’d have fun. But I also quietly hoped she’d end up in my room and not someone else’s; after all, I’d agreed to write Louis’s essay so he’d escort me and give me that chance to have some time alone with Diana. And there had to be some perks to being accompanied, right? That was to find out.

While everyone else was busy queuing up to scribble their names and drop them into the jars, I figured I might as well go straight to the one person who’d actually convinced me to show up tonight. I told Diana to put both our names down — prey and predator, one each — while I slipped over to Louis.

“My writer,” he greeted me, eyeing me up and down. “And what’s this lovely bandana then?” He clocked it straightaway, waved off the lads he’d been chatting with, and focused on me. No need to drag him aside.

“Escort,” I shot back, giving him something close to a bow. Truth was, I still couldn’t stand him — every time he called me his writer I was reminded of the bloody essay I was meant to write in his place, abandoning all my own ideas about that great literary fossil. But if I wanted him to agree to what I was about to ask, I had to play along, pretend we were thick as thieves.

“And yours? Same as mine, I see.” I almost reached to touch it, then pulled my hand back. He just smiled, waiting for me to cut to the chase.

“So tell me, Jacob, d’you like the idea of the rooms?” he asked, sipping his beer. Apparently, he didn’t mean to drop that nickname at all.

“You mean do I like the idea of dozens of freshers getting shagged on our beds by half the upper years?” I snatched the bottle from his hand. “Of course I do. If you’d pitched it, I’d have signed up on the spot. Shame you didn’t.” Honestly, winding him up was half the fun.

“Cheers for the beer,” he said dryly, reaching for it.

“Cheers for the room,” I fired back. His smirk widened, and while I was too busy holding his gaze, he whipped the bottle back and finished it.

“Anyway,” he went on, “the organisers’ rooms always get handed over. That’s just how these rites work. You’ve only just got here, so you don’t really get a say in what happens to your room.” He drained the last mouthful.

“Tonight I do,” I said, still not breaking eye contact.

“Oh, do you?” His eyebrow arched.

For a moment I hesitated. Teasing him was one thing; trusting him with what I actually wanted was another. Louis was too unpredictable — he could just as easily laugh in my face or blow up altogether. Only an hour ago he’d walked past me with a glare like I was dirt under his shoe. God knows how many ants he’d crushed as a kid — and I wasn’t about to bet my heart he’d be gentler with me.

Still, I was here for a reason. And pulling back now would be pointless. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Diana stepping up to the table, about to drop both our names into the jars. I had to be quick.

“Yes,” I said at last, watching him lean in, curious. “Look, Louis, I am grateful you came with me tonight, and for the bandana — nice touch, by the way.” Only then did I realise I hadn’t actually returned the compliment. “But don’t forget: I’m writing your essay. That’s twice the work for me, drafting another paper on top of mine, and giving an opinion I don’t even believe in—”

“Mind the punctuation,” he cut in, smug. That one jab nearly made me snap back — the sheer lack of gratitude was staggering, worse than anything De Pretis’s Magnani could muster according to his view of him. But I bit down, breathed deep, and nodded.

“Mind the punctuation… sure. And you know what you’ll mind tonight?” I poked his chest with a finger, making him tilt his head in confusion. “That it’s Diana who ends up in my room. Mine. I’d rather not fuck in somewhere else.” I took a step back after that, certain it wasn’t what he’d expected me to say.

“Oh, you want to shag her on your bed, do you, prince?” he asked, just as Diana reappeared and slipped her arm through mine. Louis’s eyes dropped to her hand on me, then lifted again with a stiff smile.

“I’ve put both our names in,” Diana said cheerily. Louis ignored her completely, still staring at me like I had a second head.

“Thanks, babe,” I said, instinctively. The word slipped out before I could stop it — babe. First time I’d called her that, and in front of Louis of all people. Great.

“Babe?” he repeated, making me sigh. I knew that tone inside out. “Oh, how sweet! You two are a couple? And my darling roommate never even told me…” His mocking sing-song was the exact same voice he’d used the other night when he’d accused me of sneaking off to watch porn.

Diana’s face darkened for half a second — but she bounced back. “He didn’t tell you because we only made it official today. And Harry talks to whoever he wants. Not that I’m shocked you weren’t top of his list.” Her little jab at him nearly made me laugh; I held it in. Louis had too much power over whether Diana and I ended up together later, and I wasn’t about to blow it.

“Getting together right at initiation. A timeless classic,” Louis drawled. Which gave me the perfect opening: “Like De Pretis’s work — another timeless classic. The one Graham assigned us for next week. Well, the one I’ll be writing—”

“Sorry, must dash,” he cut me off again, slipping between us so Diana and I had to drop hands. He joined Troy, who’d been waiting behind us.

“Don’t worry, Jacob, I’ll see to it you end up in your room. In our room, in fact.” He tossed the last line over his shoulder, the our clearly meaning his and Troy’s, not mine and his. Then off he went, arm in arm with Troy.

The way he dismissed my thing with Diana irritated me, but honestly, what else did I expect from someone who definitely didn’t want word getting out that I was ghostwriting his paper? Still, his last line sounded promising. If I had to waste hours writing his essay, at least Diana and I would get to celebrate our new relationship properly tonight.

I suggested she grab a seat while I went to fetch drinks. On the way, I bumped into Joe, who shoved one of the pints he was balancing into my hand.

“H-Harry, mate — meet m’boyfriend, Beeens-on!” he bellowed, even though I was barely a foot away. Clearly tipsy — or flat-out pissed.

I hung about with them for a while, laughing as Joe wobbled dangerously, and decided Diana would find it hilarious when I told her. I kept glancing around, hoping to spot her and wave her over, but no luck. Eventually I peeled off, determined to get those drinks sorted.

I headed for the nearest table and instantly regretted picking that one. Right beside it, pressed against the wall, were Louis and Troy, snogging each other like their lives depended on it.

I grabbed a Long Island for me and one for Diana, brushing past them. “Well, shit, Troy Bolton — didn’t think you’d go that hard with Gabriella.”

At that, Troy pulled one hand off Louis’s arse to flip me the finger. Louis, meanwhile, opened his eyes mid-kiss at the sound of my voice — and didn’t look away once. His eyes were stuck on my grin, almost as if he didn’t have anything better than my presence to keep him busy, such as kissing his boyfriend.

So I leaned in, took Troy’s raised finger, and licked it, laughing, all while Louis’s eyes stayed locked on mine.

Then I bolted, slipping into the crowd before Troy’s inevitable reaction could catch up with me.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

I’d never been blindfolded before. Sure, I’d once blindfolded a girl I’d hooked up with after a party, but me? Letting someone else cover my eyes and tie me down? Never thought I’d go there. One of the organizers did it, though—blindfolded me, tied me to a chair. Luckily the chair wasn’t all that uncomfortable, and besides, Diana was supposed to come through that door any second. I was sure she’d free me first thing—maybe even before kissing me.

They left me alone in the middle of the room. Twenty seconds tops, maybe less, before the door flew open and footsteps rushed in.

“Finally,” I said, listening to the steps stop in front of me. Not being able to see was disorienting as hell, especially with the amount I’d had to drink. Weirdly enough, the blindfold made my head spin even more. But part of me didn’t mind Diana leaving it on for a while longer. Which she did—without saying a word.

Hands slid onto my knees, nudging me to spread my legs. I focused on every sound, every little movement. She knelt between my thighs, her palms warm against them, and just that touch had me hardening. Then her fingers found the bulge in my jeans, pressing hard.

I gasped, head falling back, until she tugged my belt open and yanked my pants down in one go. She left them pooled around my ankles, her hands gripping the sides of my thighs. Everything felt sharper, amplified—though my drunken haze made it all slightly unreal. I wanted to grab her hair so badly, but my wrists were still tied.

Her mouth brushed close, teasing me through the fabric of my boxers, licking at me before even pulling them off. Every hot drag of her tongue made me ache to be inside her mouth. She kept kissing me through the dampening fabric, making me twitch.

“F-fuck, Di—” I choked out, right as she pressed at the base of my cock through the underwear, then mouthed me again, wetter, rougher. Before I could even say her name she bit down—light, sharp—and then went back to licking. No one had ever bitten me there before, but damn, it worked.

I was panting hard, right up until she peeled my boxers down too, leaving them to join the mess at my ankles. Then she went straight for me, not even using her hands at first, just sliding down and taking me in whole. Nose pressed against my skin, holding me there for seconds that felt impossible. My head spun and I groaned loud, half-crazed, licking my lips like I was starving for her kiss—even though the last thing I wanted was for her to stop sucking me.

Hearing me lose it, she finally grabbed me—stroking me with one hand, rolling my balls with the other. My breath caught with every flick, every messy kiss she dropped on my tip. She alternated sucking and licking until I was shaking. When she pulled off and just pumped me fast, I gave up trying to hold back.

“A–ahhh,” I groaned, fists clenched against the chair, straining against the ropes. I came hard—first across my thighs, then in her mouth as she swallowed me down without hesitation, lips wrapping back around my tip. I was drunk, sure, but I knew one thing for certain: that was the best head I’d ever had.

“Kiss me,” I begged, chest heaving. I wanted to taste myself on her lips. I’d never wanted that before, and blamed it on the alcohol, but when her mouth crashed onto mine it didn’t feel wrong at all. She kissed better than she ever had, hungry and frantic, and the faint taste of me only pushed me further over the edge.

Her tongue battled mine, reckless, and she only broke away for a few seconds—long enough for me to hear fabric shifting, the sound of clothes being stripped off. Then her lips were back, harder, like she wanted to drown me in it.

She shifted to my side, hands gripping my face, tugging my head to kiss deeper. One hand trailed down my neck, tugging at the bandana tied there. I groaned into her mouth, desperate to touch her, to pull her closer, but the ropes held me still.

“Untie me. I—I need to touch you,” I pleaded between kisses.

She didn’t answer. She just straddled me. Her weight pressed down on my lap and I let out a sharp sound—but along with it came something else, strange, unexpected. Still, I ignored it. Too caught up in her lips, in the way she tugged my hair—God, that was one perk of keeping it long.

“Please…” I begged again, aching from how hard I still was.

Instead of untying me, she leaned back slightly, bracing a hand on my shoulder. With the other, she grabbed me again—but this time, I felt myself sliding against something different. Something that didn’t make sense at first. Until, through the haze, I realized it was another cock.

My head nearly exploded. Every nerve lit up. My tip was still oversensitive, and the way his hand stroked us together made me moan louder than before. It hadn’t been Diana going down on me. It wasn’t Diana kissing me like it was the end of the world. It was a guy.

And the wildest part? I still wanted to touch him, just like I’d said before.

“G-God…” I groaned, shaking. “Faster.” And he listened, stroking harder, tighter, dragging me closer to the edge all over again. The fact that he was in control, setting the pace, had me both weak and electrified.

For a second I thought I might come again—but it was him who did. I only realized when he kissed me one last time, his tongue wet and sharp with a taste that wasn’t mine. I’d tasted myself earlier, but now it was his—bitter, salty, strangely sweet. And fuck, it was good. Better than good. It was intoxicating.

I’d never called myself a hundred percent straight. Not once in my life. Sure, I’d only ever dated girls, and most of my experiences had been with women, but through my teens I admitted to myself I badly wanted to know what it’d be like with a guy. Still, it never went further than some pointless flirting—I never clicked with anyone enough to take that step.

There was just one boy I ever felt close to, and that was Javier—the one I gave my first kiss to when I was nine. A quick peck, barely even there, but inside me it left a trace I couldn’t ignore. Proof that girls weren’t the only ones I could like. The thought stuck with me.

Javier and I stayed friends. We brushed the kiss off as nothing more than curiosity, and even agreed not to tell Olimpia, unsure how she’d take it. Still, before Javier moved back to Argentina, I had this nagging feeling she’d somehow figured it out. That suspicion only grew when, after I came back to Hawthorne Green, she used the time apart as an excuse to cut me out for good. That’s when I understood she must have had feelings for him, even though I never asked. But that’s another story.

Back to that exact moment—I was sitting half-naked in my new college room, tied to a chair, the boy who’d just confirmed my bisexuality presumably getting dressed again.

“C-Can I at least know who you are…?” I asked into the darkness of the blindfold. For a second there was nothing—loud, deafening silence—and I panicked that he’d already left. But I hadn’t heard the door open or close, so I figured he was still there. I was tipsy and wrecked with exhaustion, but I knew that much. And I was right. He confirmed it with nothing more than a quick throat-clear, though he still didn’t speak.

“I liked it. What we did,” I added, hoping to reassure him that my question didn’t come with some weird catch, that I was being honest. While I waited for an answer, I licked my lips. They still tasted faintly of him.

Even after I’d said something that mattered to me, he stayed quiet. My hope of ever finding out who he was disappeared completely. I sighed, dropping my head, almost giving up. Then I felt him come closer—just to move me.

“Wha—” was all I managed before my head spun from being shifted around. Still, I let him guide me, stumbling to my feet, until he sat me back down where he wanted. Then he finally untied my wrists. But before I could rip off the blindfold and turn around, I realized he was already gone.

I turned toward the wall opposite the door and understood: he’d left me facing away so he could slip out without me catching even a glimpse. I couldn’t wrap my head around how someone who’d been kneeling between my legs—or straddling me, giving me the best of himself just minutes earlier—could guard his anonymity like that. Maybe that was the point of the Game of Rooms: to be blindfolded and bound so that a stranger could do whatever they wanted without you seeing or touching them. But fuck, I’d wanted to.

Once I was sure he was gone, I blinked hard—left eye first, then right—getting used again to the soft lamplight. I rolled my neck, sore and throbbing, trying to ease the headache pounding my temples. I stretched my wrists too, red and marked from the rope—not because he’d tied them too tight, but because I’d strained against them, desperate to touch him.

I stood, grateful that three minutes still remained on the twenty, and headed to the bathroom to splash water on my face. While I was at it, I changed clothes entirely, faster than I ever had in my life. Back in the room, I went to pick up my belt from where he’d thrown it. That’s when I noticed my blue bandana, slipped from my neck in the frenzy of our kissing, lying close by.

I bent down to grab it—and instinctively touched my neck. That’s when I realized I was still wearing mine.

Staring at the one in my hand, I tossed the belt onto the bed and pulled the bandana from my neck. For a second I blamed the alcohol, thinking I was seeing double. But no. The horror that hit me was real.

I was holding two.

Identical.

One mine.
The other… his.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

Chapter 8: Show's over

 

                                                                   

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

I stood frozen in the middle of the room for the last sixty seconds ticking down on the alarm clock the organizers had left on my desk before blindfolding me. When it finally went off, I was still stuck there, motionless, clutching those two bandanas like an idiot. My head was spinning.

“OUT!! Time’s up!!!” I only snapped out of it when someone started pounding on the door so hard it made me lift my head.
“Everyone out! Now, no delays!” another organizer yelled, his voice fading as he moved down the hall to check the other rooms. That jolted me back. I shoved one bandana over my eyes again and, not knowing what to do with the other, stuffed it straight into my pocket. That little scrap of fabric was the only proof I wasn’t losing my mind—that, drunk or not, I knew damn well my roommate, Louis William Tomlinson, had just gone down on me.

I reached for the door handle, turned it slowly… and it stiffened in my grip.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered. Stuck. Again. For the millionth time. Maybe I really did need to tell Stephen, or literally any tutor on campus, that this thing had to be fixed before we ended up trapped inside for good—longer than the twenty minutes we’d already endured. Unreal.

I leaned my whole weight into the handle, tried the key I’d just shoved back in my pocket—nothing. The damn thing wouldn’t budge.
“Hello?? Anyone out there??” I shouted. If I couldn’t open it from inside, maybe someone outside could. “Hey! Organizers??” I yelled again, finally pausing when I heard footsteps approaching.
“You guys there?” I called, pressing my ear to the door.

“Jacob,” one of them said on the other side.
“Oh, thank God. Can you open it? I’m stuck in here,” I shot back. A couple of seconds later came the most useless advice ever:
“Uh… try the key?”
“Wow, thanks, Einstein. Already did that!” I snapped.

“Don’t take it personal, Kirk. Jacob loves talking down to people—even the ones who know how to give it right back,” the first guy said. His voice clicked—Silence Club. Just my luck. Exactly the type who’d enjoy leaving me locked in.

“You’re still pissed about that? I was joking,” I muttered, rolling my eyes—safe gesture since he couldn’t see me. “Just open the damn door, please,” I added, trying to sound reasonable.
All I got back was laughter.

I exhaled hard, brain scrambling. “Look, if you don’t open this, you’re down to nine rooms instead of ten. Your call.” That seemed to work—they shoved at the door until it finally gave way.

When I stepped into the hall, the Silence Club guy grinned in my face, even nudging his buddy like it was hilarious. I shut the door behind me and frowned at them.
“What’s so funny?” I asked. “It’s not like I locked myself in on purpose.”

They kept snickering like idiots.
“Yeah, but you’re the one who was moaning like crazy. Maybe next time, try not to howl so loud, wolf boy,” Kirk cracked up all over again.
“And who was it, huh? Must’ve been some pro. Share her number?” the other piled on.

I glared, disgust written all over my face, but before I could walk off, the second guy corrected him:
“You already know her. It was Diana. Saw him holding hands with her in the common room—obvious, right?”
“Diana?? Oh, now it all makes sense. She’s a legend.” Kirk smirked, and that one stung.
“Hell yeah, with all the guys she’s been with, she’s basically certified,” the other added.

My blood was boiling. I knew it hadn’t been Diana in my room—but that wasn’t the point. The point was how they thought they could trash her right in front of me, like it was nothing. I made it to the end of the hall, about to take the stairs, then turned back.

“Excuse me?” I asked, loud enough to cut through their stupid laughter. They both spun around, watching me walk toward them.

“What? We’re just telling the truth,” Kirk sneered.
“Wait, she didn’t tell you about all the guys she’s slept with? Or how she cheats on every single one? Hold on, maybe it’s worse: she forced you into dating her too?” the other chimed in.

With every step I got closer, my jaw locked tighter. I could feel the heat crawling up my chest.
“She didn’t force me. I asked her out,” I snapped. Their words hit me like a gut punch, but I forced them right back out. They just wanted a reaction.

“Poor guy, he actually asked her,” Louis’s friend mocked.
“Of course he did. Everyone falls for Diana at least once.” They were practically talking over me, like I wasn’t even there, one step away.
“The problem’s when you find out how many she’s cheated on. Pretty much all of them. During her very first initiation she managed to break up, what, four couples? And that’s not even counting her own. I swear, I’ve never seen anyone date that many people in one year.”

The more crap they threw at her, the hotter my blood ran. There was no way in hell I was letting them keep going like that. A couple of doors around us opened as people started spilling out, way past the time limit, but I didn’t care who was watching. One more crack about Diana and I lost it.

“Don’t you ever talk about my girl like that again,” I growled—an actual growl, deeper and darker than my own voice had ever sounded. I stepped in, didn’t even aim, just let my fist crash into one of their cheekbones hard enough to leave a mark.

He stared at me for a split second before his buddy lunged, grabbing me around the waist and slamming me to the floor. Then it was both of them on me, and I was swinging back, harder, wilder. We kept going—punch after punch after punch—like we didn’t even have brakes.

Students poured out of their rooms, yelling, trying to break us apart. Even a couple of girls reached in before some guys pulled them back. I didn’t even clock half of it; others were already running to get help from the common room.

There were shouts everywhere telling us to quit, telling us we’d just hurt ourselves, that it wasn’t worth it. But my brain wouldn’t click off. Even while I was hitting them, part of me couldn’t believe I was actually doing this. Me—the guy raised in the quiet fields of Hawthorne Green by a mother who drilled into me that fights solved nothing. When Javier had once swung on his sister’s ex, I was the one dragging him off instantly and making him swear never again. We’d both hated fights, we were the “calm boys” of the countryside. Now I wasn’t in Hawthorne Green anymore, with my rusty swing set and my garden to sit in when things went bad. Maybe that’s why I’d snapped.

The more hands pulled at me, the more I realized how wrong this was. Finally, I let them drag me back from those two cavemen. I was ashamed of myself for turning into one too. I just stood there, catching my breath, not even daring to look them in the eye.

“Look at him, he’s finally backing off! What the hell is his problem?” Kirk yelled as a couple of guys held him back.
“Can’t handle the truth, huh? Not my fault your girl’s a slut!” he spat. I wanted to snap back—God, I wanted to lunge again—but three guys had me locked down and my body had nothing left to give.

“How dare you, Kirk! Like you’ve never cheated on any poor girl you dated!” a female voice shot from behind me. I twisted around. Chloe. I hadn’t even realized she was there in the crowd.

“Please, Chloe. At least I own it! Not like your little friend, screwing clueless freshmen who don’t know her history and then dumping them when she’s bored!” Kirk’s rage was even hotter than mine had been when I’d first swung at him.

I couldn’t say a word. I just hung there in the grip of the guys restraining me, making sure I didn’t go at him again.

“Enough!” people were shouting now—not just at me but at Kirk and his friend too, holding them back while they kept screaming. They looked like animals at the hunt. And I couldn’t believe I’d been in that same state just minutes ago.

“What the fuck’s going on here?!” Louis’s voice cut through the noise as he shoved his way into the corridor, Troy right behind him, both of them looking confused.
“What the hell did I miss?” he asked, finding me and the two organizers being kept apart by other students.

“Well, look who’s here after his little hook-up!” sneered the so-called “silent” guy, who was anything but. “You didn’t miss a damn thing, bro. Just your pain-in-the-ass roommate attacking us for no reason.”

I just shook my head, still stunned that I’d started a fight—me, the guy who used to rescue ant hills instead of stomping them.

Louis stepped right up to me, Troy at his side, the buzz of everyone’s whispers filling my ears.
“What did you do, Jacob?” he asked, his face barely eight inches from mine. I looked back at him and, in those ice-blue eyes, caught a flash of what I could’ve gotten lost in fifteen minutes earlier if I hadn’t been blindfolded.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Styles? Seriously, explain it,” he demanded, voice low and tight. The same leader’s arrogance he’d had when he first introduced himself was still there, only now it made my stomach twist. He was really pissed.

“I didn’t start it,” I snapped back. “The fight, yeah. But not the shit-talking. They said everything—she cheats on everyone, she uses freshmen like me, they even called her a slut. And I was just supposed to stand there?” I shoved free of the guys holding me and stepped closer to Louis’s face. If he wanted to square up with me, I’d square up right back. I didn’t even recognize myself anymore.

Louis held my stare in silence for a few long seconds, his eyes locked on mine like he was trying to burn a hole straight through me. Then he turned to Kirk and his mate.
“Is it true, what you said?” he asked. For a second, I thought—stupidly—that he might actually be about to defend me in front of everyone. They both nodded, still pinned by the arms. And for half a heartbeat, I let myself believe Louis was on my side. When he turned back to me, he even dropped his gaze, reached out and flicked the bandana I was wearing like some kind of private gesture. My eyes went to his mouth. And I knew Troy, standing just a few steps away, was watching every detail.

Then Louis stepped back, just slightly, and shattered whatever illusion I’d been clinging to.
“Well, they’re not entirely wrong, are they? There must be a reason everyone on campus knows your girlfriend’s name, Jacob.”

It felt like a punch to the gut. My eyes snapped cold, pulled away from his mouth for good—I wasn’t going to let him think I was replaying that kiss, even if I was.
“What the hell are you on about? A girl can’t be known around campus without being branded a slut? That’s insane!” I barked, taking a step back from him. I couldn’t stand being that close anymore.

“Fair enough,” he said, his tone almost casual. “But why don’t we ask the rest of the dorm?” He tilted his head towards the crowd watching us. “Aside from her little circle of mates, obviously, because we all know what they’d say.” I caught Chloe folding her arms tight, Joe shaking his head a few feet back.
“Anyone here ever heard Diana Turner called a faithful girlfriend?” Silence. “Always kind to the first-years she gets with?” Nothing. “Never blown up a relationship in her life?” Still nothing. Dead silence filling the corridor. Even Chloe stayed quiet, not just because Louis had shut her down, but because part of her knew he wasn’t lying. I couldn’t bear to admit it.

“Well then, it looks like no one’s—” Louis started again, but Troy cut him off, stepping forward.

“Sorry,” he said flatly, eyes locked on Louis. “Where’s your bandana?” He flicked his gaze at me. My stomach dropped. Of all the reasons Troy could’ve had for stepping in, that question was the last I expected.

Louis froze almost as much as I did. “W-what?” he stammered, hand flying to his neck. “I… must’ve dropped it somewhere.” He even tripped over his words. I swallowed hard.

“Dropped it?” Troy repeated, narrowing his eyes. Louis couldn’t even look at him. That scared me more than anything. Troy noticed too, because he turned towards me. I darted a glance down, checking my pocket, where I’d shoved it earlier after finding it on our floor. My hand twitched, but Troy was already on me. He nudged my arm aside, slid his hand straight into my pocket, and pulled it out.

“You dropped it, yeah? Dropped it straight into your roommate’s pocket?” he said, waving it at Louis. I shut my eyes, wishing I could disappear.

Louis’s eyes flicked instantly to our room just down the hall. “I—I must’ve left it in there. He picked it up. That’s all,” he mumbled. I nodded along like an idiot, trying to back him up, though Troy wasn’t even looking at me.

“Oh, cut the crap. You were wearing it at the start of the rite. Who are you trying to kid?” Troy snapped, his voice raw with fury.

“Yes, I know—I mean before I came downstairs to meet you,” Louis stuttered. “I tied up the first-year who came into our room myself, must’ve slipped off then.” It would’ve almost sounded believable, if Kirk hadn’t butted in like an idiot:
“Wasn’t Styles in there? With Diana? And wasn’t Pete who blindfolded him?”

Louis’s head whipped towards him, hand at his neck, looking guilty as hell. I’d never seen him like that—unable to meet someone’s eyes. Especially not Troy’s.

“You two fucked, didn’t you?” Troy asked, with this bitter little laugh that cracked halfway through. His voice broke.

“N-no! We didn’t!” Louis said quickly, and I jumped in.
“He’s right! Nothing happened,” I blurted.

“Shut it, Jacob!” Troy snapped, finally turning on me. “I don’t care what you’ve got to say. And even if I did—you were blindfolded. You’re not the bastard here.” He swung back on Louis.

Louis tried stepping closer, but Troy shoved back a pace. “Don’t you dare. Don’t come near me,” he warned, his voice shaking but fierce. People started peeling away, the respectful ones leaving, while the nosey ones stayed glued to the show.

“If you’ve got the guts, look me in the eye and—” Troy began.
“I am looking at you,” Louis cut across him.
“…And tell me you didn’t shag him,” Troy finished, voice low and breaking.

I shook my head helplessly. God, I wished my word counted for something.

“We didn’t. I swear it,” Louis pushed again, edging closer, but Troy stepped back once more. He sniffed hard, and my chest caved in watching them—both of them—with their throats tight, fighting the lump that wanted to break them.

“So what did you do then?” Troy asked finally, voice calmer but sharper, each word measured. “If you didn’t shag, then what? Because something happened, right?” He took a step closer, then another. “Or rather, you did something—because you’re the one who went into his room. Your room.” He swallowed. There was a steel in his voice now, a brutal honesty I couldn’t have managed if it were me. Fragile or not, he wasn’t going to let it show.

Neither of us said a word—me, because nothing I said would matter; Louis, because he clearly had no idea how to frame the truth.

“Well? What did you do? Don’t have the balls to admit it?” Troy pressed. Louis dropped his gaze, exhaling sharply.

“Look me in the eye, I said,” Troy shot back instantly, fists clenched, trembling with rage. I almost walked away, but he caught me out of the corner of his eye. “Stay right there,” he ordered, planting himself at my side.

Another stretch of silence, heavy as lead. I felt like I’d been trapped in that corridor for a lifetime.

“Why don’t you tell me what he did to you, if your new boyfriend’s gone mute?” Troy asked, his face twisted with pure anger now. His voice no longer shook. It was just fury—fury and betrayal, waiting for the answer he already feared.

“He’s not my—” was all I managed, shaking my head and flicking a glance at Louis, who finally lifted his face, breathing out hard. Neither of us seemed to know what to say. But Louis, at that point, had no choice but to come up with something.

“I… I gave him—” he started, but the words stuck, knotted by panic. “I… I gave him—” he tried again, as Troy stood there listening, waiting. I swallowed once, twice. It was as if the confession was trapped in his gut, refusing to come out.

“What? Go on, Louis—spit it out,” Troy pressed, almost urging him to rip the plaster off in one go. I, on the other hand, would’ve given anything for him not to say it at all. My head hung low; every so often I risked a glance at Louis, watching him flounder. My nerves were shot.

“A… a blowjob,” my roommate muttered, so softly Troy barely caught it.

“What was that?” Troy pushed.

Louis drew a long, ragged breath, then forced it out again. “A… blowjob.”

Troy didn’t even let him finish the word before his hand cracked across Louis’s face. The slap echoed down the corridor, sharp and brutal, right in front of the onlookers who still hadn’t dispersed.

A silence stretched, heavy and ugly, before Troy finally spoke again. Louis kept his gaze fixed on the floor, as if it might swallow him whole.

“Show’s over. What the fuck are you all still standing around for?” Troy shoved his way through the gawkers and stormed towards the stairs.

Louis froze, then bolted after him. “Troy! Wait!” he shouted, but Troy only ran faster, desperate to get away.

Kirk and the other lad had been let go long ago; now they brushed past me, ramming their shoulders against mine as they passed, each with a glare that cut deep.

“Nice one,” one sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Explains why he’s with Diana,” the other threw in, before they vanished down the hall.

One by one, the rest drifted off, leaving me rooted to the spot, paralysed. If someone had given me a pound for every time I’d been blindsided that night, I’d have three: first, finding Louis’s bandana dumped in our room; second, watching Troy pull it from my pocket; and third, standing there now, staring blankly as that same bandana lay abandoned on the floor, where Troy had dropped it before fleeing.

At some point, I blinked back into myself and stooped to pick it up. Then I turned for my room. The party was over—if it had ever truly begun. My hand was already on the door when I heard another handle turn. I slipped inside quickly, but left the door cracked, craning my head to see.

Further down, a door opened. Diana stepped out, adjusting the strap of her red dress, peering around like she wanted to check the coast was clear. I ducked back slightly, not wanting her to clock me.

When she finally emerged, she wasn’t alone. A tall blond bloke followed her out. I hadn’t the faintest idea who he was—how could I? I’d only been at college a matter of days. He shut the door behind them, then moved to join her. Diana leaned against the wall, watching him in silence.

Once he’d made sure the hall was empty, he grabbed her by the hips and kissed her hard, pinning her to the wall. I’d done the same thing with her only two nights earlier, right against that very wall. Except I’d been her boyfriend—at least, I’d thought I was—and he was some stranger I’d never even seen before.

I pulled back into the room. I’d seen enough. More than enough.

I’d just thrown myself into a fight to defend someone who clearly didn’t deserve defending. I slumped on the bed, ignoring the chair still parked in the centre of the room from the ritual earlier. Elbows on my knees, I pressed my palms over my face.

It had been years since I’d properly dated anyone, and the moment I finally did, I caught her snogging someone else. I sat there stewing, the images replaying on a loop: the way he’d gripped her waist, the way her arms had wrapped round his neck. I wanted to erase it from my head, but it was seared in, mercilessly vivid.

And then I thought of Troy—what he must’ve felt, seeing Louis’s bandana peeking out of my pocket, or worse, hearing him admit out loud what had happened in that room.

How could I judge Diana, when I’d been just as foul?

Sitting on the bed, I started to cry—didn’t even notice until the tears were streaming. I cried and cried, minutes slipping by, until I finally lay down, wrung out. My head still throbbed. I slid a hand under the pillow and winced: the raw skin across my knuckles scraped against the fabric. When I looked, they were grazed, stained with flecks of dried blood.

The memory of the fight twisted my stomach. Nausea surged. I bolted up, staggered to the bathroom, and threw up.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

Chapter 9: We Need to Talk

                                                                 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

The next morning I woke with my throat raw, head still pounding faintly, and my eyes puffed from crying. Needless to say, the first thought that hit me the second I jolted awake was the same one that had haunted me all night. Only this wasn’t a nightmare I could blink away. No dream could’ve outdone the sheer horror of the night before.

I stayed on my back for a few minutes, staring at the pine tree swaying gently outside my window, until I pushed myself upright and slumped against the wall, eyes landing on the centre of the room—where the chair had been left last night. Except now, it was gone.

If I’d been back home, in my little village, this hour of the morning would’ve looked completely different. I’d have gone out for croissants from the bakery down the road, cycled them back for Mum and my sister, dropped my bike on the gravel drive, and eaten them at the kitchen table before escaping to my swing. That’s where I always thought best, the rusty chains squeaking while I worked things through. There, the sun and the breeze would’ve made untangling the mess in my head simple. But here? Here I’d need a lobotomy to erase the shitshow of last night.

And yet, forgetting wasn’t an option. Thinking straight was. As much as I hated myself for what Troy had gone through, the truth hit me hard: I hadn’t done anything wrong. Not deliberately, anyway. Sure, I’d wrecked a two–year relationship and I hated myself for it, but I hadn’t even known what I was walking into. It was Louis who’d come into the room. Louis who stayed. Louis who pulled my jeans down, who pushed every boundary, who got on top of me, kissed me, tugged at my hair, and let himself come while wanking me at the same time. He made those choices, he built that intimacy with me. He’d been the one to gamble his relationship away. For the first time, I pinned the night not on “what happened”, but on Louis’s lips, Louis’s tongue, Louis’s hands—and not some faceless stranger’s.

I couldn’t fathom how he’d do that to Troy, someone who seemed to want him more than anything, and who Louis clearly wanted back. Just like I couldn’t fathom how Diana could be so utterly shameless, bending boys round her little finger, using and discarding them whenever she pleased. Including me.

She hadn’t cared about me. Not about the fact she’d asked me to be her boyfriend. Not about the kisses we’d shared against that same wall where, last night, I’d watched her snog someone else. I wondered how many others she’d had pressed there before me—and how many would come after. But I realised then I shouldn’t care. Whatever this thing was, it should’ve ended before it even started. We hadn’t even had the “ant question”—and if she couldn’t answer that, how the hell had I thought we could be together?

In the middle of all that, the door banged open.

Louis froze in the doorway, not expecting me to be vertical instead of horizontal as I’d been for the past nine hours. He shut it behind him slowly and took a step closer.
“Oh. You’re awake,” he said, moving with deliberate slowness. He looked fresher than me—didn’t take much—but the closer he came, the more I noticed his eyes were swollen too, like he’d been crying. “Drink.” He shoved a two–litre bottle into my hands.

“Mm?” I murmured. I was too distracted by him to process the words. His fringe was a mess, and he wore a grey Bruce Springsteen tee. The colour suited him; it sharpened his gaze. God knows why I noticed.

“I said drink,” he repeated, waving the bottle in my face. His eyes lingered briefly on my busted knuckles as I took it, but he didn’t comment. He just turned, dropped onto his bed, and pulled his phone from his back pocket—the one I’d already clocked was his favourite. Silence stretched for minutes. I sipped, then pressed the cold bottle against one hand, then the other, letting the chill numb the ache. After the night I’d had, that water was liquid gold.

“So?” I whispered at last, after stealing glances at him for far too long. He didn’t respond, eyes glued to his screen.
“…So?” I tried again, louder. This time, he put the phone down on his stomach, stared at the ceiling, then slung an arm behind his head. Feeling my eyes on him, he finally turned, irritation written across his face.
“What?” he snapped, arms flung wide. He acted like I wasn’t even in the room, like I hadn’t said a word.

I swallowed hard. My chest was tight but I pushed through it. “Don’t you want to talk about—”

“About what, exactly?” he cut in, already on the defensive, sitting up fast. His voice carried a tension that made me feel unwelcome in my own room. “About how you managed to wreck your very first initiation? How you trashed it for the whole freaking floor?” His glare could’ve gutted me where I sat.

“I meant what happened…” I corrected, ignoring the way he’d thrown the night back in my face like it had been nothing but some stupid game.

“What happened, right,” he shot back, mocking me. “You mean the fight you started? Kirk’s nose you nearly broke? Jake’s wrist you sprained? Or the bandana you oh–so–conveniently had sticking out of your pocket so that—” He stopped dead, dragging a lungful of air instead of finishing. His head shook hard, hand pressed to his temple like he was holding back worse.

“So that what? I only picked it up off the floor—it was yours,” I fired back.

Louis gave a dark laugh, looking down at his twitching fingers instead of me. “So that Troy would see it, obviously. You think I didn’t notice? How you can’t stand him? How you hated him being in this room with me? How pleased you were when he had to bugger off back to his own dorm while you got to take his place? Don’t think I didn’t clock it.”

My stomach turned. I set the bottle aside as if freeing my hands would free my chest too.
“No. No, you’ve got it wrong,” I snapped. “I didn’t end up in this room because of Troy—it was decided before I even set foot in this bloody college. You think I care about who I share with? I wouldn’t give a toss if I didn’t have you as a roommate.” The anger flared, my headache pounding again. I almost reached for the bottle, but the thought that he’d been the one to give it stopped me.

“Oh yeah? So you’ve got no problem with Troy, nothing against him at all,” he said, nodding like he was humoring a child.

“I can stand him a hell of a lot more than I can stand you,” I admitted.

Louis dropped his feet to the floor, his right leg bouncing with restless energy, both hands pressed to his knees. His eyes locked on mine, sharp as nails.
“Then why hurt him? Why humiliate him like that in front of everyone? Why give him every reason to walk away from me? To blame our crisis all on me?” I had no idea they were going through a tough time as a couple, and I would’ve never expected Louis to open up about it all of a sudden, with me. His stare carved right into me, each question like a blade.

“You’ve split up..?” I asked, my voice dropping flat. I hadn’t meant to sound so small, but the air between us had shifted—heavy, dull, almost lifeless. The answer was obvious, but it still caught me off guard.

“I’m sorry, Louis, I—” I stood without thinking, a few steps closer. Something in me softened, sympathy rising where I’d never imagined.

He stayed seated, though, eyes fixed anywhere but mine. The closer I leaned, the harder he avoided me.

“I only picked your bandana off the floor,” I pressed, quieter now. “I didn’t think of using it against you—I didn’t even know what to do with it, since…” His sharp sigh cut me off. He shut his eyes, silently begging me not to say another word about what had happened in this room. I stopped dead. He didn’t want to hear it.

“I didn’t know it was sticking out of my pocket. Must’ve slipped out during the—” I caught myself before saying fight, the word suddenly absurd when attached to me. “…I just hope Kirk and your mate are alright,” I finished lamely.

Louis said nothing. Just listened.

When I fell silent, he stood abruptly, strode into the bathroom, left the door open. I watched him through the corner of my eye as he rifled drawers, gathering supplies. He returned, dumped them on my desk, and started arranging them with quick precision. Then he went to the mini–fridge, pulled out a bag of ice, and shoved it into my hand.

“Wrap it in a cloth, never straight on the skin. There’s peroxide and gauze there for your knuckles. If you need plasters for your forehead, they’re in the middle drawer by the sink.” He rattled off the instructions like it mattered.

“Forehead?” I echoed, touching the skin above my brow.

“You didn’t seriously think you were the only one landing punches, did you?” His tone was almost dry. “You’re covered in bruises.” His gaze lingered on me longer than usual, then flicked away the second it felt too heavy.

A beat later, he changed tack entirely. “They weren’t wrong about Diana. But they were complete arseholes for throwing it in your face like that.” He slung his bag over his shoulder, slid a book inside, and moved for the door.

“Next time, pick a girl who doesn’t cheat, yeah?” And with that, Louis walked out.

A minute ago, we’d been tearing strips off each other. He’d looked at me like I was the last person he could stand. And yet, after leaving me an arsenal of plasters, ice, and bandages, I couldn’t shake the thought: maybe he didn’t hate me half as much as he wanted me to believe.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

I had no idea where Louis had run off to without even saying goodbye, but he stayed out for a long time. I used the chance to finally get started on his essay, though the gauze wrapping my palms made typing more annoying than I wanted to admit. Between sips from the water bottle, I went through the notes Louis had left me.

 

----------------------------------

 

Ch.7: From the way he treats them, it’s obvious that Paolo M. can’t stand his in-laws. The very day Signor Chiaravalle assures him they’ll consent to give him Grazia’s hand, he agrees to marry her out of a sense of obligation. He doesn’t even seem happy about the walking stick they give him to ease his back problems—he actually goes out of his way to break it, which then forces him to spend two months’ wages on another. One of the many examples of the protagonist’s lack of gratitude toward those who help him.

 

Ch.14 (after the proposal): At the family’s cabin, when Grazia C. gives him a taste of the dances she used to join as a girl, the word “impietrito” (“petrified”) used by De Pretis to describe Pietro M.’s state of mind shows shock and fear of all the dances she would force him into for the rest of their life together—a life Paolo wasn’t ready for, as the author makes clear in the very next chapter.

 

Ch.21: Grazia C. cries into her pillow the night after Dr. Trincia visits their home and reveals how little time her husband has left. On his way back to their room after his nightly cigar, Paolo hears her sobbing—but instead of comforting her, he lies, saying he spent the night in the stables because he “found a horse with a fever.” Once again, he shows dishonesty toward his wife, refusing even to console her.

 

Ch.26: The stables return at the end of the book. Just like in Chapter 21, the author frames them as Paolo’s refuge whenever he needs to escape his wife. Even while gravely ill, he spends whole days out there to stay away from her tears and avoid facing her grief. For the last time, instead of dancing with the woman who embodies dance itself for him, he selfishly dances only with his walking stick.

 

 

[you know what to write about his selfishness and all]

 

----------------------------------

 

Those were just some of the notes Louis had left on the sheet, and the ones I lingered on the most throughout the day. Which made me even more stunned than I’d been the Tuesday before, hearing him twist everything so badly during class. He ignored the fact that Paolo was crushed by a deep inferiority complex toward his father-in-law—a man he actually admired, not resented, as Louis suggested. The walking stick Grazia’s father gave him wasn’t a cold or petty gift. It was meant to help Paolo, physically and financially. What destroyed him wasn’t the stick itself, but discovering that Grazia had confided in her parents about his illness. That cut him to the core. In his panic and despair, he broke it—and regretted it the second he realized what he’d done.

As for the word “impietrito,” De Pretis didn’t mean fear at all. He meant awe. Paolo was stunned, floored by Grazia’s elegance, the way she danced with such ease while he could barely stand. That’s what froze him in place—admiration, not dread of being dragged into endless dances.

Paolo loved Grazia more than he’d ever thought possible, even more than the British sire’s horses that had always been his life’s pride and livelihood. The stables may have been his second home, but his true one was with her. When he heard her weeping after his diagnosis, it gutted him. He fled to the horses, not because he didn’t care for Grazia, but because he couldn’t bear to see her broken. De Pretis makes it painfully clear: every time she looked at him or held him in those final months, it crushed him to see her sadness. That’s why he hid away, and why he chose to spend even his last days in the stables. When Grazia searched for him there, desperate, he kept slipping further into his illness, eventually refusing his medicine until death came earlier than expected.

And in the end, he allowed himself one last dance—not with Grazia, but with his walking stick. Not because he didn’t love her, but because he wanted to die as he was born: lame, alone, but holding the memory of her smile the last time their eyes met before he withdrew to the stables.

Revisiting those parts of the novel while dismantling every way Louis had stripped them of their romantic weight, their deeper meaning, inevitably made me think about what I’d write in my own essay. Still, I had to finish his first—and I would. I spent the whole morning and afternoon rereading passages, diving into the twisted lens of my roommate. Sometimes I even understood how he’d gotten there, but I still couldn’t see things the way he did.

And the more I wrote, the more it stung that Louis hadn’t once bothered to ask what I thought of the book, while I was pouring hours into tracing his take on it.

I hadn’t even stopped for lunch, afraid of losing my thread, though my stomach had been begging for food for hours. A sharp cramp in my hand finally made me glance up from the screen at exactly 4:35 p.m. One look at the clock—and the realization that I was already late to meet Mum and Gemma at the park gate five minutes ago—made my eyes go wide.

I must’ve hit save on Louis’s essay ten times before I bolted for the bathroom, brushed my teeth, fixed my hair, and threw on clothes faster than I thought possible. No time to rewrap my hands, no time to check the cuts across my forehead and cheekbones. I only realized it once I was already on my bike, pedaling hard toward Oakridge Historic Park.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

 

I’d been texting back and forth with both of them earlier, firing off rushed replies while I was buried in that essay, so focused I didn’t even check my phone the way I normally do.

By the time I finally got there, I ditched my bike on the ground and jogged over, ready to throw my arms around them. But they didn’t exactly leap up to greet me. In fact, they didn’t even move.

“Mum, Gemma! It feels like it’s been forever,” I blurted out. Gemma gave me a small, tight smile, while Mum lowered her gaze, then snapped her head back up again like she was forcing herself to look me in the eye. Right then I realised I was probably the only one who felt the past few days had dragged on like a lifetime—though maybe that was just because more had happened in the last forty-eight hours than in the previous six months combined.

“So… what do you think of the park?” I asked, since neither of them had said much more than a half-hearted hello. I dropped down on the blanket they’d spread out and finally took a proper look around. I’d been so focused on reaching them that I hadn’t even noticed how good it felt to reconnect with this little slice of countryside in the middle of the city—something I desperately needed after the day I’d had. Then I looked back at them, and that’s when I saw it: disappointment in my mother’s eyes like I’d never seen before.

“Harry, sweetheart, we need to talk.” My stomach twisted.
“Talk about what?” I asked quickly. “Is it work? Grandma? Grandpa? Gemma?” The questions tumbled out faster than I could stop them, panic bubbling up. I probably would’ve gone on and on if Gemma hadn’t finally cut me off.
“They’re fine, Harry. Everything’s fine back home,” she said.

Relief hit me so hard I almost laughed. If something had happened to our grandparents right after we’d moved away—after years of living just two doors down—I would’ve never forgiven myself. But the relief didn’t last. Not when Mum’s face still looked so strained.

“So… it’s work then?” I tried again. But she shook her head before I could keep guessing.

“It’s about you.”
And just like that, the blood drained from my face.

“The College rang us this morning—your dorm’s office, to be precise. They said they only ever contact families in exceptional circumstances, since you’re all adults now… and apparently this was one of those.” She paused for a steadying breath. “They told us you were in a fight last night. And that… you started it.”

For a second I couldn’t even breathe. I just stared down at my hands, wrapped in bandages, not daring to picture what they thought of the bruises covering my swollen face.

“But we know that can’t be true,” Mum went on quickly. “Someone must’ve tried to pin it on you, though we can’t imagine why. Do you know anything about this?” Gemma gave a little nod beside her. I flicked a glance from one to the other, then back to my battered hands.

I stayed silent a moment longer, still reeling from the fact that they already knew. Someone had clearly talked. And the thing was… they hadn’t even lied.

I don’t know where I found the nerve, but eventually I did. I couldn’t keep dodging their eyes forever, not when they were practically begging me to explain.
So I told them—most of it, anyway. That the fight had broken out during the initiation rite. That I’d shown up with a girl, Diana, who I’d only just decided to start seeing that same morning. I left out the details of what the rite involved, and I definitely didn’t mention my roommate. I didn’t even say Louis’s name. But I did tell them what the others had said about her—about Diana. And that she wasn’t really my girlfriend anymore. I hadn’t even spoken to her since. She hadn’t come looking for me either, not to ask if I was okay, not for anything. And if Mum and Gemma already knew about the fight, then of course Diana knew too. Which meant she’d chosen not to say a word. And I decided I’d just have to live with that.

They both went quiet. Then Gemma broke it first:
“So let me get this straight. You got into a fight because some guys told you your girlfriend was cheating on you?”

Her bluntness made my cheeks burn. All I could do was nod, mortified. For a second, I even thought they were pitying me—the idiot who got dumped less than twenty-four hours into a relationship.

But then Mum spoke, and I realised it wasn’t pity at all.
“I hardly recognise you, Harry. You’re covered in cuts and bruises.” She leaned in like she might touch my face, but pulled back at the last second. “And it sounds like what they told us was right—you did throw the first punch.”

That hit harder than anything else.

I swallowed, then forced out, “I didn’t know Diana was actually capable of cheating on me… or cheating at all. They were baiting me, winding me up, practically daring me to lose it—” I broke off. Because the more I spoke, the more it sank in: there was no excuse big enough to cover what I’d done. And I already knew that.

“So you lost it, fine. But what happened to your common sense, dear?” Mum shot back. “Where’s the boy who always argued his way through things, who never raised a fist, who hated violence more than anything? Where did he go?” Her voice cracked, and she stopped. She didn’t have to go on. I already hated myself enough.

“I warned you College was a black hole. I made it through two years there without ever being in danger. But you…” Gemma let out a weary sigh. “You got sucked in after less than a day.”

I just sat there, hearing her words echo the promise I’d made her: to enjoy Uni, to keep out of trouble.
“Two,” I muttered. “Technically it’s been two days. But yeah—I know that’s still way too short for you to be having this conversation with me.” I couldn’t hold their eyes for long, so I kept flicking between the two of them, hoping I wouldn’t see too much disappointment staring back.

“We shouldn’t be having this conversation now, Harry. Not ever. You do get that, don’t you?” Mum said softly.
“Yes,” I answered, and dropped my gaze back to my bruised hands.

“I promise it won’t happen again. I’m done with those people.”
What I didn’t add was that one of those people—maybe the worst of them all—was my own roommate. And he’d still be there, until the very end.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

 

When I got back to College, right by the bike racks, I ran into Stephen.

“You—uh, you’re heading out too?” I asked, locking up my bike just two or three spots away from his, very much on purpose. Honestly, I’d already noticed him trying to ignore me from the second he saw me pushing the gate open at the campus exit. Still, I’d also caught him glancing my way a couple of times, like he couldn’t help being curious. There was tension between us, and I was desperate to ease it.

“I’m heading out,” he clarified. Fair enough—my question had been rhetorical. I’d already seen him fastening his helmet and unchaining his bike.

“Right,” I said, watching him ride off as if to cut things short. But instead of letting him go, I hopped back on my bike without even bothering to put my helmet back on and hurried to catch up before he slipped out of sight.

“What are you doing?” he asked, turning his head toward me a couple of times. “I saw you coming back in,” he added. Stephen had always been quick on the uptake.

“Y-yeah, true, but I just remembered I, um—” I leaned over a little to peek into his basket. “I needed to grab something from the store. You know, some snacks to keep in the mini fridge for when I get hungry at night. Shame the cafeteria closes after midnight… or wait, is it still open then? You’d know, since you’re my tutor and all,” I rambled, spotting a grocery bag next to his fanny pack. He, meanwhile, dropped his gaze to my basket, which was clearly empty.

“So you’re going to the store,” he said, mimicking the improvised tone I’d just used. “And you’re planning to haul groceries upstairs in your hands?” He ignored my cafeteria question completely—exactly as I expected—and went straight for the obvious: I hadn’t brought a bag.

“Y-yeah, why not? I only need a couple of things, nothing heavy. Worst case, I’ll just buy a bag at checkout,” I said. And for the first time, I caught a smirk tug at his lips. I’d only seen him yesterday, but somehow I’d missed my favorite history nerd way more than I thought I would. That’s when I noticed he was wearing different glasses again—not the purple pair from the day we met, not the blue ones from yesterday’s scene with Diana in the cafeteria. These frames were green. I couldn’t help but guess he had an entire collection stashed away.

When we reached the gate, Stephen started to dismount, but I stopped him.
“I already left it open when I came in. Saw you were heading out, so I didn’t bother closing it again,” I explained. He climbed back onto his bike, thanked me, and for the first time since I’d started following him, he paused to actually look me in the eye.

“You do know you don’t have to tail me all over Oakridge, right?” he said. By now, he knew me well enough to realize I probably would have if that’s what it took.

We held each other’s gaze for a few seconds. I knew I looked apologetic—or at least I hoped I did.
“I owe you an apology,” I said. There was no way he’d let me tag along to the store, so I figured I might as well cut to the chase. “I should’ve listened to you, not to…” I stopped myself before saying her name. I couldn’t even bring myself to think it, let alone say it aloud. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked instead. I had to know.

“Tell you what?” he said, playing dumb. But we both knew what I meant.

“You know what,” I pressed. That’s when he dropped the act.

“I didn’t want to kill your buzz. You looked happy with her—for the short time I saw you together, anyway…” he began. “And, well, for a second I let myself believe maybe Diana would be different this year.” His words stung more than the betrayal itself—more than anything Diana had done.

We fell silent for a few beats before he added, hesitantly, “I also heard about…” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t think that—”

“…That I was bi?” I cut in, letting a grin tug at my lips. “Neither did I, not with this much certainty. But now I think it’s safe to say I am.” I said it to save him from the awkwardness of asking.

Thinking about what Louis had done to me—knowing I was blindfolded, and still deciding to go through with it—sent a strange rush through my stomach, like that moment at the very top of a roller coaster just before the drop.

“N-no, that’s not what I meant…” Stephen stammered. I blushed, embarrassed for jumping ahead, though it was clear he was even more flustered than me.

“I just didn’t think Louis was your type. Honestly, I thought you couldn’t stand him—same as me, and half the dorm.” He wasn’t wrong. The way Louis had treated me that morning almost made me forget how much people disliked him—and that I’d thought the exact same since day one. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been just as two-faced with everyone else who now called him a friend.

“I’m really sorry about Troy,” I said. It felt selfish to make everything about me and Louis.

“Me too. God, that must have been brutal for him! Imagine: showing up to another dorm’s initiation just to see your boyfriend running the thing, and then finding out he’s hooked up with someone else? That’s… awful. I can’t even picture how Troy must feel,” Stephen said, breaking eye contact as if to give Troy a moment of empathy.

I gave him a look that begged for a little comfort instead. Not that I disagreed with him—but hearing it out loud didn’t exactly make me feel any less worthless.

Stephen noticed immediately. “N-no, I mean… Louis deserved it. Totally. He and Troy never stopped fighting anyway, and honestly Troy’s even more insufferable than Louis. Sure, he’s acting all heartbroken now, but give him two weeks, tops—he’ll find someone else to dump his complaints on. Someone like him isn’t about to spend his last year single, trust me.” He caught my eye again, and realized that if his first comment hadn’t reassured me, the second had definitely gone too far.

“Maybe tone down the asshole factor? Just a little?” I teased, motioning with my hand.

“Fair, y-yeah. A little less would be ideal,” he admitted, adjusting his glasses with one finger. We locked eyes again and burst into a hollow laugh. The situation was anything but funny, but having someone to talk to meant the world to me right then.

“Listen, Harry, I—” Stephen started, but I cut him off before he could get another word out. I knew he was about to apologize, when I was the one who should be doing that.

“You were right,” I said. “The initiation’s crap. I should’ve listened to you instead of treating it like you hadn’t warned me about the mess it causes every year.”

Stephen heard me out, shaking his head as though he wanted to step in.
“You couldn’t have known, seriously. And besides, you were excited because you were going with…” He stopped himself, realizing just in time that saying her name would only hurt me more. “Go back to your room, Hazza. We’ll talk another time, if you feel like it. You look exhausted.” His eyes flicked to the shadows under mine, and I dropped my gaze to my bandaged hands gripping the handlebars. Maybe he was right—maybe I did need to get some rest.

“If you want, I’ll grab you some snacks at the store,” Stephen offered before leaving. We both chuckled again. He’d said it on purpose, knowing full well my grocery run had just been an excuse to talk to him.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

 

I headed back to the dorm, taking a different route than usual so I wouldn’t risk running into Diana. But apparently, she’d had the same idea, because I spotted her near the side entrance that led to the science dorms. She was sitting on a bench, her legs draped across another guy’s lap. The sight rattled me even more than just seeing her alone would have.

I didn’t want to ask myself if he was the same guy I’d caught her kissing the day before, but of course he was—the slick blond hair gave him away instantly. The second I walked into their line of sight, she seemed to sense it. She turned her head and locked eyes with me. I picked up my pace toward the entrance, pretending I hadn’t noticed, though out of the corner of my eye I caught her moving her legs off his and following me with her gaze. I didn’t stop. I didn’t even glance back. That’s when it hit me: she hadn’t avoided the main courtyard entrance just to miss me. She’d gone out of her way to meet up with him.

But like I’d promised myself that very morning, she wasn’t my problem anymore. I wasn’t going to let what I’d just seen drag me down. As far as I was concerned, she could marry that guy, turn over a new leaf, decide never to cheat again, and spend the rest of her life with him. I had bigger things on my mind. Stephen’s words, for example—his way of trashing Troy to make me feel better—echoed in my head: his theory that Louis might have arranged the whole initiation thing so I’d end up in his room, all part of some plan to reel me in.

What if Stephen was right? What if Louis had actually maneuvered the whole setup, making sure I’d be his prey? It sounded insane, but as I climbed the stairs to my floor and walked down the hallway, the thought started to feel nicely plausible. And feeling that way towards Louis was totally strange to me.

I didn’t get the chance to dwell on it, though. When I reached my door—before I even pulled the keys from my pocket—I saw it: a sock hanging from the handle. My hand froze midair, hovering, like I didn’t have the guts to touch it.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Only two options made sense: either Louis had brought someone back to blow off steam, or that “someone” was Troy. The first possibility didn’t even cross my mind—I went straight to the second. Maybe they were back together. If they’d ever actually broken up in the first place.

From what Louis had told me, they were done. And from the sour look I’d seen on his face, getting back with Troy seemed like the last thing either of them would plan. But that sock—staring back at me while I stared at it—was telling me otherwise.

The first thing I thought to do was knock, so I did. I wasn’t about to make the same mistake as on day one. Not again.

Louis opened the door after a few seconds. Alone. I knew because, before saying a word, I leaned past him to check the room myself.

“You don’t have your keys?” was the first thing he asked. I slipped the sock off the handle and held it up.

“You two left this out here, so I figured I’d knock,” I said, deliberately using the plural. Louis yanked it out of my hand and tossed it onto his bed.

“Gimme that,” he muttered, stepping aside so I could come in. I shut the door behind me.

“You’re a quick learner, though,” he added, and for the first time his tone actually sounded lighter.

“When I screw up once, I don’t do it twice,” I shot back, watching him drop onto his bed and go quiet for a moment, lost in thought.

“Listen, Jacob…” he said at last. “We need to talk.”

For a second I couldn’t even process that he’d really said it—until his eyes locked on mine, making the words more real than they had any right to be. It was the second time that day I’d heard that same phrase, and the first—when my mom had said it—hadn’t exactly ended with good news. I could only hope this time wouldn’t feel like the same punch to the gut.

So I sat down on my bed, shoes still on, and waited for him to go on.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

Chapter 10: The Bench under the Oak

 

“You don’t know anything about me,” Louis said, no preamble, no invitation needed.

And then—strangely—he turned shy. I’d never seen him like that. It was as if all the bite I’d pinned on him since day one had melted into a sudden softness I wouldn’t have believed he was capable of. I didn’t mind. What I did mind—or rather, what unsettled me—was how much I liked the power he seemed to hold over me. For once, I just let him speak.

“Want to know something?” he asked, almost as if he needed my permission. My voice had gone—stolen from me—so I only nodded. He carried on.

“Me and Troy… we got together mid-September. The thirteenth, to be precise. In less than ten days it would have been two years. Everyone said it only took one look and we were a done deal. We’d only been seeing each other for a week.” He mimed quotation marks with his fingers, mocking the memory.

“And I have to say, before you and Diana came along, no one had ever tried to steal our crown for the fastest relationship start. But since you like being centre stage, I’ll let that one slide.”

It was pure sarcasm, aimed at the speed of my relationship—but for the first time that day, it actually made me smile about Diana. Even Stephen hadn’t managed that.

“It’s an actual thing, by the way,” he added, grinning about the imaginary contest. I ignored the swipe at my supposed attention-seeking. If he really wanted to get to know me, he’d learn soon enough how wrong he was.

“Doesn’t surprise me,” I said, making him laugh. Our eyes met. Just for a heartbeat—but long enough for him to notice. He looked away sharply. I dropped my gaze too, not wanting to spook him further. Then his face grew serious again.

“Troy was the one who helped me most back then. A couple of weeks before, I—” He hesitated, swallowed. “Something happened. Something private. And he was there. I didn’t have to ask. He just was. And, of course, I was grateful. Still am and always will be…” His voice cracked slightly, like the memory had teeth. His fingers twisted together in his lap—something I’d noticed he did whenever he was restless.

“You don’t have to tell me, if you’d rather not,” I said, wanting him to look at me again. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t interrupt—but I couldn’t stop myself this time. I didn’t even know when I’d started caring so much about how he felt. All I knew was, in that moment, I did.

“I don’t have to,” he said quietly. “I want to.” His hands stilled. And then his eyes lifted back to mine.

“I wish I could say what you said—that once I fuck up, I never do it again. But the truth is, I did. I fucked up again.”

Hearing him throw my words back at me knocked me off balance. So did hearing him call what had happened between us a mistake. Was he pulling away from it? Regretting it? And why the hell wasn’t I regretting a single second?

The way he’d said he and Troy would have celebrated their anniversary on the thirteenth told me the sock on the door handle wasn’t Troy’s doing—unless they’d managed one last desperate fuck before parting ways. But after the way Troy had torn into him the night before, I doubted that. So why the hell had it been there?

“So… was there a third mistake?” I asked, stressing the word mistake. I didn’t want him to see how personal it felt. Or maybe I did.

Louis frowned, as though I’d lost him.

“The sock,” I said, nodding at the foot of his bed where he’d flung it earlier. “Did you hang it up because you’d… made another mistake tonight? With someone else?”

This time I lingered on someone else. Not me. Someone else. Someone I could almost picture with him on that bed, bodies colliding hard enough to obliterate Troy from memory. The thought made my stomach twist. I forced it out.

“The—” Louis faltered, only noticing the sock again when I gestured towards it. “Oh. No. That—no. I didn’t hook up with anyone tonight.”

There was something in his voice—disappointment, maybe—but I didn’t analyse it. Couldn’t. I was too fixed on the way his eyes refused to leave mine.

And then he said it.

“It wasn’t a mistake, what happened with you and me.” His throat bobbed with a swallow.

And the way my chest lit up at that—God, I couldn’t even describe it. He was trying to tell me that night hadn’t been wrong at all. Not breaking into my room like a starving predator, not devouring me like I was his favourite meal for twenty unbroken minutes.

I don’t know what took hold of me, but suddenly I was on my feet, moving before I’d even decided to. As if he’d read my thoughts, Louis shot up too. And then we were face to face, close enough to taste each other’s breath. My palms found his cheeks, and I kissed him.

Hard.

For a second, I couldn’t believe I’d actually done it. I even thought of pulling back, worried he’d think I was insane. But instead, Louis kissed me back, just as fierce, until he tore away with a jolt.

“Fuck—” The word rasped out of him, rough and low, escaping even before his lips fully left mine. It rang in my ears like a warning and a promise all at once.

He stared at me, arms still raised as though his body remembered clinging to mine. For a moment, I froze, terrified he was about to call it a mistake after all.

But then he lunged forward, kissing me again—this time with his own hands claiming me. One cradled my jaw, the other hooked firmly round my neck. Every corner of his mouth pressed against mine with raw hunger, and my skin flared with heat whenever his fingers slipped under my shirt.

We didn’t stop. We kissed and kissed in the middle of the room, shameless and relentless. The second time. But this wasn’t like the first. I wasn’t tied to a chair, blindfolded, helpless, with Louis yanking my hair while I had no idea who was undoing me. This time, when I broke just long enough for him to peel my shirt off completely, I opened my eyes.

And I saw. What was happening. Who was in front of me. Whose lips I was starving for all over again.

I went straight back to kissing him the second my shirt was off. At the same time, both of us fumbled with buttons and zips, desperate to strip each other down. I got rid of mine first and shoved him back onto the mattress so I could drag his off myself.

He leaned on his elbows, watching as I tugged his jeans down, my hand brushing over the hard line in his boxers. The lamplight cut across his profile, catching in his eyes—blue, so sharp and bright it almost hurt to look at them. That stare washed over me like a tide, and it turned me on even more than his mouth ever could. I’d never been with anyone with eyes that colour, or maybe it was just that no one had ever looked at me with such hunger, as though they could devour me and still never get their fill.

When he was as bare as I was, I let my hand drift lower and wrapped it round his cock as I pushed myself up again. He jolted at the touch, and a shiver rolled right through me in answer. The little twitch of his hips made me grin. He grabbed my neck and pulled me back down to his mouth, and I couldn’t stop touching him. I didn’t even want to.

As I stroked him, Louis broke off the kiss, spat into his palm and wrapped his fingers round my length. The moan that escaped into his mouth was shameless, raw. My chest was thundering, stomach twisted into knots I’d never felt before.

I’d never been on top of a boy before, but everything about it came so instinctively it felt like I’d been born to do it. His free hand roamed over my back, sometimes clutching at my waist, and each brush of his fingertips made me shudder and melt against him. I was wired with nerves, but underneath it was a strange, quiet sense of rightness.

I let myself sink lower, kissing down his throat, dragging his bottom lip between my teeth before working my way across his collarbones with lips and tongue. His skin smelt fucking divine, and hearing him pant in my ear only drove me further. I didn’t want to stop, not when he sounded like that.

But he caught my face in his hands, pulling me back up so our mouths met again. Then his lips brushed my ear as he whispered, husky and certain:
“I want you to fuck me.”

The words detonated inside me. He eased his grip, letting me look at him again. His eyes shone, raw and wet like mine, full of a need that almost unsteadied me. When he shifted, giving me space to move, I rose to my knees, dazed by the weight of his words still ringing in my skull.

He leaned over to his bedside drawer, pulled out a condom and sat cross-legged while I worked my own hand just to keep from bursting. I was aching, too hard to keep still. I watched him move closer, watched the foil tear between his fingers, the packet tossed by the lamp.

“This should fit you,” he muttered, eyes flicking down as I gave myself another rough stroke. The way he measured me with his gaze made me groan aloud. Naked, haloed by the lamp, he was blindingly beautiful—more than I’d ever let myself admit. Then he took the condom from me and rolled it down himself, shifting my hand away to do it for me.

“Ohh—” The sound ripped out of me as he worked it on. My breath came heavier, the head of my cock painfully sensitive.
“Give me a sec,” he said, smoothing the latex down my length with easy, practised fingers. The faintest smile tugged at his lips at the broken noise I made. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he was enjoying every second of watching me undone. His touch was light enough to tease but heavy enough to overwhelm. I had to bite back another moan.

Once it was on, he gave me a firm stroke all the way down before kneeling opposite me again. His look alone pulled me back to his mouth, my hands gripping his jaw as his lips crashed into mine, wet and fierce. I grabbed his arse, full and solid in my palms, and clung on until he broke away with a last kiss—only to turn over and brace himself against the wall.

With the sight of his back arched in front of me, I slid a hand across his chest and stomach, the other holding myself at the base. I spat on my finger, slid it inside him first, teasing just long enough to make him twitch. My chest rose and fell with the weight of what was about to happen. It was my first time with a boy, but I wanted it perfect for him. Not just because he knew more than I did, but because what I felt for him right then was so new, so huge, I was terrified of ruining it.

If anyone had told me days ago that Louis and I would end up naked in his bed, me about to fuck him, I would’ve laughed in their face. We’d hated each other too much. And yet—here we were.

I lined myself up and pushed in slow, careful. He wasn’t as tight as I’d imagined—probably looser than I’d be if the roles were reversed—but the heat was overwhelming. The moment the head slipped in, I lost patience. My breaths came ragged, chest heaving, and he pressed a palm to me, tweaking my nipple as though to ground me. I gave in to the sensation and pushed deeper until I was buried to the hilt, my hips flush against his arse.

“Fuck—” The word broke from me as I sagged forward, gripping his hips hard, staring at the way our bodies fit together. The sheer sight of it sent another rush of pleasure down my spine.

The hollowness in my gut was familiar, but this time it was laced with an edge of panic, too. His heat, the stretch around me, the way he clenched—it was all too much. He wasn’t impossibly tight, just snug enough that I could pull back and sink into him again, each thrust pulling choked breaths from his throat. Any trace of discomfort in his gasps sounded like it only spurred him on.

I lost myself in his noises—half strangled, half shameless—and the way they filled my ears, branded themselves in my brain. He made me want to fuck him filthier, hungrier.

“C-Christ, Harry—” Louis groaned, abandoning the wall and bracing one hand against the headboard instead. His head dropped, his voice breaking on every sound, some stifled, others spilling free and driving me mad.

And that was when he said my name. My real name. For the first time. And hearing it in his voice, delicate and wrecked, lit me up more than anything else had all night.

I let the urge to fuck him hard take over, pushing into him with deliberate force, my hands gripping his hips. His back arched under the soft glow of the bedside lamp, and I realised I could stay buried in him for hours, just watching that curve. I moved in and out, over and over. I even spanked him, and the way he gasped told me he liked it. There was nothing I loved more than knowing a smack on someone’s arse could turn them on as much as it did me. Louis’ eagerness to let me know he enjoyed it was a thrill in itself.

“Harder,” he commanded. I delivered two more smacks to both cheeks, then one extra on the right, spoiling it. It was turning red, but he didn’t seem the least bit concerned. I cupped it in my palm and spanked him again. Every push made him jolt against me, and I wrapped my arms around his chest to pull him closer. I helped him break free from the headboard he was holding onto and support himself on his knees instead. He was panting constantly, and we both enjoyed a moment’s respite as I held him close, my hands on his pecs, forehead pressed to his cheek. I swallowed hard. Staying still, buried in him, was stealing my breath.

Louis was struggling too, broken moans escaping his mouth, just inches from mine. I began moving again, slowly, keeping our bodies pressed together, sliding one hand to his neck while the other reached down to grasp his cock, enveloping it in my palm. I tilted his face up and kissed him, blending our ragged breaths into one. We exchanged only a couple of kisses—my tongue searched for his a few times—but his weakness was obvious. He lowered his head, offering his soft neck. I released my hold on his body, one hand on the small of his back, watching him collapse onto the mattress.

“If you keep touching me, I—I’m gonna come…” he murmured. It sounded like a threat, but I knew he was desperate. His voice cracked, weak and fleeting, slipping from his lips in ragged bursts. I pressed my chest to his, taking his cock back in hand. I thrust deeper into him, exhausted, stroking him as I went. I spanked him again, and then again. His arse grew redder, each mark mine, and he was loving it.

“Fuck, Louis—” I groaned, “I—I’m close.” I could feel my orgasm building, every nerve in my cock alight. Louis wasn’t the only one teetering on the edge; I was right there too. Just a few more seconds, and when I came, I focused on keeping my hand moving over his cock, holding onto his back so my grip left marks, alternating between stroking the tip and his full length. It was veiny and pulsing, and just holding it made me think how incredible it would be to suck him.

I kept going for another ten seconds before I felt him spill into my palm, the sudden warmth shocking me, his moans intensifying. He added his hand over mine, and they collided several times. It was almost like we were holding each other up, and it sent shivers down my spine.

“F-fuck… y-yes, like that. Don’t s-stop,” Louis stammered, and I withdrew, leaving him sprawled on the bed, head on the pillow. In front of me, his bare arse where I’d been buried the whole time. I could hardly believe it.

Still wired, I pulled off the condom, touching myself briefly. Then I glanced at my hand as he rolled onto his back, propping himself on his elbows, eyes locked on me, teasing. I was sticky, but curious—I licked my fingers and tasted him, almost all of him.

“What does it taste like?” he asked, holding my gaze, playful and provocative. For a moment I almost asked if he’d ever wondered the same about Troy over the past two years, but I kept it to myself. “Salty and vinegary,” I said. Strange, maybe, but honestly it reminded me of my favourite crisps.

“Salty and vinegary??” he asked, puzzled, a small grin tugging at his lips. I licked my thumb, wiped my palm across my stomach, then locked eyes with him again. He wasn’t breaking eye contact.

“That’s a compliment,” I clarified, wiping my lips. He continued to study me, a faint, knowing shake of his head.

“You’re quite something, Jacob. Has anyone ever told you that?” he asked. I edged closer, sitting by his legs, making myself comfortable.

“Maybe,” I replied with a small smile, “but never by my fake name.” Louis paused, thinking, then a flash of understanding lit up his face.

“That’s your nickname now. It can’t be changed,” he stated firmly.

“My second name is Edward,” I countered. “I don’t like being associated with a wolf when my second name clearly links me to a vampire.” My logic was airtight, and I was sure I’d left him speechless. He just shrugged, and I realised I shouldn’t have been so certain.

“The length of your hair, though, suggests otherwise, Jacob,” he teased again, using the nickname despite my hopes. “And you should thank me—I’ve linked you to the best team in all of Twilight.” His voice carried a weariness I hadn’t expected. I was so stunned I tore my gaze from the ceiling, mouth slightly open.

“The best team??” I asked. “You must be joking!” He turned to me, eyebrow raised. “Everyone knows the best team is Edward’s. I’m obviously on that team!” And now he looked surprised, glancing at me askance.

“Excuse me?? Let’s be real, you’re team Edward just because of your second name, and the fact that Robert Pattinson is hot has clearly skewed your judgment from Bella’s one true love,” I argued, sitting up on my side, propped on an elbow. Discussing the best Twilight boy while fully naked with my roommate, someone I theoretically hated, felt completely natural. I felt at ease in a way I never expected outside my small hometown, even after having sex with someone I didn’t like. Or so I thought.

“I’m not team Edward just because of our names, who do you think I am?” I shot back, lost in the debate. “I’ve got my reasons. And the ending’s pretty obvious anyway.”

Louis rolled his eyes before I could elaborate. “Don’t even get me started on imprinting. It’s the usual excuse people use for not admitting Jacob’s the only one who showed Bella he wanted her. And the name Renesmee? Ridiculous, if you ask me.” I couldn’t help but laugh at that.

“It’s the combination of—” I started, but he cut me off, snickering.

“Their mothers’ names, I know, I know. Look, I’m a huge fan—I’ve watched it at least a dozen times and I know everything about every character. And Jacob was perfect for her, but Bella had to pick the vampire for the story to work. Pretty mundane,” he added, disappointed.

Then, for the first time, I understood his opinion of Paolo in context. It was as if predictable romances didn’t thrill him the way unpredictable ones did. The sudden thought made me smile. Whatever was happening between us, whatever spark had ignited, whatever chemistry drove our mutual craving—it was anything but predictable. Perhaps that was why he let himself go with me. At least, I liked to think so.

I turned to him, watching him stare at the ceiling for a few more seconds, then he met my gaze—not to mock my preference for Edward, nor to critique the banality of my team.

“Why the smile? Am I Team Jacob amusing you?” he asked, almost personally. I grinned wider.

“It amuses me that you named me after your favourite Twilight character,” I replied. I couldn’t tell if I’d overstepped, but seeing him melt a little in my gaze made me sigh. Louis swallowed, blinked, and suddenly got up.

“That may be true,” he said, “but don’t get too full of yourself—you’re not quite him, even if you share the name.” He slipped on his slippers.

I knew the sarcasm behind it and didn’t take offence. I watched him walk to the bathroom, shaking himself off, admiring his arse as he went, imagining him rinsing.

I settled back on his bed, head against the wall, a smile spreading across my face. For the first time since stepping into this room, I felt genuinely happy to have him as my roommate.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

 

The next morning, I woke up wrapped in his sheets, a gentle morning breeze cooling my skin, barely aware that I’d fallen asleep in a bed that wasn’t my own.

My eyes opened to the sight of Louis, fresh from the shower, stepping out of the bathroom. Perhaps things were getting a little out of hand, but seeing him walk through the doorway with the towel still cinched at his waist, wet strands of hair dripping over his forehead, I immediately regretted not waking up in time to join him.

I remembered him sitting on my bed just like that, chest bare, towel wrapped around him, the evening he’d offered to walk me through the ritual. I had tried with all my might to ignore how well his tattoos blended with the hair sprouting across his chest. Back then, I’d been too distracted by his arrogance to admit I found him attractive. But seeing him adjust that towel with such casual domesticity now, I forgot entirely about the arrogance, mesmerised instead. I didn’t tell him, but the more I watched, the more I thought back to the view of his arched back that had been my panorama that very night. My hormones were raging, and the only way to cool off was a cold shower.

“Did… did I sleep here?” I asked, rising from his bed and straightening the sheets, which looked like a battle had been fought across them. Only then did I realise they weren’t just messy from me sleeping there—they were wrecked because we’d fucked less than eight hours ago.

“Like a newborn,” he replied, putting some clothes on. Watching him dress, I realised I was still naked, so I grabbed the sheets and hastily wrapped them around my hips.

“Sorry, I—I didn’t even notice,” I mumbled, mortified at having fallen asleep as though it weren’t both our beds.

“Yours was just as comfy, don’t worry,” he reassured me. The thought that we’d slept in each other’s beds, even unintentionally, warmed me in a way I couldn’t explain. For some reason, imagining him asleep on my pillow had me all soft. I wish I saw him.

Louis finally turned to me, now in briefs and trousers he was buttoning up in front of me. I noticed him glancing at me, a smirk playing on his lips, which he couldn’t hold back for more than two seconds.

“The sheet, really?” he laughed. “I didn’t think you were that shy, Jacob. Didn’t seem much so last night” Calling me by that name reminded me of our conversation from the night before. “Or should I say Edward, right? Since you fancy it more.” He turned to close one drawer and open another.

“Ha, ha,” I replied to his sarcasm, genuinely amused by his effortless teasing. “If you want to see me naked, you just have to ask,” I added, nodding at the sheet I’d hastily tied around myself. I slipped it off, not putting it back on his bed.

“This goes straight to the laundry,” I said, watching him not once avert his gaze as I tossed it into the hamper on my way to the bathroom.

I took the opportunity for a refreshing shower myself, thinking how natural it felt, constantly teasing each other. I rinsed off, still remembering his touch on my skin. It all felt so surreal that even a pinch wouldn’t have convinced me otherwise.

When I stepped out of the shower, I quickly noticed that Louis had gone. Facing the empty room, I was genuinely taken aback. I couldn’t deny I was a little disappointed to open the door and imagine him leaving without saying a word. Still, it seemed the perfect moment to continue working on my essay, hoping to finish it that afternoon. Classes had been cancelled just before the paper was due, so I convinced myself I could get it done without much trouble.

First, I dressed. I ran a towel through my hair to dry it slightly, then moved to my wardrobe and opened the drawer for my underwear. Sitting on top of some of them, I found a note. I picked it up and read:

 

                                                                   

 

There was no signature, but I would have bet it was from Louis. For a moment, I couldn’t believe what it said, and I felt elated. He couldn’t have chosen a better spot for our first… well, not exactly a “date,” but a meeting. I wondered if he saw it that way at all.

I turned to the pine visible from the window and almost felt the need to apologise to it for betraying it that evening. Just a glance at the swaying curtain was enough to silently promise it that, once I returned from the park, I’d be happy to see it again. No matter how many times I walked by, it would always be it—the tree before which I’d fall asleep again, the first one that had welcomed me to the city.

Excited at the thought of meeting Louis, I didn’t even notice that the “bench under the Oak” he’d written didn’t exactly narrow it down, given how many oaks there were in the enormous park. Once I arrived by bike, I thought he might be playing hide-and-seek with me, but I soon discovered, thanks to a sign directing the path, that there was a trail leading straight to the Great Oak, centuries old. An elderly man, leaning on a walking stick like the Paolo from that famous book, told me so—a coincidence that made me smile.

As soon as I saw him passing by, I asked if I was on the right track. He nodded, taking the chance to explain that this was the only oak to have survived a terrible virus that had killed all the others. That’s why it had earned the capital O. New ones had been planted over the years, but this one—the fighter—was the true champion of the city and deserved respect. Some Oakridans believed it had survived through magic, which fascinated me, making me forget entirely that I was far from the countryside.

After a chat, the man escorted me to the famous Oak, and sitting on the bench beside it, I saw Louis. With a wave, he greeted both me and the elder man. I was surprised they already knew each other.

“Have a good evening! And Louis, say hi to your mum for me!” the gentleman said, raising his cane and flashing a toothy grin. I turned to Louis, watching him smile back.

“Thanks, Alfred. Will do,” he said happily. We watched the man continue his stroll through the flowerbeds.

I then approached the bench, and without greeting him, I said, “In the underwear drawer, really?” echoing the same playful tone he’d used to tease me about the sheet that morning.

Perhaps noticing my reference, Louis held back a laugh, and it was infectious.

“Leaving it there was the only way to be sure you’d read it. Though I have to admit, I took a risk—not knowing if you wore them all the time or not,” he joked, motioning for me to sit. I did, smiling at his words.

“You were lucky I chose to wear them this time,” I replied, settling beside him, noting the curious expression on his face and the mischievous glint as he interpreted my comment.

I let my eyes wander; the Oak was massive, its thick roots twisting and stretching beneath our feet like veins of the earth itself. The branches arched above us, a green cathedral roof catching the light as the evening sun bled through the leaves. There really was something enchanted about it—Alfred hadn’t been exaggerating.

Louis leaned back against the bench, looking far too at home in that setting, as though the whole tree belonged to him. Or maybe it was the other way round—that he belonged to it, part of its stubborn, untouchable presence. I tried not to stare but failed miserably.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 11: You Were Perfect

 

                                           

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

“Do you come here often?” I asked my roommate, dragging my gaze back to him after a long look at the branches stretching above our heads. I liked the idea of this place being his little hideout, the same way my garden back in Hawthorne Green had always been mine.

“Quite a lot, yeah,” he said, and I noticed a few strands of his hair were still damp from the shower.

“With your mum?” I asked, guessing from the way that old man had asked him to send her his regards. Louis quickly laced his fingers together and looked away, a little too fast. I just hoped I wasn’t coming across like I was grilling him—God forbid. I only wanted to know more.

“Sometimes. But mostly on my own, these past few years,” he said, rubbing his palms on his jeans. “Used to come here with the family loads, though, back in primary school.” He turned slightly towards me then, and I mirrored him, catching his eyes. Against the deep green of the Oak’s crown, the blue of his eyes had taken on a hint of green—almost the same as mine.

I nodded, trying not to let it show how much his invitation here had made my day.
“Is that how you know Alfred?” I asked, remembering the way he’d said his name earlier. “He seems really nice.” I raked a hand through my hair, trying to fight the breeze that was steadily picking up.

Louis’s gaze sharpened. I clocked it immediately.
“You like him because he reminds you of Paolo, don’t you?” he said, and I couldn’t help a little smirk. Was I really that obvious?

The thought that he’d read me so clearly, as if we’d known each other for years, threw me for a moment.
“The stick does, yeah,” I admitted, spotting the flicker of surprise on his face. “Doesn’t he remind you of him?” I asked. But Louis dodged my question—again.

“Paolo’s not like you. I can feel that,” he said instead, and I couldn’t help but wonder what had made him so certain, though he wasn’t wrong. “So why defend him as if you were one and the same?”

“I know we’re different. But we’re not complete opposites, either,” I explained, grateful he let me finish without cutting across me. “I’d never have made some of his choices, or acted the way he did, with himself or with others. But there’s something about him… this constant nostalgia, hanging over everything. Even moments he’s still living through—he’s already mourning them for when they’re gone. And that stops him enjoying them in the now. He rarely lives in the moment, and it weighs him down, makes him seem gruff.” I paused, chewing it over. “And it’s in that heaviness I see myself.”

Louis dropped his gaze then, breaking away from mine. That’s when I realised I’d been talking like some bloody university lecturer.

“You think that’s why he chose to die alone?” Louis leaned back against the bench, elbow propped, chin in his hand. “To stop the nostalgia of his last days with Grazia from haunting him in the afterlife?” The way he asked it—so curious, so open—left me almost speechless.

I hadn’t expected this. When he’d asked me to meet him here, I hadn’t imagined we’d end up philosophising about a character who’d basically made us hate each other.

But unlike back in the classroom, Louis was listening now—properly listening. His sky-and-leaf-coloured eyes locked onto mine with an attentiveness that made me feel he’d slipped into my shoes, trying to see Paolo through my lens. Gruff, yes, but torn all the same. His shift in attitude floored me. I was so pleasantly thrown that I felt that same nostalgia I’d been talking about flare up in me right then. Only this time I told myself to enjoy it, afraid it wouldn’t last. I half-expected to annoy him soon enough—with something I said about the book, or just being myself. But I had to admit: our whole dynamic had changed overnight, and I could hardly wrap my head around it. How had I gone from batting away every scribble of criticism he’d left on his essay draft to actually agreeing with one of his takes on the novel?

“I reckon Paolo never really minded living with that nostalgia,” I said at last. “Even if it wore him down, even if it never stopped. But at some point you realise it’s drained you so much you’re exhausted from carrying it. When he shut himself away in the stables, he did it to spare Grazia from that burden. Because she’d carried it too—every day of her life, every time they danced. Walking away meant making her feel light, even if he knew he’d break her heart in the process.”

Louis nodded slowly, following every word. I wondered what he was really making of my metaphor.

“At first I thought you were just another hopeless romantic, only seeing the shiny bits of a relationship,” he confessed, almost reading my mind. “But this actually makes sense.”

I laughed softly. “Romantic, guilty as charged. Hopeless too, probably.”

He met my gaze again. “Romantic, definitely. But giving that much weight to every choice Paolo makes—that’s what always got under my skin. Now I’m not so sure. You’ve got me rethinking it. Certain scenes are coming back to me, actually.” He brushed at his fringe, thoughtful. “I’ll reread it, let you know.”

That cracked something open in me. The fact he was willing to rethink, to shift his stance, just because of something I’d said—it was like a whole new side of him had stepped into view. For the first time, I wasn’t so sure I knew him at all.

Far from being stubborn and immovable, Louis was different. And that realisation pulled my eyes away from his, landing instead on a little patch of grass and soil nearby. There, I spotted a particularly busy anthill.

“You’ve never crushed an ant, have you?” I asked, before I could stop myself. I couldn’t believe I’d actually said it aloud, without even questioning if I should. “Not on purpose, at least,” I added, sneaking a glance at him, nervous for his reaction.

He looked at me the way kids do when they throw you one of those impossible questions adults never have an answer for on the spot.
“Have I ever crushed an ant?” he repeated. For a second I worried he’d laugh, like someone had, years ago, when I asked them the same thing.

“My dad grew up in the countryside, before he met my mum,” Louis began. There was a softness in his voice, threaded with a sorrow he tried to hide. I leaned in, letting his calmness settle over me.
“They moved to the city when she found out she was pregnant with me. Four years later my sister was born, then the other three came along. Oakridge was home from then on. But Dad always dreamed of going back to the countryside once he retired.” He paused, sighed. “He never made it, though.”

The weight of that last sentence punched straight through me. I figured this must’ve been the private thing that had happened in his first year, the one that tied him so closely to Troy afterwards. But I didn’t ask—if he wanted me to know, he’d tell me.

“Anyway,” he went on, “the reason I’ve never squashed an ant—at least, not deliberately—is because of him. I remember once, I tripped and fell on an anthill. Here, actually—not far from this tree. We used to have loads of picnics here. I ran crying to my dad—proper sobbing my heart out. Not because they’d crawled all over me, but because I was terrified I’d wrecked their home, you know?” He smiled at the memory, and I couldn’t help smiling too.
“Dad told me I hadn’t meant to, that my tears did me credit, or something like that. And I’ve never forgotten it. Even now, whenever I see an anthill, I think back to that one I destroyed by accident. So I’ve always watched where I step.”

It was one of the most touching answers I’d ever heard. Maybe because it was tied to his dad, and I could sense how hard it was for him to share. Maybe because twenty-four hours ago, I’d never have imagined being the one to ask him such a personal question.

All this time I’d assumed Louis was the sort to trample over any anthill in his way without a second thought. To learn the opposite—that his family had instilled in him such care for nature—made me strangely happy. And it hit me: I’d known nothing about him until he started letting me in with these stories.

I leaned a little closer, wanting to catch his eyes. “And your dad was right—it does do you credit,” I said softly. He gave me a look that reminded me of a child hearing the perfect answer to a burning question. He smiled.
“I think so too,” he said, brushing a hand through his now completely dry fringe—the breeze having done its job, leaving us both a little chilled.

“Were you and your dad close?” I asked, careful, hoping sharing more might help. But he moved his arm off the back of the bench, rested it for a moment on his knees, then pushed himself up.

“Getting late,” he said instead, making me turn to see where he was heading. I watched him pick up his bike and start towards the path I’d followed earlier to meet him. Only when I stood and grabbed mine too did he glance back. Once he’d swung a leg over the frame, I gave one last look at the bench before pedalling after him.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

If that Oak could’ve spoken, before I got up from the bench and followed Louis towards the exit, I’d have asked whether it had felt the same things I had. Whether it too thought he and I looked as if we’d known each other forever, from the way we stared up beneath its huge branches and talked as if we’d never clashed over those very same arguments. I’d have asked if it had noticed the way Louis dropped his gaze whenever our eyes lingered a little too long, that flicker of shyness catching me too, or the spark between us—like some leftover chemistry we’d smuggled out of the bedroom. And last of all, I’d have asked whether I’d gone too far bringing up his dad, and if Louis hated me all over again.
But of course, the tree couldn’t answer.

Back in my room, perched on the bed, I waited for him to come in, half-wondering how he’d act. I kept my eyes on the pine tree outside, glowing in the courtyard light, just as I always did. I’d promised it, after all, that I’d watch it again before sleeping. What I hadn’t expected was to come back from the park feeling this low. I’d thought I’d be happier. I’d thought I wouldn’t be climbing into bed alone. But Louis had told me to go on up, to wait for him in the room before we’d even reached the dorm, promising he’d be right behind. A quarter of an hour later, though, I was starting to think I’d actually fall asleep before he turned up.

Luckily, I was wrong. The click of the key in the lock, the sight of him slipping through the door—it jolted me straight awake.

“Not having dinner?” he asked, wasting no breath on small talk. He tossed his keys on the desk, lobbed his phone onto his bed, and started stripping off in front of me. I didn’t even manage to tell him I wasn’t hungry—I was too busy staring—before he closed the distance with a look that was pure provocation. His cock, gripped in his hand, was dangling less than a foot from my face. My eyes flicked from it to him.

Once again, the only light was the glow from the bedside lamp, softening every line of him and making him look just as irresistible as he had the night before. My head was tipped back against the wall when he leaned in as if to kiss me, but instead hooked a finger under my chin and tilted me straight towards his cock. I didn’t even think. I just dropped to my knees, still holding his gaze. I couldn’t believe this was how I was welcoming him back in, me—the same me who’d been terrified, only minutes earlier, that he wouldn’t want a word from me ever again.

I swallowed, eyes glued to him, almost disbelieving. He’d gone serious on me, hungry in a way I hadn’t expected after the way things had ended at the park. His hands rested on his hips, eyes locked with mine. That was all the invitation I needed. I wrapped my hand around him and started to take his cock into my mouth. If sex with him had been new, this was something else entirely. I’d always wondered what it felt like to give someone a blowjob—curiosity fuelled by knowing exactly how good it felt to be on the receiving end.

After a couple of teasing licks, I spat into my hand, slicking him up. I was so focused on sucking him that I barely noticed he was watching until I slid him back between my lips, careful to keep my teeth out of the way, tongue pressed beneath him. A low groan escaped his lips the second I tried to take more, though he clamped his mouth shut to stifle it. I almost wished he wouldn’t. His moans the night before had been enough to make me roll my eyes back in bliss—I’d have listened to them forever—but I knew as well as he did that we had to keep the noise down.

I slowed down, taking my time, listening hard for every sound that told me what he liked best. I’d seen enough videos to know the technique, but nothing compared to tailoring it to him, right here, right now. And the slower I went, the more it turned me on—and I could tell from the way his body responded that he felt the same.

I let my mouth pop free with a wet smack, then ran my tongue from the base right to the tip before taking him back in. His hand slid behind my head, guiding the pace. I tried to go deeper, letting him fill me as much as I could.

“A—aghhh—” he groaned, head tipping back before snapping his gaze down to me. For a few seconds our eyes locked, then I shut mine again, focusing on how much of him I could handle. He was thick, bigger than I was ready for, and at first it wasn’t easy to manage. But the more my mouth adjusted, the less effort it took. His grip on my hair, the way he pushed into me—it only made me more determined to please him.

Soon both his hands were in my curls, tugging me back and forth, his hips rolling forward as he filled my mouth over and over. I was buzzing, drunk on it. He wasn’t shy about showing when he was enjoying something, and the sounds he made only spurred me on.

At one point I even let him take over completely, dropped my hands, and started touching myself instead. I unbuttoned my jeans and rubbed over the fabric. I’d worked myself so hard I was hard too. Meanwhile, Louis was thrusting in shallow, careful strokes, sometimes letting me take only the head, other times sliding deeper.

“That’s it… yeah, just like that,” he muttered suddenly, urging me to take him further. My eyes watered, a tear slipping down my cheek as I pushed myself, before finally pulling back to stroke him with my hand, giving him a last long lick.

He drew his hips away. I gasped for air, staring up at him. The grin tugging at his lips, the gleam in his eyes—it almost made me miss having him in my mouth already. His cock looked incredible just on its own, but tasting him—that was something else entirely.

Louis crouched down, cupped my chin, and kissed me—once, then again, deeper, slipping his tongue against mine. I let him, surrendering to the warmth of it, until he finally drew back, thumb brushing over my lips to wipe me clean.

“You were perfect,” he murmured.

I looked at him, dazed, as he straightened, grabbed his phone off the bed and a pair of briefs from the wardrobe, and headed for the bathroom. Even drained as I was, I couldn’t take my eyes off him, and when his arse wiggled in front of me I found myself squeezing my balls through my underwear.

With a sigh, I pushed myself off the floor and back onto the bed, palms on my knees, fly still undone. I licked my lips, thinking I wouldn’t have minded tasting him again. The memory of the night before made me shift onto his bed, stripping off my T-shirt and jeans and tossing them down.

That’s when he came back out, went to the desk and set his phone down face-first.

“Oh, so now we’re swapping beds, are we?” he asked, tone different now, cooler.

Without looking at me, he fished a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from his bedside drawer. I hadn’t realised he smoked, though now that I thought back, the aftertaste had been there in his kisses, especially the night of the initiation. I’d just been too pissed to care.

“No, it’s just—” I swallowed, watching him light up and crack the window open. “I thought…” But when he didn’t even glance my way, I gave up. My eyes drifted to the ceiling, catching the smoke detector.

“Are you sure you can smoke in here?” I asked.

“It’s broken,” he said flatly, exhaling. “Like half the things in this place.”

I knew he meant the door handle, and God knows what else, but for a second it felt like he was talking about me instead—about my heart, skipping painfully at how detached he sounded. I’d just gone down on him, he’d kissed me like it mattered, told me I was perfect—and now he was acting like none of it had happened.

I grabbed my clothes off his bed, dumped them on my chair, and stretched out on mine instead. It wasn’t like he’d care. Still, I couldn’t help sneaking looks, watching the way he held the cigarette, the way he drew on it until the stub burned short.

When he finally flicked it out the window and closed it again, he collapsed onto his bed and switched off his lamp without a word. He didn’t look at me once.

Left with only my light, I leaned over and killed it too—snuffing out any hope, not just of sex, but of even talking a bit more.

No goodnight, no glance. Just me and Louis, backs turned, as if we hated each other all over again. And if I’d bet against falling asleep quickly, I’d have won.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

I was the first to wake the next morning, even though what I really needed was to sleep straight through till midday. Classes didn’t kick off until ten, so technically I had time, but my stomach was growling and I couldn’t stand another minute in that room.

The first thing I did when I opened my eyes was glance across at Louis’s bed. He was turned towards the wall, only his back in view. That alone was enough to spark memories I didn’t want. I dressed quickly, washed in silence, packed my rucksack, slid my laptop in exactly where I’d left it, and slipped out with barely a glance at him. Pretending not to think of him was pointless—closing the door behind me didn’t shut away what had happened between us.

I kept replaying it: the way we’d touched, the trust he’d placed in me, how close we’d got. And yet, for him, it had clearly meant nothing like what it had for me. Maybe I’d been right to worry our fragile truce was doomed from the start. Back on that bench, I’d savoured every second of his warmth because I half-knew it wouldn’t last. What I couldn’t wrap my head around was how he could pretend none of it had happened—he was the one who’d kissed me first, the one who wanted to sleep together, the one who’d pulled me down to my knees.

I could still taste the smoke of his cigarette in my mouth, as though he were sat right there beside me. But instead I was outside, crossing the courtyard towards breakfast with the chill of the night wind brushing my face. Judging by the look on mine, it was obvious my thoughts were still stuck in last night.

What did Louis actually want from me? Had he been telling the truth when he swore the stocking hadn’t been for anyone? Or was I just a way to drown out Troy? That thought gnawed at me, feeding on his sudden coldness, until it swelled into a storm in my head. I was so caught up in it that I barely noticed Stephen until he called my name.

“Hazza, hi!” he chirped. I kept walking, still lost in thought.

“Harry..?” He quickened his pace to fall in beside me. His voice finally broke through.

“Stevie, sorry—I was just…” I slowed down enough to glance at him.

“…thinking about the essay deadline?” he guessed, as if it were obvious. “I’m sure you’ve done brilliantly. Graham’s a nightmare, yeah—you’ve noticed that by now—but I’ve got no doubt your reading will have made you a sharp writer too. I mean, I haven’t read your work, don’t get me wrong—I wouldn’t want to give false hope, not with Graham being Graham. Still, I’ve got a good feeling. And it’s only your first paper. Plenty of time to find your rhythm.”

He was off at a gallop, words tumbling out so fast they almost managed to drive Louis from my mind. Almost.

Truth was, I hadn’t slept a wink. When Louis finally nodded off, I’d dug out my laptop to finish his essay instead of mine. I hadn’t managed it before we went to the park, but our chat beneath the Oak had given me a spark of inspiration, and I stayed up polishing it until it was done. My own essay, meanwhile, was still a blank page. Stephen’s pep talk only made the knot in my stomach tighten at the thought of facing Graham empty-handed. But at least I’d kept my word to Louis. Things between us might have iced over—his choice, not mine—but I’d still done what I’d promised.

“Yeah, you guessed right,” I told Stephen. He’d been one of the first I trusted here, and I valued his friendship, but I couldn’t exactly dump all the Louis chaos on him. Not when I hardly understood it myself.

He patted my shoulder and stepped ahead to block my path. That’s when I clocked his glasses—this pair had red frames. So he did own a collection, just as I’d suspected. “Wish I could keep chatting, but I’ve got a nine o’clock,” he said, almost apologetic.

I cracked a smile—funny how he looked more worried about my essay than I did.

“Don’t stress, Stev, I’ll live. Graham doesn’t scare me that much,” I lied, even though the truth was the exact opposite. “Go on, don’t be late.”

He pulled me into a quick hug before heading off. He couldn’t have known it, but I needed that more than I realised.

My stomach growled louder as I carried on to the canteen. At least food was something I could rely on, after days of barely stomaching anything. Breakfast, a final check of Louis’s essay, then bracing myself for Graham’s wrath—that was the plan.

Only, I didn’t even get to bite into the croissant I’d just been handed. Because that’s when I looked up and saw Diana.

“Mind if I…?” she asked, already pulling out the chair.

Just the sight of her was enough to kill my appetite stone dead. She was in a pink blouse tucked into flared jeans, hair pulled back as best it could be. She looked stunning, radiant, just like the girl I’d first fallen for—smiling as though she hadn’t betrayed me. Seeing her dredged up feelings so tangled I could hardly breathe. My brain was screaming to tell her no, I didn’t want her there. But my heart, stubborn as ever, wanted to hear her out. While I hesitated, she decided for me, sitting herself down.

“Finally, Harry. I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she said, turning towards me. My fingers hovered over the trackpad, but I couldn’t bring myself to meet her gaze.

“You mean you both have,” I cut in, forcing myself to look at her. She blinked at me, thrown. “I’ve not seen you on your own once. So does he have something to say to me too?” I asked, flicking my eyes towards the window.

Too bad the canteen had such big panes of glass. I wasn’t sure if it stung me more to see she’d dragged him along, or her more to be caught pretending otherwise.

“Him? Who?” she said, all wide-eyed innocence. That snapped me out of her spell.

“Your new boyfriend. Don’t play dumb.”

“Dave isn’t my boyfriend,” she said flatly, and I was so wrong-footed I could only reply with sarcasm.

“Is he not?” I shot back, my stomach twisting tighter, though the croissant sat untouched.

“Harry, I’m sorry about what happened,” she said, reaching for my hand. I pulled it back instantly. If even looking at her dragged me back under that pine tree, I didn’t want to know what touching her would do. And yeah, we’d only been together a day, but she’d convinced me she meant it.

I felt like a fool. Especially with Dave waiting outside like her stand-in bodyguard. Between him and Louis’s whiplash moods, I felt like everyone else’s puppet. One minute Louis moaned over my tongue all around his tip, the next he acted like none of it had happened. And Diana? She’d ignored me since the initiation, and now she was suddenly sorry? At this rate Stephen could’ve declared it was the best night of his life and I wouldn’t have blinked.

She rambled on: “We all know how the ritual works, Harry. Even if it was your first, you knew there was a chance of… being with someone else.”

“With someone else?” My voice snapped sharper. She was missing something crucial. “Do you know what Louis and I talked about right before it started?”

She shook her head.

“I asked him to put me with you. To make sure it was you who could do whatever you wanted to me. It was you I wanted as my predator, Diana—not someone else.” I leaned on those words, but she barely reacted.

“But you still did it. With someone who wasn’t me. And not just anyone—him, the one who should’ve paired us up.” Her voice cut too now.

“Do you think I knew?” My voice shook. “Do you think I had any clue it wouldn’t be you? You, though—you saw it wasn’t me under the blindfold, and you still stayed. You still kissed him. You still did everything as if I didn’t exist. You pushed me to ask you out in front of everyone—” I broke off, my pulse racing. “For what? To humiliate me? To cheat in front of my face while I defended you? While I fought lads who, it turns out, were only trying to warn me?”

Her face stayed unreadable, my anger bouncing right off.

“Does Dave know you cheated on me with him?” I pressed, desperate to shake her.

Her eyes only hardened. She leaned in close, so close her breath brushed my cheek. “No,” she whispered, eyes flicking to my lips for half a second before fixing on my ear. “But if you dare tell him, I’ll make sure Graham finds out Louis didn’t write his essay on his own.”

And with that, she rose and walked away.

I slammed my laptop shut on instinct, heart pounding, watching her stride out to Dave.

Only then did I realise I’d left Louis’s essay wide open the entire time we’d spoken. She might not have seen it—but she might. If she told Graham, I was finished. In a panic, I opened it one last time, skimmed it, and sent it off to Louis by email, as if even the walls could rat me out.

How did I feel afterwards? Hard to say. All I knew was I had no intention of going anywhere near Dave—or that ten o’clock lecture. Graham could tear into me on Tuesday. But I wasn’t about to face Diana the blackmailer and Louis the mystery man in the same room.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

Chapter 12: Because you live here

 

After sending Louis his essay, I wandered over to the counter and asked for a paper bag, just big enough to tuck my croissant inside so I could take it with me. On the walk back to halls, my stomach was still growling like I hadn’t eaten in days, but I was too tangled up in thoughts to actually take a bite. It wasn’t until I sat down on my bed, head buzzing, that I finally forced myself to enjoy it. Apricot jam—my favourite. Only, it didn’t taste half as good without a cappuccino on the side and the knot of bitterness twisting my stomach.

With each mouthful, I tried to bury the irritation that Diana had managed to stir in me. She’d been the one to sit down, the one acting as though I owed her an apology for giving in to Louis—when she was the one who’d gone off with someone else, deliberately, and without a shred of guilt. Her blasé attitude was maddening. She didn’t care that I’d actually tried to get us paired together, didn’t care that knowing she’d chosen someone else had gutted me. And it wasn’t heartbreak—not exactly. But it did feel as though something in my chest had been drilled open, churned up, and then walked over again and again, leaving nothing but holes behind.

That was it—I felt drilled through. And just when I’d started convincing myself Louis might be the perfect gardener to patch me up, I’d watched him strip away all the fertiliser he’d given me, leaving me barren again. Would I ever find someone who wouldn’t rather be tending another lawn? Someone who’d take the time to sow, nurture, and let things grow without ripping the flowers out as if they’d never belonged?

Everything had happened too fast for me to process properly—Diana crashing down on one side, Louis pulling me under on the other. I kept rifling through the drawers in my head, hunting for some kind of justification for either of them, but the shelves stayed bare. Maybe it sounded strange that most of my thoughts were fixed on Louis instead of Diana, the girl who had technically been my girlfriend, but the truth was I already knew her type: she’d never spared a thought for whether her actions hurt the person next to her. Louis, though—he was still a puzzle. The fact that, against all odds, he’d chosen to open up to me meant something. A lot, actually.

We’d only just met, and from what I’d gathered, Troy had been the only one he’d ever let in before me. For him to trust me enough to put Troy behind him—that wasn’t nothing. I just needed to figure out what had flipped in his head last night, what had made him go to sleep without so much as looking at me.

To stall, to stop myself spiralling, I reached for a book. Anything that wasn’t remotely connected to my mess of a life. And there I stayed, buried in the pages, until a knock rattled through the wood. The rhythm was too cheerful to be Louis—it couldn’t be him anyway; he had keys. And I couldn’t imagine him tapping out a jaunty beat just to break the silence he was intent on keeping.

I dragged myself up, pulled the handle down, and there he was: Stephen, practically bouncing. He lingered at the doorway only long enough for a quick hello before he wrapped me in a hug.

“Hazza! Here we are again! How are you??? Can I come in?” he asked, buzzing with energy.

I ignored the first question—no way I was unpacking that—and waved him inside. For a moment it struck me as odd, him being back already; I knew he’d had medieval history that morning. But then I clocked the time on the wall. I’d been lost in that book for nearly an hour and a half. No wonder my stomach was stirring for lunch.

“Of course,” I said, closing the door behind us.

He beamed at me, grin wide enough to light the room.

“So, how was class? And what’s with this sudden visit?” I asked, curiosity tugging at me.

“Brilliant! We started on the Carolingian Empire—one of my absolute favourite periods!” he blurted. “But that’s not why I’m here. Well, actually, it is—because it’s what I ended up talking about with someone… Grace. Honestly, Harry, she’s one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen.”

That got my full attention. I perched back on the bed, watching him sparkle.

“I spotted her last year, coming out of a lecture hall, but she’s a year above. She’s sitting in on Medieval again for her dissertation with Owens. Can you believe it? Grace Miller—the star of the history course—actually taking my lectures? Could I get any luckier?” His hands were flying about, pacing back and forth like he’d gone full Italian. He was glowing, and for once I was thrilled to see him so carried away. Stephen and a girl—this, I wanted to hear.

“I don’t think you could, Stev,” I said, egging him on. “Tell me—what’s she like? What did you two talk about?”

“What’s she like?” He stopped dead, twisting at his wrist as if the excitement had to leak out somewhere. “She’s clever, diligent—brilliant, honestly! And I swear, Harry, I’ve never seen green eyes so gorgeous in my life.”

I couldn’t resist teasing him. “What, mine don’t do it for you then? I get it, hers are dazzling, but still…”

“Oh—no, Harry, no! That’s not what I meant at all! Yours are gorgeous too, honestly, I mean… look, right now I can see they’re this amazing emerald—did you get them from your mum?” he babbled, panicking.

I nearly burst out laughing at his fluster, but I kept a straight face. “So you never noticed they were green before now, yeah?” I needled, until he stammered himself into a dead end. “Relax, I was winding you up,” I said, grinning when he finally exhaled and called me a dick for making him sweat.

He carried on, breathless: “Anyway—Grace. I never thought a girl that stunning would ever talk to me. She’s sweet, though, not stuck-up. Everyone says she’s lovely, really approachable. Just… never with me. I mean, sure, we’ve been in the same room or the same WhatsApp group for history, but I never thought she’d single me out. And then—she did. She came to me, Harry. She said she’d noticed how careful my notes were and asked if I could go over them with her. Me! She could’ve asked anyone—Sylvie, Adam—but she picked me. I’m the one she noticed. It’s insane!” His grin stretched so wide I thought his face might split.

Listening to him gush like that made my chest ache in the best way. Nobody talked about crushes like Stephen did—like a kid with his first sweetheart. Watching him light up was infectious. If anyone ever spoke about me with half that excitement, I’d melt on the spot.

I got up, grinning, and grabbed his shoulders. “Stevie, mate, congrats! You’ve clearly made an impression. So—what’s next? Texting her? Have you got her number?”

He fished his phone out proudly. “Yeah—she gave it to me herself. But that’s not even the big bit. She told me we’d go over notes next week, after the Charlemagne lecture. But for now…” He flicked his gaze up to mine, smile practically bursting. “She’s invited me to the party!”

“Party?” I blinked, utterly lost.

“Yes, Hazza—the party,” he said, as if it was common knowledge. “You must’ve seen the flyers? Or the banners in the courtyard?”

He yanked the curtain aside to point. Sure enough, hanging from the same branches that had held the initiation banner, fresh ones flapped in the breeze.

“Organised by third-years,” Stephen explained. “They were gutted the ritual turned out… well, like it did.” He gave me a wary look, knowing how raw that subject was. “But this’ll be different. Chill. Just food, drinks, music. Moving between the halls, mixing, meeting people. Sounds fun, doesn’t it?” He pushed his glasses up, almost shy.

Stephen Murray, the least party-minded bloke on campus, telling me about a college night like it was Christmas—if I hadn’t seen it, I’d never have believed it.

“You’ll come with me, won’t you? It’s this Saturday,” he asked, suddenly cautious, watching me carefully.

“With… you?” I echoed, looking back at him. “Didn’t Grace invite you? Shouldn’t you be going with her?”

“I am,” he nodded quickly. “But I really need you there too. Honestly, Hazza—I just need another perspective. I think she likes me, but… I need you to tell me if I’m imagining it. Please.” His eyes practically begged.

I dropped my head, sighing his name. He knew what I was about to say.

“Harry, please. Only you’ll be straight with me. I’ve not been with a girl in years—I can’t read them, never could…” His honesty made me smile despite myself.

He crouched at the end of my bed, actually on his knees. “I know I’m asking a lot. But it’s nothing like the ritual—I swear. I checked. Different crowd, decent people. Nothing shady. We’ll have a laugh, meet new faces, I’ll introduce you properly to everyone—I owe you that. Please. Look—I’m literally begging.”

He clasped his hands in mock-prayer, then added, “I’ll even split a pizza with you at lunch. My treat.”

That did it. He knew I couldn’t resist.

“Fair enough—I’m starving,” I said, standing and nodding for him to get up too.

His eyes lit up like I’d just said I loved him. “So you’ll come???”

“Only to give you an outsider’s perspective,” I warned, smirking.

He whooped and crushed me in a hug. “Hazza, thank you! You won’t regret it!”

“You’d better be right,” I muttered into his shoulder, muffled by the hug.

And then—click. Or rather, no click. I tried the door handle. Jammed.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groaned, yanking again.

“Wait—let me,” Stephen said, watching me struggle. I doubted his twig arms would make much difference, but I stepped aside.

“Ughh—got it—nearly—” He wrenched with all his might, and then—crash. He toppled backwards, the handle clutched in his hand, ripped clean off the door.

I stared at the loose metal, blinking. Tried the key—nothing.

“Oh, bollocks,” Stephen muttered, eyes wide.

We were officially stuck.

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

“How about, instead of buying me pizza, you call someone to fix this door?” I said, watching Stephen stare helplessly at the handle that had come off in his hand. The suggestion instantly brought back the memory of Louis asking me to take advantage of being mate with him to have him dealing with it as soon as possible.

But Stephen didn’t look like someone who thought pizza was our biggest priority right then – even though I wouldn’t have minded eating it.

“Well, the thing is…” he began, scratching the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “I know I’ve always had it in for Louis and Troy, but that’s not why I’ve been putting off sorting the lock. T-truth is… it’s because lately we’ve been left without support. And it’s not just you two – plenty of other students have reported the same problem,” he explained.

I blinked at him, confused. “Without support? What do you mean?”

He hesitated, as if unsure how to phrase it. “Back in May, the repair service the College always used shut down because of a family matter. The Vice-Chancellor’s been trying to line up a replacement, but then summer came along and the staff at the new place all took extra holidays. So… we’re still waiting.”

“Though the good news is they’re supposed to be back in action by the start of October – unless the College brings in another agency in the meantime, which, fingers crossed, they will…”

His ‘good news’ didn’t sound remotely reassuring. “October? Stev, that’s more than twenty days away. What are we supposed to do until then – stay locked in here? And where exactly is Louis supposed to sleep?” I asked, trying not to panic. Oddly enough, before worrying about how we’d eat if we couldn’t leave the room for over three weeks, my mind went straight to Louis – and the fact he wouldn’t have access to his bed, or mine… or, well, any bed he wanted.

To steer the focus away from him, I tried to think straight. “Why don’t we just call another repair service in town?” I asked, grabbing my phone off the desk and starting to look some up online.

“Er, no… the Vice-Chancellor doesn’t allow that. Insurance reasons,” Stephen muttered. “We’ve been told to wait until the campus’s usual agency is back, or another one steps in momentarily. That’s the policy…” He trailed off awkwardly.

I stared at him in disbelief. “So the Vice-Chancellor would rather have us trapped in here until October than hire someone else? Or wait for some replacement agency who-knows-when? Seriously?”

Stephen couldn’t give me an answer. “Well, I’m calling anyway,” I snapped, tapping away on my phone.

Panicked, he yanked it out of my hand with the one that wasn’t still holding the handle. “Do you want me to be the one who gets in trouble for that? Along with the rest of us working for admin?” he blurted, then instantly looked ashamed. “Oh God—sorry, I didn’t mean to grab it—” He shoved it back at me.

“Look,” he said quickly, “I promise bringing in outsiders won’t work. They might not even be allowed into the dorm without the right contract. But we’ve got other options!” He glanced around wildly, waving the useless handle as he moved – which, given the situation, made him look comically ridiculous. “W-we could call Louis, for starters! He’s got the spare key, hasn’t he? Or he could even ask admin to give us a hand if that’s not enough. They’ll let us out and we’ll be free in no time!”

That idea stopped me cold.

Stephen had landed on a perfectly simple solution, and it would’ve been ideal… if Louis weren’t my roommate. Or rather, if things between us hadn’t shifted so much that the thought of calling him felt like crashing through a barrier I wasn’t ready to cross. It wasn’t that we hated each other anymore – far from it. The grudge was behind us. And if I told anyone about the intimacy we’d stumbled into in less than forty-eight hours, they’d think I was insane not to ask him.

But for me, calling him would mean pretending he hadn’t ignored me since that talk under the Oak, almost as if he hadn’t chosen to do it with me for the first time after two years with only one partner, as if I hadn’t looked into his eyes and realised he’d never step on ants deliberately.

I looked at Stephen, close to panicking, not knowing how to explain why Louis wasn’t the best option without spilling everything. But I ended up telling him anyway. He sat down on my bed, fiddling with the broken handle like it still had a purpose, while I stumbled through a jittery, fragmented account of what had gone on between me and Louis.

When I finished, Stephen stared at me, wide-eyed. “Hang on. So Louis dropped Troy for you – walked away from a two-year relationship no one here thought would ever end – and you’re worried about bothering him to come unlock a door? His own bloody door?”

He had a point. And yet, the thought of reaching out to Louis, of breaking the silence with a phone call about a lock instead of what had really happened between us… the idea filled me with dread.

“It’s not just that I don’t want to disturb him, Stev…” I admitted. “The thing is, he didn’t even speak to me last night. Went to bed without a word, no attempt to talk. Sure, we’d had sex, and I’d… done what I did,” I muttered, forcing the memory aside, “but I’ve no idea what we are now. This morning, when I saw him still asleep, I almost woke him to talk. But I stopped myself. I thought: if he didn’t want to discuss it yesterday while it was fresh, why would he want to be dragged into it half-asleep now?”

I couldn’t ignore the suspicion that what had happened meant far more to me than to him. Maybe I was the one too caught up, because with Louis I’d had my first time with a boy – my first everything. Maybe he just needed time to adjust, to accept he wasn’t with his boyfriend anymore, that whatever this was, it was new for him too.

And if that was the reason he’d gone silent on me, then calling him now would’ve been the worst thing I could do. Even if it meant staying stuck in here until October, or until he eventually came back on his own. At least that way, it’d be his choice to show up – not me forcing him.

Looking back, I get why Stephen thought I was overthinking it. But I genuinely wanted to respect Louis’s space, not drag him into a conversation he wasn’t ready for.

“I’ll call him, then,” Stephen said gently.

So I handed him my phone with Louis’s number already open, and let him do it.

I worried he thought I was pathetic, but when he passed me the phone back and motioned for me to sit next to him on the bed while we waited, I felt oddly reassured. The last thing I needed was to feel misunderstood.

“He said he’s on his way. Just a few minutes and we’ll finally get that pizza,” Stephen said with a smile.

I exhaled in relief. Soon, I’d see Louis again – not avoiding my gaze, not asleep while I got ready, but properly, face to face. And I couldn’t help but wonder how he’d act when he walked through that door.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

About ten minutes after Stephen’s call, we heard the scrape of a key turning in the lock and both jumped to our feet like castaways spotting a ship on the horizon.

Louis appeared in the doorway, flanked by Jake and Kirk—the same two I’d ended up brawling with the previous Saturday. He leaned in at once, inspecting the doorframe.
“Bloody hell… it’s come right off,” he muttered, running his hand over the broken lock before glancing up at us. His mates lingered in the corridor, waiting, while he stepped into the room. For a split second I thought he was coming over to greet me, maybe even say something—anything—and the idea alone sent a shiver down my spine.

But within a heartbeat it was obvious his eyes weren’t on me at all. They were fixed on the handle we’d left lying on my bed. He picked it up, turned it over in his hands, studying the jagged edge where it had snapped. I almost wished I could switch places with that handle, just to feel his touch again.

“So, which one of you’s the brute who managed to tear this off?” he asked, finally looking up—straight at me. He was close enough that his scent filled the room, and it pulled me straight back to the moment my mouth had hovered over his throat. Every time I saw him, I got caught in the same loop of memory. I forced myself to shake it off, though it was useless; he was a habit I couldn’t break.
“Don’t look at me,” I shot back. “It was Stephen.” And I knew from the way Louis glanced over at him that he was thinking the same thing I had at the time—how on earth had Stephen, the self-proclaimed weakest lad in the college, managed to break it like that?

“Must’ve been all the times we’ve yanked it about. Finally gave up. Mad, really…” Louis murmured, setting the handle back on my bed. Then his gaze lifted again, locking onto mine. I fell straight into it, while Stephen shifted awkwardly on the spot, clearly feeling like an intruder.

Kirk poked his head through the doorway. “So? What’s the plan?” he asked impatiently. The spell broke, and I motioned for Stephen to follow me out.
“W-we’re heading to lunch. Ring me if you need anything, yeah?” I threw Louis one last glance as I grabbed my rucksack from the floor.
“See you later,” I managed, slipping past the others as quickly as I could, hoping no one noticed how flushed my face had gone just from meeting Louis’s eyes.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

After lunch, I begged Stephen to stick around in the library with me. I needed a buffer before going back to the room and facing Louis again. I’d felt something when we’d looked at each other—tension, yes, but not the heavy kind he’d filled the room with the night before when he’d frozen me out completely. This was different, sharper, almost pleasant.

As we sat there, me failing miserably to underline even three pages in forty minutes, I remembered Stephen’s advice about the value of an outside perspective. It wasn’t a bad idea, I thought, when he asked me to pay attention to how he and Grace interacted. So I decided to flip it back on him. He was focused, head bent over his notes, but I couldn’t stop myself blurting it out.

“Pssst.” I laid my pencil down, but he didn’t stir.
“Stev—” I hissed, giving him a nudge with my foot under the table. He finally looked up, pulling out one earbud. I knew he liked to work to classical pieces or sweeping film scores, and for a moment I almost regretted disturbing him. But I needed this answer.

“Do you think… I mean, did you pick up on a certain tension between me and Louis, back there?” I asked in a low voice. As soon as I said it, I realised I might’ve steered him too much. “Or maybe you noticed something else? A distance, or… anything, really?” I corrected myself, fidgeting with the pencil.

Stephen paused his music completely and slipped out the other earbud, giving me a wry look.
“Tension? Mate, if I’d had a knife I could’ve sliced it,” he said with a sympathetic grin. I ducked my head at once, hoping he didn’t see the way I flushed at that.

“Really?” I asked, half-laughing, half-relieved. His answer lit something warm inside me. So I wasn’t imagining it. I wasn’t the only one who felt that charge between us. It wasn’t all in my head.

I didn’t even wait for him to elaborate. The way he looked at me, confirming it without another word, was enough. I swept my books, notes and pens into my bag in a rush.
“Sorry, mate—I’ve got to go,” I told him, already halfway out of my chair.

I needed to see Louis again. Needed to know if that spark would still be there when our eyes met.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

The moment I stepped into the corridor, I almost dreaded coming face to face with that wreck of a door again, but there was no way around it—I had to open it. I slid the key into the lock, torn between hoping Louis was in the room or not. It would be a problem if we ended up trapped together inside again with no way of opening it from the outside. Objectively speaking, of course—though let’s be clear, I wouldn’t exactly have minded being shut in with him for hours.

When the door finally swung open, there he was: perched on his bed, laptop balanced across his crossed legs. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and that was the very first thing I noticed.
“Welcome back,” he said, while I shut the door behind me, unable to tear my eyes away from his bare chest.
“Noticed anything?” he added, snapping me back down to earth. I realised then I still had my hand wrapped around the new handle.
“This?” I asked, admiring its factory shine.
“My uncle’s a locksmith,” he explained, pulling me back to him. “I went to the office earlier to see if they’d do something about it, but apparently your mate wasn’t lying about the insurance issues—or some other bollocks, I couldn’t quite follow what the problem was.” I nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. “Anyway, I asked my uncle to come, smuggled him past reception saying it was just a quick visit, and voilà,” he spread his arms, “we’ve finally got ourselves a proper handle.”

I stared at him, half in awe of his little scheme, half relieved that my distraction with his half-naked torso hadn’t ended with us locked inside again until October.
“I can see it,” I said with a grin, giving the handle another look. “Be sure to thank your uncle.”
“Will do,” Louis replied, nodding, before his attention drifted back to his laptop.

I slipped over to my own bed, peeling off my T-shirt too, though the ease of the gesture only amplified the awkwardness creeping in to replace the tension I’d come back for. After his last words, I had enough time to unpack my books, dump them on the desk, reply to a message from my sister and stretch out on the bed before realising a strange silence had settled between us.

I was glad when Louis broke it, maybe because he’d noticed the sidelong glances I kept sneaking at him, maybe because he felt the same awkwardness and wanted to puncture it.
“Distinguished Mr Tomlinson,” he began, catching my attention at once and making me put my phone aside. His eyes were glued to the screen, so I guessed he was reading something there.
“I’ve just finished reading your essay on the Depretis period, and I can say I’m pleasantly surprised by your progress. Formally, I can see you’ve paid more attention to your sentence structure and punctuation.

As for the content, it’s clear you reflected deeply on the classroom debate and weren’t afraid to reconsider your stance where necessary. It’s obvious you still hold firmly to the view you’d expressed, but I was struck by the interpretive freedom you highlighted.

When you reread the novel, I’ll be eager to hear what else you’ve got to say. In the meantime, enjoy the door you’ve left open—so to speak—regarding what can be learned from this book. I trust you’ll take plenty from it. Excellent work.

Sincerely,
B. E. Graham.”

I listened intently as Louis read the email aloud. In the end, those words felt meant more for me than for him.
“Not bad, eh?” I said, almost as a compliment. “You’ve made quite the impression.”
Louis snapped the laptop shut, set it aside, and crossed over to my bed. Instinctively, I shifted upright to give him space.
“You’re the one who made the impression,” he countered, settling beside me. The closeness left me speechless.

“I can only imagine how hard it must’ve been to write something on a topic you disagreed with,” he went on. “But I’m glad that chat in the park gave you some inspiration. Not just for that, obviously—I mean, sure, without it you wouldn’t have known I was thinking of rereading the book to give it another shot, but…” he swallowed, fumbling, “honestly, I’m just glad we had that talk. And glad I went out with you, more than anything.”

I watched him search for the right words, and I swear, nothing he could’ve said would have hit me harder than that. The essay had mattered to him—not just to the professor, but to Louis, which meant everything. And now, he was admitting he’d been happy to see me outside these four walls—though now, thanks to the new handle, we wouldn’t risk getting locked in again.

“So am I,” I replied, almost amused at how nervous he seemed. Nervous, but determined all the same. The more we talked, the closer Louis leaned, and I found myself doing the same. Neither of us broke eye contact. My chest tightened.
“Is that so?” he teased, his face just inches from mine. I had to stop myself from kissing him there and then. Instead, I just nodded, weak with the knowledge that he wanted me too.

“You write brilliantly, by the way,” he added, voice barely more than a whisper, making me swallow.
“Thanks,” I murmured. I couldn’t even manage to raise my voice. It was as if we were terrified of someone overhearing, though we both knew no one could. Louis seemed to want me to hear those words as though they were only mine.
“And Christ,” he breathed, lips brushing mine, “you’re fucking handsome.”

His words melted the last of my restraint. Eyes shut, I grabbed his face and kissed him. He only needed a second before pushing me back onto the pillow, his body stretching over mine. My hands found his neck and his back, his fingers digging into my chin as he bit at my lip. We kissed with reckless urgency, tongues twisting, mouths clashing, neither of us pausing for breath.

Heat burned through my chest, my heart hammering as I gasped into his mouth, electrified by his touch. With one hand at the back of my neck, Louis tugged at my hair until I arched for him, silently begging him to kiss lower. He did—down my throat, until soft kisses turned into little nips, his mouth travelling down to my chest. He teased one nipple, then the other, lingering, biting.
“O-oh,” I moaned, breaths catching, my voice breaking into quiet whimpers. No one had ever done that to me before, but fuck, I liked it. Then his lips were back on mine, kissing me hungrily. My stomach twisted with sensation after sensation, each one new, sharper, overwhelming.

Soon, his hands were at my waistband, undoing my trousers. I gasped as he slipped inside my briefs, fondling my balls before wrapping his hand around my lenght. I hardened instantly at his touch.
“Fuck—” I hissed, shocked, meeting his eyes.
“Already?” he smirked, savouring both my reaction and my stiffness. I panted into his grin as his fist slid slowly up and down my cock. Torturously slow, until he finally quickened, making me lift my hips, grinding against his stomach.

I needed him naked.

I sat up on the bed, forcing Louis to pull his hand out of my trousers and lean back. Then I pulled him into another kiss while my fingers fumbled with his buttons and dragged down his zip. He was right there with me, and the moment I tugged his trousers off, he was already stripping me out of mine. In no time at all, we were both naked.

I was too turned on to think straight, but when Louis pushed me down again and stood to rummage in his bedside drawer, I realised it was my turn this time. I watched him tear open a new box of condoms, admiring the perfect curve of his arse, the straight line of his back, like he was the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen. And to me, he truly was.

My eyes blurred as he came back towards me, rolling one on, and climbed over me again. His mouth was on mine the whole time, my hands stroking the smooth planes of his back, clinging to him for dear life. Having all of him around me was heat and safety in one.
“You sure?” he murmured, pulling away just long enough to meet my eyes.
“Please,” I whispered, nodding, cupping his face between my palms like it was the most precious thing I’d ever held.

I was hard already, but not half as hard as he was. When he glanced down and touched himself, my eyes followed—and I nearly swallowed my tongue. He was thick, fully erect, the head flushed almost purple from holding back. My head hit the pillow again just as his slick fingers pressed against me, circling, teasing my entrance. I stared at him wide-eyed, half-terrified, half-thrilled that this was really happening. The simple pressure of his fingertips loosening me up made me shudder. The thought of him pushing in soon was enough to make my cock throb. I only prayed he’d take it slow.

As if he’d heard me, Louis brought his fingers to my lips. “Lick,” he breathed. I obeyed without hesitation, wrapping my tongue around his fingers, wetting them as our eyes locked. The way he bit his lower lip while I sucked him slick was filthy enough to make me want to keep going forever.

But he pulled them free after a moment, coating them with his own spit before sliding them inside me—first his middle, then his ring finger. I winced at the sting, but it wasn’t unbearable. In fact, the ache melted into a sharp, electric pleasure that made me moan into his mouth. He was slow, careful, never rough, and I loved him for that.

It wasn’t long before he was hitting all the right spots inside me with just his fingers, and the longer he kept at it, the more desperate I grew. I wanted more. I needed more.
“I want you. Now…” I whispered, breathless.

He didn’t answer, just slipped his fingers out in one motion, making me jolt. His eyes flicked to mine, questioning, and I nodded quickly to reassure him. We didn’t need words—we understood each other too well. He kissed me again, then shifted back, taking himself in hand and pressing the blunt head against me.

The moment he pushed forward, I let out a strangled moan.
“Ohhh, f-fuck—” My eyes fluttered, torn between shutting from the pain and staying wide open to watch him.

“Ahhh,” he groaned too, sinking further inside, his noises perfectly in sync with mine.
“You’re—” He broke off, breathless, clearly about to comment on how tight I was. “—tense,” he finished instead. Inch by inch, he eased deeper, lips brushing mine, my hand stroking his jaw before clutching at his shoulder.
“Easy. You know me,” he whispered into my ear, voice thinning as he pressed further in. Only then did I realise how hard I was gripping him, and I forced myself to loosen my hold.
“S-sorry,” I stammered, breath hitching as he pushed even deeper.

“Less—” he panted, veins straining at his neck, “less sorry… more moaning.” He sealed the words with quick kisses and, finally, drove himself fully inside. I let out a guttural cry, forgetting the thin walls, forgetting everything but him.

“Jesus…” I groaned, shoving my head back into the pillow. He pulled out halfway only to thrust back in again, over and over, letting me adjust to his size. The sting gave way to something fierce, something addictive. Each time he pushed back inside, my body opened for him more, craving him.

He kissed my neck, clutched my chest, licked at my ear, all while hammering that perfect spot until I was shuddering beneath him. My heart thundered; my body felt like it was burning. Having him inside me was overwhelming, unreal. Every thought I had only made the arousal sharper—especially when I remembered who was fucking me. The pleasure brought tears to my eyes, and when one slipped free, Louis kissed it away before it reached my cheek.

Every move he made, every tiny touch, every sound—he knew exactly how to unravel me. He had a way to make me melt even over his small gestures, whether it was erotic or soft towards me. Or maybe it was just that every little thing he did was special to me.

“Aahhh, Harry…” he moaned, and God, among everything else, his voice nearly finished me. Hearing him cry out my name drove me insane. My hand wrapped around my own cock without thinking, desperate to keep up with the rhythm of his thrusts. I wanted us to come together, our chests pressed tight, his cock buried deep inside me.

I felt the moment he lost it—his breathing turned ragged, his arm trembled as he held himself up, and then he groaned low, hips jerking as he spilled inside me. He kissed me hard, tongue urgent, still thrusting shallowly as he came.

He collapsed beside me, dragging me with him, and cupped my face so I’d look at him. My free hand pressed to his throat, feeling his pulse racing as I stroked myself faster, teetering on the edge. He covered my hand with his own, tightened the pace, and I cried out as I came across both our stomachs. He rubbed my release into my skin with his palm, then kissed me again, slower this time.

I was dead exhausted, but more alive than I’d ever felt.

When he finally broke the kiss and rested his head on the pillow, I focused on my breathing, stealing a glance down at my cock before giving it a last weak stroke. I’d never felt so vulnerable. I shut my eyes for a moment, then opened them to stare at the ceiling, licking my lips before turning my head to him.

Louis was already watching me. The second our eyes met, he tugged me closer, resting my head on his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. I never wanted to move from that bed again.

He picked up my hand from my stomach and set his own over it, comparing the size with a faint smile.
“Your cuts are healing, Jacob,” he said softly, stroking over my knuckles. I’d grown so used to the scratches that I’d almost forgotten about them.
“Thanks to the supplies you gave me,” I replied, glancing at him briefly before staring down at his smaller hand. “Thanks, by the way.” I let him lace his fingers through mine, his touch light but firm.

He sighed, and even without looking, I knew he was smiling.
“Thanks for the essay,” he teased. Then he rolled more onto his side, weaving our fingers tighter together until our joined hands rested on my chest. My heartbeat thudded faster, like it always did when he let me see this softer side of him—something I never would’ve believed he had before I knew him.

“I didn’t want it to feel like an obligation,” he added about the paper. I shot him a look, half-ironic.
“Alright, maybe it was,” he admitted with a laugh that dragged one out of me too. “But I never wanted it to steal time from your own writing,” he said, even though my essay didn’t exist.
“What did Graham write back? Bet he loved it,” he asked, curious.

I swallowed. “Yeah, um… haven’t opened my emails yet. I’ll check later,” I lied. A white lie, I told myself.

Before he could push, I switched the subject: “We forgot to hang the sock on the door,” I muttered into the air.

Louis was quiet for a second, then I felt him nod against me. “Socks are outdated. Half-broken locks are what’s in now.” His dry humour made me snort.
“Fair point,” I said, then added, “though maybe I wouldn’t have minded leaving it broken.”
“With you and Stephen trapped inside?” he asked, raising a brow.

“With you,” I corrected, brushing a stray strand from his eye so I could see him properly. “If it had been you stuck in there with me, I wouldn’t have minded one bit. With Stephen… not so sure. The Carolingian Empire always bored me at school,” I said with mock seriousness.

“Of course. Charlemagne would be the real problem—not missing me,” he shot back. I caught his hand on my shoulder and turned towards him, grinning.

“You’re far too sure of yourself, Tomlinson,” I teased.
“Never as much as the great Charlemagne,” he quipped.

Then his eyes met mine again, softening me instantly, and he pressed a kiss to my forehead. Warmth bloomed in my chest, my stomach knotting sweetly. I’d once thought only swinging on my childhood swing could soothe me like nothing else—but with Louis’s arm wrapped around me, his kiss on my forehead, I felt more at home than I ever had back in the countryside.

When he pulled away, I got lost in that clear blue gaze of his.
“The city’s not so bad after all,” I confessed, still dazed by his tenderness.

“Because I live here,” he replied with mock arrogance, brushing a hand across my stomach with a teasing smirk.

“Because you live here” I echoed, meaning every word.

He only smiled, cupped my cheek again, and kissed me once more.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

Chapter 13: The Podium Theory

 

Even after we’d spent another hour sprawled on my bed, naked, just talking about whatever popped into our heads, I still couldn’t bring myself to mention Saturday’s party to Louis.

Stephen had been the first to talk it up, which had caught me completely off guard, and if even he thought it was worth going, then really, I had no reason to worry about telling Louis I’d show up. But the truth was, I didn’t just want to go—I wanted him there with me. I wanted to invite him, and I hadn’t the faintest idea how to say it without sounding pathetic.

Maybe that unspoken rule—that turning up with someone was basically announcing yourselves as a couple—wouldn’t apply this time. Even so, the thought of asking him made my chest tighten. What if he brushed me off? Or worse, looked irritated that I’d even suggested it? The very idea made my stomach knot.

I didn’t even know what we were, not really. I wasn’t sure if Louis wanted us to become anything. What I did know—what I couldn’t deny, especially after the afternoon we’d just had—was that there was something between us. Something real, even if I couldn’t put a name to it. And if I brought up the party now, I might smash whatever it was to pieces. So I kept stalling, biting my tongue until he eventually slid off the bed and wandered into the bathroom for a shower.

I watched him walk away, the muscles of his back shifting as he moved, the bathroom door left ajar, and I could feel words scraping at the back of my throat. They burned to get out, but fear pressed them back down. This time, though, I didn’t swallow them. I couldn’t. I pushed myself off the bed, pulse quickening, and caught him just as he was rummaging through the cupboard.

“Hey, um—don’t know if you’ve already heard, but—” My voice cracked, and I stalled for breath. He didn’t turn round straight away, busy lining the shampoo, conditioner and shower gel on the shower tray, so I blurted it before I lost my nerve. “There’s a party. This Saturday.” My throat was dry, my palms damp as I leant against the doorframe, raking my fingers through my curls like some nervous tic.

“Yeah, I saw the banners,” he said, finally looking up, that lazy flick of his fringe somehow making him more intimidating. He planted both hands on the sink behind him, pinning me with those eyes, and suddenly my chest felt tight. My arms folded across me without me realising, as though I could shield myself from the weight of his attention. It was only an invitation, I told myself. Nothing more. If he was the type to be offended just because I’d asked, then I’d know where I stood.

Still, the thought of him saying no made my insides twist. I hated how much it mattered.

Then he cut across my spiralling thoughts with one simple question. “You want to go together?” His tone was casual, but it was clear he’d read me. Either that or he was offering what I’d been too scared to ask.

For a moment I just stared at him, thrown completely. I’d spent all that time rehearsing the words, and he’d beaten me to it.

“Go… together?” I repeated, a little dumbstruck. “Yeah—yes. I mean—” I ducked my head, breath shuddering in my chest as I tried not to trip over my own words. “I’d really like that. If you’re up for it, of course.” When I finally dared to look at him again, he was already stepping closer, and the sudden swoop in my stomach nearly knocked me flat.

“Course I am,” he murmured, hands sliding to my hips. The heat of his touch made my skin prickle. “But what about you?” he asked softly. And even though I knew he could see my answer in the way I clung to his gaze, he still wanted to hear it. That little need for reassurance made my chest ache in the best way.

“If you keep asking, I’ll keep saying yes,” I said, half-laughing, though I was seconds away from blurting that I’d been about to invite him myself.

He smirked, one hand shifting lower to grab a handful of my arse, sending a shiver darting straight through me. “Say it again in the shower, I might believe you more.” His tone was teasing, but the heat in his eyes told me he wasn’t joking.

Then came a playful slap on my backside, his grip returning to my hips as he tugged me under the spray with him. Warm water splashed over us, and before I could register the chill giving way to heat, his mouth was on mine, urgent and demanding, his hands everywhere.

Louis wasn’t much shorter than me, but he loved using that slight difference to tilt me just so, his teeth grazing that spot beneath my left ear. Every time he bit down there, tugging on my curls with his other hand, I lost myself completely. Each mark he left felt like a claim, like I belonged entirely to him, and God help me, I loved it. He was relentless, pouring himself into every touch, every kiss, dragging parts of me to the surface I hadn’t even known existed.

That afternoon he decided to spoil me. He shoved shampoo into his hair, slicking it back, while handing me the shower gel with nothing more than a look that told me exactly what he wanted. My hands shook a little as I lathered him up, but I did it all the same—starting at his neck, revelling in the way my hand fit around his throat, then down across his shoulders, his chest, tracing the ink above his pecs—it is what it is—as if my fingers could learn the words by heart. His eyes never left mine, heavy and unreadable, and my stomach tightened at the thought that he didn’t even realise what effect he had on me.

By the time my hands reached his stomach, I couldn’t resist any longer. I curled them lower, fingers wrapping round his cock, and the grin that tugged at his lips made my chest burn with pride. He’d barely rinsed the suds from his own hair before he grabbed my conditioner, rubbing it into my curls with a clumsy kind of care. But his lips were on mine before long, because touching me clearly wasn’t enough.

I didn’t hesitate—I stroked him firmly, my other hand braced against his shoulder as the weight of him grew in my palm. My cock pressed against his thigh in answer, already straining.

“Mmh,” he groaned into my mouth, and the sound shot straight through me. Every time he let those noises escape, I wanted to unravel for him.

He didn’t let me linger, though. After rinsing my hair, he switched us around, backing me against the cold tiles. Then he dropped to his knees.

Christ. The sight alone made my breath hitch.

His tongue was on me before I could even take him in hand, slow at first, licking from base to tip until I was clutching the back of his head, guiding him. When his mouth closed over me fully, the heat and slickness nearly finished me there and then. My head thudded back against the wall, eyes rolling.

“Ahh—fuck, Lou—” The words tumbled out on a moan, my voice wrecked. He swallowed me whole, and for those few unbearable seconds I was lost, trembling on the edge.

When he pulled back, lips shining, I glanced down just in time to see him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand before going straight back in, flicking his tongue at my tip like he wanted to drive me insane.

It was obscene, the way he stared at me while he sucked me down, and I couldn’t hold his gaze for long—I was too close, too overwhelmed, my whole body lit up like a live wire. I grabbed the shelves for support, knuckles white, because if I didn’t I’d collapse.

He alternated between his mouth and hand, squeezing, tugging, teasing until I was practically panting his name. Every flick of his tongue, every slow drag of his lips, wound me tighter.

Finally he pulled off with a wet pop, scattering kisses along my tip before standing again, mouth brushing mine in a fleeting kiss. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.” His voice was rough, and I could only grin weakly, dazed, my arms slumping around his shoulders to keep him close.

A second later he pressed the shower gel into my hand. “Your turn. I’ll wait outside.”

I watched him through the steamed-up glass as he wrapped a towel around his waist and grabbed another to rub over his hair. For a moment I stood there, utterly spellbound, until his back vanished from view. Only then did it register that I was still holding the bottle of shower gel in one hand, my cock half-hard in the other. I hurried to lather myself, giving myself a few absent strokes just to ease the tension a little.

Every time his hands left my skin, every time his mouth moved away from mine, I felt the loss as though something essential had been stripped from me.

As the hot water ran over me, I replayed what had just happened, hardly able to comprehend how, in only a couple of days, we had built a routine that felt entirely our own—when at first we could barely look at each other. The way I used to find him insufferable already seemed like something that had happened weeks ago, if not months. And yet, at the same time, the moments we’d actually shared felt far too few. I wanted endless more.

Before Louis, I’d never been drawn to someone I thought I had pegged from the start as completely incompatible. From our very first real argument in front of Graham—aside from the rudeness he’d shown me on arrival—I was convinced I had him figured out: the ringleader type, the smug one from some clique of college lads who always seemed to have rolled straight out of an American teen film. The kind of roommate people whispered about, wondering how he managed to wake up each day already in a foul mood, itching for an argument. I even imagined him as the sort who crushed ants for fun when he was younger, never caring about something so small. Learning that he’d lost his dad suddenly made sense of so much, as did the way he had cut Troy loose, predator-like, when he wanted me instead. And then there were the ants—his friends, as absurd as it sounded—and that, strangely enough, warmed me.

I spent less than ten minutes in the shower, caught up in all this, turning over the question of where we were headed. But clearly not few enough minutes to save myself the embarrassment that followed.

Just as I shut off the water and reached for my towel, I heard a small sound outside and frowned. Louis answered for me.
“Graham finally wrote back!” he called.

It took me a moment to process. And only when I stepped out, towel knotted around my waist, did it hit me: Louis telling me I’d got an email from Graham was not, in fact, good news.

I hurried into the bedroom, but the damage was done—Louis was standing at my desk, my laptop screen glowing in front of him. I slowed, useless to stop him reading. A sigh escaped me as I came to a halt a metre away.

He stayed silent for twenty long seconds. I was the one who cracked.
“Lou, I can explain…” I started, but he turned sharply, his movement clipped and nervous.

“You didn’t send him your essay?” His eyes were on mine, unflinching. That confirmed what I’d already guessed about the email. “You forgot? How’s it possible?”

I dropped my gaze, heat prickling at my face. I didn’t want to lie, but if I told him the truth… I knew he’d never forgive himself.
“I—I didn’t…” My throat tightened, buying time. My cheeks were already burning. “I didn’t write it at all,” I whispered at last, still staring at the floor.

“What?” he asked, sharp. I couldn’t keep my gaze away from his forever.

“I didn’t write it,” I said more clearly, meeting his eyes this time. His look of surprise was answer enough—it wasn’t good. “I chose to spend the time on yours,” I added, realising too late it probably sounded worse.

“You chose—” He gave a sharp, disbelieving laugh, dragging his gaze away for a moment before snapping it back. “I don’t believe this. Harry, that wasn’t the deal, and you knew it.”

Drops of water fell from his fringe as he moved, and only then did I notice my own hair was still dripping wet. I ignored it, though. All I could focus on was the disappointment etched across his face—disappointment I struggled to understand. I had poured myself into his paper. Why did it make him angry?

“The deal?” I shot back. “I didn’t know about any deal. The only thing I knew was that if you were going to be my escort, I had to write your essay—and I did.”

His eyes widened. “But I never asked you not to write your own, Harry! All I wanted was to help you!” He meant the tradition—the way organisers targeted anyone who showed up alone.

I blinked at him, stunned. My honesty slipped out sharper than I’d intended.
“Help me? Or help yourself? You wanted me as your prey so you could get rid of Troy.”

The words left my mouth before I could stop them. The truth of it still burned inside me, but I knew the phrasing was cruel. And I saw it land.

“Maybe I did want to help myself, you’re right” he admitted, voice softer, his eyes fixed on me without defence. And with that, my irritation dissolved. He looked undone, almost fragile, and I couldn’t hold on to my anger.

“We broke up,” he said quietly. “Properly this time. Yesterday. And… I don’t even feel bad. Well, a bit, of course. But it was finished long before that.”

I’d assumed it had ended the previous Sunday, when he’d offered me that bottle of water and we’d ended up talking. But hearing it now, I realised those days of closeness had been possible only because Troy was already behind him. The misunderstanding didn’t matter anymore.

“What we have, Harry… I don’t want to lose it. I don’t want to fight with you,” he added, and the warmth in my chest was instant, unexpected. He saw it too—the bond taking shape between us. He might not have spelled it out, but I heard it all the same.

“Me neither, Louis,” I breathed, stepping closer. We held each other’s gaze until he dropped his head, and I felt his hand close around mine, his thumb brushing gently across my skin. The sensation grounded me, sent a shiver through me. I looked down at our joined hands, and when his eyes lifted again, I was already smiling faintly.

“Promise me you’ll never put me first,” he murmured, “always second, even third. It was a bribe, I know—I was a bastard. But it was the only way I could be sure you’d come to the rite.”

The word rite didn’t stab at me like it used to. Not this time.

“You wanted me there that badly?” I asked. “Why?”

He smiled faintly, licking his lips, and my gaze followed.
“You said it first—to help myself.” The vagueness of it almost made sense. “But now it’s my turn to help you properly. Dry your hair and let’s start your essay.”

He stripped off his towel, running it briskly over his head before digging in his drawers for clothes. Watching him dress with that kind of determination—throwing himself towards the desk like it mattered more than anything—was disorienting. He wasn’t the same prickly roommate I’d first met, the one who’d roped me into writing his paper as some sort of twisted favour. And yet, he was, except for the way he treated me this time, totally different, like he truly cared about me. Only now he was fighting for me, and somehow, for himself too.

Lost in that thought, I did as he’d asked: towelled off my hair in a rush, pulled on whatever clothes came to hand, and joined him at the desk. Then it's been the two of us and my laptop, side by side, for over four hours. And for once, we didn’t kiss—not even felt like doing it. Us, who couldn’t usually keep our hands off each other if left alone. Instead we threw ourselves wholly into Magnani and his lovestory, debating every theme, weighing every line like two budding literature professors.

And Louis—God, the way he looked at me as I went through the pages, the curiosity, the spark—it made my chest swell. I had to drag myself back to the keyboard more than once just to stop drowning in it.

We worked until the evening darkened fully outside and the lamp was the only thing keeping us in light. At one point he even picked the book up again, leafing back through a chapter, and told me his dad had given it to him for his sixteenth birthday. The confession floored me. That he could still talk about his father, still trust me with it—it was like he’d wrapped his sharp edges in something soft just to let me in.

When we finally read the whole essay back, tightening here and there, we realised we’d overshot Graham’s required length by several pages. We were so chuffed we ordered Mexican as a celebration—Louis’s favourite too, it turned out, second only to Italian.

That night we ate in our room, no laptop between us, and I truly believed I’d helped him discover a side of Magnani he’d never appreciated before. At the same time, I was showing him more of myself. Our conversation sprawled down a hundred different paths, and it struck me that what I’d always known was true: I’d fallen for the simple beauty of the countryside as a child, but now I was falling for another kind of simplicity entirely. Something blossoming right in front of me—nameless still, but unmistakably real. Stronger, even, than that chair and that blindfold that had bound us together at the start.

Later, full and content, we collapsed onto his bed and talked deep into the night. That was when he told me about his “podium” theory. His father had always put family first, even when it cost him his health, even at the end. And when he died, Louis swore he’d never let anyone put him first again if it meant neglecting themselves.

I listened, eyes wide, as though peering into a whole new cosmos he carried inside him. I only got the briefest tour, because he drifted off mid-sentence, voice trailing while he nestled closer. But even that glimpse was enough.

I lay awake a little longer, head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat steady and sure. And despite the promise he’d asked of me, I knew then that I could never place him second, nor third. Not when his heart was beating in time with mine. Not when all I wanted was for it to keep doing so, for a very long time.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

Chapter 14: Truth or Dare?

 

I spent the whole week counting down to Saturday like nothing else mattered.

Every morning, I’d wake up imagining walking into the common room, this time beside Louis, certain that with him nothing would ever go wrong like it had with Diana. Breakfast was always a mental rehearsal—thinking about how everyone would react if they saw us arrive together, wondering if they’d guess we were seeing each other. Afternoons were a mix of hanging out with Stephen and his friends in the courtyard and then hitting the library until dinner. And every time I spotted Louis across campus, a teasing glance or shy smile exchanged from afar, I’d immediately start wondering how his day had gone, imagining sneaking a kiss in the privacy of our room. I could have watched him for hours, sometimes edging closer, if we hadn’t agreed to keep a low profile. Mostly, I tried to act like I didn’t care that much, even though Stephen knew better.

In lectures, we sat apart, almost enjoying keeping up the charade that we still hated each other. It was fun, in a quiet, secret way, to make the others think we disagreed on every work Graham taught, just like with Me, My Walking Stick and I —which no one would have guessed we’d discussed calmly and thoughtfully a few days earlier.

Sometimes, I couldn’t stop myself from stealing a look at him, and more often than not, I’d catch him looking back. Then I had to decide—look away and turn bright red, or hold his gaze, pretending I didn’t care who might see us flirting with our eyes. Sometimes I couldn’t resist watching him chat with whoever was lucky enough to sit next to him. Louis was stunning, effortlessly so, and I’d get caught up in how everything he wore looked perfect, no matter what he picked that day.

Every Thursday after a project was due, Graham held a one-hour meeting for anyone wanting more detailed feedback or simply to settle a point about the current chapter ahead of the following week. It used to be genuinely interesting; before Graham became stricter, students could speak their minds, debate freely, and ask questions without fear of being shut down. I’d heard stories from other Literature students about it, and I—arriving at probably the worst possible time—would have seriously considered skipping it if I didn’t need his feedback on my essay.

Having written it with Louis, lying awake against his chest while he slept, I eventually opened the email Graham had sent. Anxiety hit me immediately. The disappointment in his words was clear—something I never wanted to feel, especially from a professor. I knew I had to go to class that Thursday. Louis came along, sitting across the room. From that distance, he managed a few small, reassuring glances—him, who usually avoided me in public, and when he did look, it was to tease, not comfort. I noticed and appreciated it all the more, because he didn’t have to be there at all.

Before class started, one of those reassuring looks nearly made me jump when Graham’s voice boomed through the microphone. Louis chuckled quietly at my startled reaction. The hall was bigger than our usual classroom, which explained the mic, and I also noticed that the first four rows were filled with authors and critics my senior peers had never mentioned. I was curious to see how it would play out.

“Students, welcome to this year’s first symposium. You’re all familiar with the novel, to varying degrees. For those less acquainted, I’ve invited experts to go into it in detail, covering points many of you missed in your essays,” Graham said, his usual sharp edge intact. “Please listen carefully, and only ask questions when invited.” He handed the mic to the first critic.

I paid attention, really paying attention, to every speaker. Only a few of the invited guests actually spoke, those most invested in De Pretis. Ten minutes were set aside for student questions, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask anything. I was particularly struck by their interpretations of stylistic and behavioural choices, not just Paolo’s but especially Grazia’s—a character often overlooked, yet one Louis and I had given weight to in our joint essay.

I don’t know why I stayed silent, why I held all my thoughts in. It felt like my arms had a mind of their own, refusing to lift, all my usual shyness condensed into my chest, freezing me in place. I regretted it instantly. I had been the first—and along with Louis, the only one—to engage with this novel on the first day of class, despite Graham’s intimidation. But this wasn’t fear—it was a strange tension coursing through me. I let it dominate, even when it came time to approach the podium individually to discuss the papers.

Watching my classmates take their turns, I noticed no one seemed as tense as I was. Some had taken a moment to psych themselves up, but none had the knot in their stomach that glued me to my seat, head down, flipping through the novel I’d brought, searching for something I didn’t even know through the pages, as if it held some universal answer.

Then a notification broke my trance. A message from Louis. The only thing that made me put the book aside and realise my chance to speak to Graham was slipping away.

 

                                                                             

 

I read it, and suddenly jolted awake.

I looked up, closing the book, and only then noticed there were just two people ahead at the front, including the colleague speaking to Graham. My eyes flicked to Louis—I swear I could feel him watching me. The moment our gazes met, all the tension that had been knotting me up just dissolved.

“Go on,” he whispered. I read his lips, got to my feet, and somehow found the courage to walk down the steps to the front and join the queue, backpack slung over my shoulder.

It didn’t take long before it was my turn. I barely registered the others filing out as the class wound down.

“Styles, I see you’re often late,” Graham said, freezing me in an instant. “First to my lectures, now coming to speak to me, and let’s not forget, your essay.” His tone was sharp, almost teasing, but I listened, heart hammering. “But as they say, the best things come when you least expect them, right? Not that lateness doesn’t count against you, or that your paper is extraordinary—let’s be clear. But honestly, it’s been over a year and a half since one of my students analysed a novel so thoroughly. And you were the only one to tackle the critiques we interviewed today.”

He gestured towards the critics a few metres away, and I felt my jaw drop. Me? On the same level as them? I was gobsmacked.

“You remind me a lot of my son, Mr Styles. He loved Grazia and defended Paolo with everything he had,” Graham added, leaving me speechless.

During my time at College, so far, I’d picked up that something had changed in the way Graham approached his students. Someone had mentioned his son had studied Literature too, but I’d never heard more. Seeing Graham now, calmer than I’d imagined, and hearing him speak of his son in the past tense, made everything click. I realised then his son had passed away. That made the compliment hit even harder.

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t comfort me—especially since it meant he’d let my late submission slide. In other circumstances, that might have been a warning, maybe even a repeat of the course. But the way he spoke, comparing me to his son, left me completely unprepared and, I won’t lie, a little moved.

“Thank you, Sir. Paolo and Grazia deserve all the importance your son gave them,” I said, letting a small smile soften my face. Graham looked away, turning back to his screen. He swiveled it to show me my grade: 85/100. My eyes lit up—I couldn’t believe it.

“Keep it up. I’m curious to see how you’ll approach The Tavern of the Wild Man,” he said, turning the screen back to himself but meeting my eyes. I remembered devouring that book as a kid, unable to put it down until I knew how it ended.

“I read it years ago, in less than three days,” I said, excited to see how he’d discuss it next Tuesday.

“Three days?” he said, clearly surprised. “But it’s over 800 pages, Styles, how—” The bell rang before he could finish, and students for his next class began streaming in.

I stepped away from the podium in a rush, his eyes still on me, and said, “See you Tuesday, Professor. Thanks again.” I turned and left, hearing his faint “See you Tuesday” follow me.

Outside, Louis was leaning against the wall, phone in hand, looking at me expectantly.

“Jacob, finally,” he said, pocketing his phone and stepping closer. I was slowly getting used to the nickname, even if the character of Jacob didn’t exactly thrill me.

“So, what did he say?” he asked, but immediately took a step back, realising he’d come a little too close with other students still around.

I waited until the last few had entered, then told him exactly what Graham had said. “He says I remind him of his son!” I exclaimed, sure he’d understand how big that was.

“He says you remind him—” Louis repeated, eyes wide. “Really?? Harry, that’s…” He reached out instinctively to touch my arm, then stepped back when a couple of students appeared.

“Bloody hell, that’s good news! I knew he’d love it. I told you—you write brilliantly,” he said.

Heat flooded my cheeks. I was definitely blushing. Every time Louis complimented me, my stomach did somersaults, and remembering he’d also called me handsome when he first told me he liked my writing style made me want to kiss him so badly. I just thanked him instead.

“I wasn’t the only one who made it good,” I added. “If you hadn’t helped me, he wouldn’t have liked it nearly as much.” I got lost in his eyes, as usual.

“You know who I like?” he asked suddenly. I froze. He glanced around to make sure we were alone, then looked back at me.

Once he was sure, he cupped my cheek. All his previous hesitations, all the steps back to avoid being seen, vanished. He kissed me instinctively, and I felt like the happiest boy in the world.

I couldn’t wait for Saturday to come.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

Two days slipped by between an afternoon holed up in the library and a night where we ended up in the same bed, lying so close yet pretending the other wasn’t really there.

What struck me most about those forty-eight hours was rediscovering how much I loved sharing a book with someone—something I’d never really done before, and which I’d always thought might be a flaw for someone who wanted to teach.

It suddenly felt wasteful to let a book consume only me, without telling anyone else what it had stirred inside me. It’s not as though I’d never spoken about books—sometimes I’d even been torn about which one to recommend first to a friend or a relative, hoping they’d enjoy it as much as I had. But I’d never felt the urge to pick one up and actually read it aloud to someone else. That was why I’d brushed off Stephen’s suggestion of joining the university book club. At least until Louis asked me what I was reading after we came back from the conference, and out of nowhere I wanted to share it with him.

I was already halfway through that novel I’d started the previous Sunday and, strangely, even though I was enjoying reading it in solitude, talking to him about it made me want to keep going at his side. I gave him the gist of the story so far and then read him a few pages before bed, both on the Thursday after meeting Graham and the following Friday. I’d never imagined that reading together would pull me in deeper than reading on my own, lightening my thoughts as we talked about the plot, the characters, their interactions and the trickier passages.

He even pointed out things I’d completely missed between the lines, which both surprised and unsettled me, because it made me wonder how on earth I’d go back to reading on my own without bouncing ideas off him. I only hoped this tradition of ours would last. And when he himself asked me to keep reading on the third night in a row, it reassured me so much I almost didn’t want to remind him that this time it wouldn’t happen.

“Tonight?” I asked, pouring fabric softener into the machine. It was nearly lunchtime, and we’d chosen the laundrette at that hour to avoid being caught. “But we’ve got the party, remember?” I added, suddenly afraid he might have changed his mind and no longer wanted to go.

“Shit, you’re right—I’d completely forgotten,” he admitted, shaking out the last T-shirt before tossing it in. Then he stepped closer, laundry basket in hand.

“Can’t wait,” he murmured, grabbing me by the hips and turning me round after pressing the start button. “Even if you won’t get a bedtime story this time.” He gave me a mock-pained look, though the spark in his eyes was downright filthy. That alone was enough to stir me up. And when his hand slid down and grabbed my arse as if it was the most natural thing in the world, I lost my breath. I was so close I couldn’t resist giving him at least a quick kiss.

“We can always pick it up again when we’re back from the party,” I said, looping my arms round his neck. His hand sneaked under my T-shirt, brushing the small of my back and giving me goosebumps. His intentions were suddenly obvious—and contagious.

“Actually, I had other plans for when we get back,” he whispered, lowering his voice as he gripped my side.

“Oh yeah?” I asked, feigning curiosity, though my eyes kept betraying me, darting to his lips I was dying to kiss again. “And what plans might those be?”

He set his basket on the machine beside us. For a moment I forgot we weren’t in the privacy of our room but in a place where anyone could wander in, thinking they’d picked the “quiet hour” to do their laundry. I remembered only when Louis’s hand, after roaming everywhere, finally reached my crotch—grabbing me through my jeans before unbuttoning them and taking my cock straight into his hand.

The suddenness of his grip made me jolt, and as his other hand lifted my leg slightly, positioning me against the machine I’d just started, I threw a glance at the door. The vibration beneath me sent a rush through my body, so much so that when his lips grazed my cheek, I turned to him and kissed him back in between ragged breaths.

“Lo-uis…” I gasped against his mouth. He kissed me harder, his palm working my tip in slow, deliberate circles.

“Just let go,” he soothed, moving down to my neck. “It’s just you and me,” he whispered, before licking my skin.

The mixture of his words and the strokes that had me stiffening made me roll my eyes back in pleasure. I gave in to the surge of adrenaline coursing through me, ready to lose myself completely—until Louis suddenly pulled away, letting go of me in a heartbeat and picking up his basket again.

I was left shaken by the abruptness, and when I turned I saw him heading quickly for a machine further down. Only then did I realise why—because a boy had just walked in. Heart in my throat, I yanked my jeans shut as fast as I could.

“There it is! Thought I’d left it here,” the newcomer said, grabbing a towel from the shelf before clocking the two of us and making for the door. I caught Louis’s face flushing crimson as the lad muttered a quick “Bye! See ya!” on his way out. Louis mumbled a greeting back, while I was too stunned to manage a word.

“‘Just you and me,’ huh?” I repeated, fixing him with a look, half-scolding, half-amused. We’d been seconds away from being caught. Louis was the first to burst out laughing, and of course, I couldn’t help but join him.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

Before I knew it, eleven o’clock had crept up on me. I’d been “studying” all evening, or at least pretending to, but every time my eyes skimmed a page, my mind slipped back to the party.

Louis and I got ready together, which in itself was a bit surreal. He even asked me what he should wear. I told him to go for a plain white T-shirt, one with a neckline wide enough to show off the tattoo on his chest, and to throw a denim jacket over the top. When he put it on, I swear my knees went. Not only did it suit him perfectly, but the colour made his eyes even sharper, and I thought he looked—well, perfect.

I kept it simple myself: a grey shirt and black skinny jeans. But when I spotted the bandana he’d given me sitting on the shelf next to my cologne, I knew I couldn’t resist. I tied it on without a second thought.

When I came out, Louis gave me a quick once-over, sprayed on his favourite scent, then closed the distance between us. It was like he could read my thoughts, because just as I was wondering whether he liked how I looked, he grinned and said, “I’ve got the fittest boyfriend on campus.”

For a second I froze. Had he just called me his boyfriend, or had I imagined it? The kiss he gave me after that melted every thought clean away, and I let myself enjoy it.

“Notice anything in particular?” I teased, licking my lips as though I could still taste him. He pulled back just enough to look me up and down, still holding my hand.

“That you look beautiful” he said, after a pause. Maybe I blushed, though I tried to hide it with a look that asked for more. He caught on. “…Am I supposed to notice something else?”

I let go of his hand just long enough to touch the bandana and tilt my chin. “I’d say so. I’m wearing it again.”

A grin crept across my face, but he didn’t exactly mirror it. If anything, he seemed caught off guard—like he hadn’t expected I’d ever put it back on.

“Oh. Yeah—I see it,” he said quickly, before letting go of my hand altogether and moving towards the door. “Shall we? We’re already late.”

I trailed after him, brushing the fabric of the bandana once more, reminding myself that it didn’t matter what he thought. I liked it, and that was enough. Still, I couldn’t help the tiny ache of wishing he’d wanted to wear his too, so we could match again. I buried that feeling, took a deep breath, and followed him downstairs. This party was going to be fun—I was sure of it. And all I wanted was to walk in at his side.

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

The tables were already laid out with drinks and snacks, same as last time, but the vibe was different—lighter, somehow. Louis and I walked in with more than a few eyes on us. My stomach twisted with embarrassment, but it vanished the second he brushed his hand across my back. That one small touch sent a shiver right up my spine.

“I’ll grab us a drink and figure out what’s happening, yeah?” he said, and I nodded, instantly calmer. I watched him head towards the drinks table, stopping to greet a few mates along the way, but even then I could feel his eyes flicking back to me.

It was only when I finally dragged my gaze elsewhere that I noticed the sign propped up across the room: Truth or Dare? So that was the theme. I turned, ready to find Louis and tell him, but instead of catching his eye, I found Stephen’s. He made a beeline for me, Grace by his side—I guessed that must be her.

“Hazza! You made it at last!” he said, grinning from ear to ear.

“Stev, yeah—it took me a bit,” I laughed, giving him a pat on the shoulder. Then I turned to her. “You must be Grace. Stephen’s told me loads about you.”

Only when she shook my hand did I notice the two of them were holding hands, and it surprised me more than it probably should have. I shot Stephen a quick look; he went all bashful, and I realised maybe I shouldn’t have let slip just how much he’d talked about her.

“Nice to meet you,” I added, trying to smooth my expression from the goofy grin plastered across my face to something more normal.

We ended up chatting for ages. More of Stephen’s friends drifted over, some of Grace’s too, and the more I spoke with her, the more obvious it was how well she fit with him. She was sweet, calm, funny—her voice cutting through the noise of the music in this soft, measured way that seemed to slow Stephen down as well. Usually he talked a mile a minute, but with her, he almost matched her rhythm.

They were brilliant together, and I told him so when she went to fetch drinks. His face lit up, not just because he was a bit tipsy already, but because it meant something to hear me say it.

I was in full-on best mate mode, ready to give my official stamp of approval, when I spotted Louis out of the corner of my eye. I met his gaze across the crowd and felt a pull in my chest. But before I could excuse myself, some lad stepped right into the middle of the room, blocking my path.

He had a microphone in hand, and I recognised him straight away—one of the infamous Silence Club lot.

“Hey, hey, hey! You lot up for it?” he bellowed, instantly commanding everyone’s attention. “Now, you know tonight’s not one of the usual sessions—so, no jars, no preys and predators, no private rooms, and especially no sex games.”

Most of the room groaned, and I blinked in surprise—until I glanced back at Louis. He was already watching me with that look, the one that said more than words ever could. Sure, the official party might not be sex-centered, but we both knew exactly where we’d end up once we slipped away. Sharing a room had its perks, and neither of us was planning to waste them.

“I know, I know,” the host went on, letting the suspense hang. “But we’ve still got something fun lined up—get to know each other a bit better. The theme’s Truth or Dare. You’ll be split into groups, each round about twenty minutes, so everyone gets a go. We’re keeping it simple—just a bottle. Nothing new, right?” He paused for effect, waiting for a few cheers. “Of course, if you want to spice it up, no one’s stopping you. Some of us will be coming round now with glow stickers—stick ’em on your chest, find your group, and grab a spot on the floor or the sofas. Let’s get this started!”

The stickers were passed out quickly. Not everyone joined in straight away—Stephen and Grace, for one, stayed back. I knew he hadn’t come to get dragged into drinking dares or snogging strangers; he just wanted to spend time with her. And honestly, it was nice seeing them so in sync.

I glanced down at mine: purple. When I looked back up, I spotted Louis across the crowd, his sticker a bold green. Before I could even move towards him, he closed the gap himself.

“No matching colours,” I said with mock disappointment once we met.

“Sadly not,” he replied, smoothing his hand over the sticker as though to press it into his denim jacket. Then he locked eyes with me again. “But at least mine’s the colour of your eyes.”

That line caught me off guard, made me grin. I leaned in, ready to steal a kiss, when someone shouted.

“Purple group! Over here!”

It was Troy—stood exactly in our line of sight. The way he yelled, louder than anyone else, it felt like he’d done it deliberately, just to pull us apart. No one else’s group leader was carrying on like that.

“They’re calling you,” Louis said softly, never taking his eyes off me while I stared daggers at Troy. I forced myself to breathe, to let it go.

“See you after,” Louis added, brushing a hand across my arm before turning to join a mate in the green group.

I, on the other hand, had no choice but to walk over to where Troy and the rest of my group were gathering.

A week ago I’d have felt sorry for him, the way things ended between him and Louis. Now, though, I couldn’t summon an ounce of sympathy. Maybe it was just the sting of not being in the same group as Louis. Maybe it was the thought that the game wouldn’t be half as fun without him there.

Last time, that mess of a night had brought me Louis—and happiness I hadn’t expected. Now, with no blindfolds, no tied hands, just me spinning the bottle while the others played, I wondered how I’d cope without him at my side.

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

Taking a seat in the circle without actually having to play didn’t bother me much. In fact, it kept me amused—at least until the bottle neck stopped on Troy.

Just before that it had landed on Brittany, one of Stephen’s classmates, and easily the biggest gossip of the lot. He’d pointed her out to me at the canteen bar a few days earlier, muttering about how she’d walked straight past him without so much as a hello. They’d worked together on a group project last year, yet she still carried herself like she was above anyone outside her little clique—each of them just as bitchy and rude as the next. So, honestly, I wasn’t remotely surprised when she rubbed her hands together at the question, “Truth or Dare?”, already plotting some nosy dig.
“Truth,” Troy said. I’d have sworn he’d pick dare, but Brittany looked delighted with his choice, barely pausing before firing off her question.

“How’s things with you and Louis?” she asked, straight as an arrow. My stomach dropped at the sheer nerve of it. “I mean, I’m guessing you’ve called it quits, seeing as…” She broke off, turning deliberately towards me. “Well, you know.” And then, as if it wasn’t brazen enough, she actually giggled at Troy.

But he didn’t seem rattled—if anything, he looked smug. He didn’t even meet my eye before replying, all self-satisfaction:
“We haven’t broken up, actually.”

I froze.

“We’re giving it another go. And, to be fair, it’s not going badly. But that’s all you’re getting,” he added, as if to tease them. Meanwhile, I sat there praying he wouldn’t go further, as though I wasn’t right there listening to every word.

I couldn’t move. Troy basked in the attention, preening for Brittany and anyone else who’d listen, feeding off the drama.

I dropped my head, staring at nothing, trying to process what he’d just said. Louis had told me on Thursday they’d finally ended things. He’d admitted they were still tangled up the Sunday before, sure—but then he’d promised it was over. So why was Troy sitting here, announcing they were trying again? Why did he sound so bloody genuine, like someone relieved not to have thrown away nearly two years of his life? Why had Louis said the opposite? Why would he lie to me?

“Come on, what are we doing? Time’s ticking!” Brittany cut in, reminding me I was still meant to be spinning the bottle. She might’ve been rude, but she wasn’t wrong.
“Y-yeah… sorry,” I muttered, grabbing the glass and giving it another spin. My eyes stayed locked on it, though really my head was still jammed full of questions.

Before it could finish its turn, Troy slapped his hand down on it, smirking.
“Hold on, Brittany—let’s get him involved this time. Must be boring just spinning and never playing, right?” he said, feigning sympathy.

Everyone else either nodded or kept quiet. Even Brittany, clearly thrilled at the thought of prying into someone else’s life, went along with it.

“Truth or Dare, Jacob?” Troy asked, with that same smug grin. I hated the way he said my name—Louis’s name for me, twisted in his mouth. Still, I couldn’t dodge it; every pair of eyes was on me. Cornered, and too off guard to think it through, I blurted:
“Truth.”

The room wasn’t hot, my shirt was thin, and the air-con was humming overhead—yet suddenly I was sweating like I’d been dragged into court.

“Nice choice,” Troy said, eyes flicking to the bandana round my neck. “Because I was going to ask you the same thing: how are things with you and Louis?”

For a second I just blinked. Of all the questions… I hadn’t expected that one. But he wasn’t done—his smirk sharpened.
“I mean, I’m guessing you two have definitely called it off, seeing as…” He parroted Brittany’s words, dripping with mockery.

My chest tightened. The ground beneath me felt shaky. I still didn’t know whether to trust Louis, and now I had Troy pressing on the bruise. My patience snapped.
“We haven’t called it off, actually,” I shot back, mimicking his exact words.

He laughed at the imitation, which only wound me up more.
“In fact, we’re fucking. Louis didn’t mention that?” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. I’d meant them as a jab at Troy, but instead I’d blurted it out to a circle of a dozen strangers.

“Oh, so you’re shag buddies, then?” Troy smirked, though his face flickered with something like annoyance—a flash that, for a second, satisfied me. Then he rallied, twisting the knife:
“Shame about the ‘buddies’ part though, isn’t it, Jacob? No need for me to spell it out.”

The smugness stung worse than his words.

Louis and I had been so careful. We’d kept our distance in public, no kisses, no obvious stares. Every spark, every touch, every moment of intimacy was hidden away in what we’d come to call “our little den”. Hours spent talking, reading, and, lately, more. I wanted—God, I wanted—to be able to reach for him in front of people without worrying what they’d think. But I’d convinced myself it was safer this way, keeping our feelings locked away where no one else could touch them.

And yet now, after Troy’s little revelation, all of it wobbled. Why did I suddenly believe him more than Louis?

When the timer beeped and the first round ended, everyone sprang up for drinks, laughing and carefree. I stayed rooted, heavy with doubt. Maybe Louis didn’t want anyone to know because he hadn’t really let go of Troy. Maybe all that secrecy was just a cover so he could make up with his ex behind closed doors.

It had been my idea too, to keep us private—thinking it would protect us, keep what we had just ours. But the thought that Louis might never have wanted anyone to know—that hurt. That made me rise, almost robotically, peel the sticker off my shirt and slap it down on the nearest table.

All I wanted in that moment was a drink. Something strong enough to burn away Troy’s smug little grin, Brittany’s nosy question, and my own stupid slip of the tongue. Strong enough to blur the memory of admitting, out loud, that Louis and I were sleeping together—breaking the unspoken rule we’d both agreed on. Strong enough to drown the thought that maybe Louis hadn’t worn the bandana tonight precisely so Troy wouldn’t see it.

So I went straight to the bar, ordered the stiffest cocktail they could make, and downed it before I even tasted it.

Surrounded by noise and bodies, I felt tiny—like a seed dropped in a field too wide, like a flower left to wither, like an ant staring up at a boot it already knew was about to crush itself.

And then, just as I tipped back the last drop of that awful drink, a hand landed on my shoulder. I spun round—and there was Louis, grinning, clearly about to drag me aside.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

Chapter 15: The Storeroom

 

“Jacob,” Louis called out, and just hearing my nickname again—especially after Troy had been the last one to use it—made me bristle.
“Finally found you,” he said, one hand still resting firmly on my shoulder while the other clutched his drink.
“Come on, let’s move somewhere else,” he added, steering me away from the crush of bodies, his palm brushing the small of my back. If I hadn’t been so wound up with him, I might’ve let myself melt into that touch. Every time his hands landed on me, as if they belonged there, I felt like I’d slipped into another world. But this wasn’t the world where I shivered just looking at him, where the thought of his touch on me made me want to be his forever. Maybe the truth was, he’d never really been mine at all. And that thought tore right through me.

He guided me to a wall and pressed me lightly against it, close enough that I could feel the heat off his body, close enough that I thought he might kiss me. God knows I was ready for it—I’d wanted to before the party even started—but he didn’t. I hated my mind for immediately wondering if he’d held back because of Troy, instead of to protect… whatever this was between us. If you could even call it that anymore. I didn’t know what to think.

“So, is my boyfriend having fun?” he asked, his hand sliding to my hip while the rest of the party drowned itself in booze and noise. For a second I thought I was a bit too drunk, until I realised it was his touch that had dragged that shiver of pleasure out of me.

Part of me wanted to snap back, to hint that I knew something he hadn’t told me, to shove him away and tell him to take his lips somewhere else if he couldn’t bring them to mine. But hearing him call me his boyfriend—again—hit me somewhere deep, and I couldn’t help but savour it.

“Not really,” I admitted. My heart was already turning to mush under his gaze, but I wasn’t about to lie about that.
Louis swallowed a mouthful of his drink and frowned. “Not enjoying the party?” he asked, sliding his hand up to my arm. I took a moment, weighing my words.
“It’s not the party. It’s the people.”

The look he gave me—soft, understanding, impossible to ignore—stirred something in me I didn’t want stirred. Just minutes earlier, while I’d been downing that cocktail like water, I’d felt like I couldn’t stand him, like the disappointment was burning through me. Now, though, staring into those eyes, it was as if none of what Troy had said mattered. Like Louis was silently telling me I was the one he wanted—no, the only one. And I hated myself for nearly believing it, again. He’d always looked at me like that. If Troy was right, then those eyes meant nothing. Just traps. And here I was, walking right back into them.

“I get it. Makes sense… makes sense,” he murmured, setting his glass on a nearby table before bringing both hands back to me.
“Listen,” he said, fiddling with the buttons of my shirt, undoing one without me even noticing. “What if we slipped away somewhere?” His gaze flicked between my chest and my eyes.
“I don’t think I can wait until this party’s over to kiss you,” he whispered.

I sighed, undone by the way he touched me, clung to me as if we were the only two people in the room. Looking into his eyes, I let myself cave. I couldn’t hold that wall up any longer.

“Neither can I…” I muttered, my eyes dropping to his lips, throat tight. The tension between us was ridiculous—thicker every day. With girls I’d dated before, I’d always been the one to spark the fire, to start the closeness and let it build. With Louis, it was the opposite: he pulled me in, teased me, kept chipping away at my so-called self-control.

It was obvious now: he was the one willing to break that control—or at least push it until it snapped. Maybe I’d been too harsh, too ready to believe Troy over the boy I was actually falling for. Maybe I was about to ruin everything without even giving Louis the chance to explain.

“Tell you what,” he said, pulling his hands away and slipping one into his pocket.
“See that door at the far end?” He pointed to make sure I knew which one. “That’s a storeroom. Meet me in there in fifteen minutes. Just need to grab another drink first.” He explained how he’d nick the keys from the empty porter’s desk, like it was no big deal. Then he kissed me lightly on the cheek before stepping back.

I stayed leaning against the wall, watching him retreat onto the dancefloor without breaking eye contact. Just before he disappeared into the crowd, he bumped into Kirk. My stomach tightened. I hadn’t spoken to Kirk since the fight, and every time I saw him, it replayed in my head—the moment I lost it and swung at him.

Seeing him next to Louis, muttering what was probably an apology, made me turn my head, shut my eyes for a second, and shake it off. If I wanted to have a proper conversation with Louis in that little room, I’d need to keep myself sharp, not let my paranoia take over. But catching sight of Kirk, even briefly, made me crave another drink, and more than anything, it made me want to get away from that wall.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

I couldn’t really tell what possessed me to agree to Louis’s plan—meeting him in there, as though I wasn’t in the middle of questioning every ounce of sincerity I’d ever thought I saw in him. Maybe that ambiguous urge of mine to meet him in that storeroom was really just a sign: a sign that I had to tell him what I’d found out. And so, I clung to it without hesitation.

After slipping back into the crowd, I caught sight of Diana at one point, walking in with her new boyfriend through the entrance. My guess was they’d come from another dorm—probably his—and thought they’d check out how the game was carrying on in ours. Sure enough, someone had fired it back up after the drinking break, and more and more empty bottles were being sacrificed as spinners for each round. I’d had enough with the turn I’d already played, though, and now I was just chatting with whoever happened to be next to me.

Seeing Diana didn’t stir much in me, maybe because I was already caught up in a conversation with a girl from the Film course, maybe because my head was far too crowded with Louis. That was what mattered to me then. Him.

I drifted around the hall with two glasses in hand, swapping them out for fresh cocktails the moment I’d drained one, until I felt just tipsy enough to know I shouldn’t drink more. I’d promised myself not to go overboard tonight, though I probably had already. Still, I was painfully aware of everything happening around me.

That’s when Stephen swooped in and snatched the glass right out of my hand. He’d definitely had more than enough himself, but the sight of me in that state seemed to switch something in him—like suddenly he was the responsible one. He replaced it with a bottle of water, insisting I drink and sit down.

He led me over to a sofa crowded with others and settled me there. I took a swig, already feeling clearer, and when I lifted my gaze to thank him, I spotted Grace still by his side. My face split into a grin.

“You two…!” I blurted, noticing the way they were linked arm in arm, my own head tipping against the armrest, my eyes practically turning into cartoon hearts.
“I—I swear, I really like you together,” I gushed, enough to make Grace blush but not enough to stop myself babbling on. I knew I was being sickly sweet, but the words were spilling out anyway. “You can just tell, you know? That you’re happy, that you don’t care about being seen together, and that you couldn’t give a toss what anyone else thinks…”

Stephen gave me a look, half puzzled as to why I was unloading this on him right then and there, half chalking it up to the alcohol. But I meant every word.

“And do you know what else is obvious? That the two of you—well, I won’t say you’re officially together yet, but you’re seeing each other, and there’s no one else in the way. No messy ex hanging about, no one trying to make it complicated for some stupid reasons… or,” I swallowed. “Or maybe there is a proper reason, I suppose—only I couldn’t have known…”

My voice faltered. My smile slipped. Just like that, I’d dragged myself down into the muck again. My eyes dropped to the floor, locked on nothing, caught in the spiral.

“Harry… what are you talking about?” Stephen leaned in, his brow creased.

I turned my head, only to notice Grace leaning forward too, her face etched with the same worry, like my rambling had set alarm bells off in both of them.

“Is this about Troy? What’s he done?” Stephen pressed.

Bang on target. He’d nailed it.

I tore myself away from the armrest, elbows now pressed into my knees, another gulp of water grounding me even as I sealed myself inside my own little bubble of paranoia. It was only when Stephen gently ran a hand along my back—trying to comfort me over something he didn’t even know yet—that I finally lifted my face to look at him, then at Grace.

“He told the truth,” I muttered, letting Stephen know exactly who I meant. “Or at least… I think he did.”

That thought was still rattling in my skull when I caught sight of Stephen’s watch glinting under the lights. My eyes darted to the time: 2:18. Christ—I was already late.

“Shit! Louis—” I shot upright, startling them both into jumping up with me.

“S-sorry, I’ve got to go. I’ll explain later,” I blurted, weaving past the table in front of me. The players groaned at the interruption, but I hardly noticed. My head and my legs were already fixed on the storeroom.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

Still drunk, I stumbled down the wrong corridor at first before remembering the spot where Louis had pointed the place out to me. I retraced my steps, found the door, and paused. I drew in a deep breath.

Behind it, I could find Louis throwing himself at me, kissing me so fiercely that the very act would silence all the questions buzzing in my head. Or I could find the opposite—him admitting I was nothing more than a distraction, confessing he was trying again with Troy the moment I confronted him.

The worst-case scenario? Even if he did kiss me, I’d feel nothing but wrong—aware of what I knew, unable to surrender to that fluttering magic that used to set off fireworks in my stomach whenever our lips met. Or perhaps he wouldn’t tell me anything at all until I begged him for honesty, and even then he might deny it, forcing me to admit that it was Troy himself who’d told me the truth.

Those few seconds between reaching for the handle and pushing the door open were crammed with possibilities—different shapes the night might take, whether through words or touches. Would Louis kiss me straight away? Or would the kiss we’d shared before leaving our room end up being the last if I started talking and it turned into a row? Maybe the opposite—maybe he’d assure me Troy had lied, that it was over, that he didn’t love him anymore, and we’d kiss again in relief. That was the outcome I clung to, holding it in my mind as though I could will it into existence.

I pressed down the handle and stepped inside. What I saw was nothing I’d prepared myself for.

The light was on. I almost wished it hadn’t been—better still, I wished I’d never opened that door at all. Because there, before I’d even shut it behind me, Louis was in Troy’s arms, kissing him as though that’s what he’d been waiting all along to do.

“What—?” The word burst out of me, and then nothing else would come. My mind jammed, body numb. I stumbled back a step, eyes wide. Louis and Troy broke apart instantly, startled by my sudden entrance.

“H-Harry—” Louis stammered, pushing Troy away and starting towards me. But for the first time in days, the weight of his gaze made me sick to my stomach. My instinct was to recoil. I took more steps back, spun round, and bolted.

“Harry, wait!” he called, his voice chasing after me, his footsteps quickening too. But I didn’t answer. What could I possibly say? I only risked a glance over my shoulder once or twice to check he was still behind me, and then I was sprinting up the stairs, desperate to lose him.

His pleas to stop, to let him explain, pounded in my skull with every step, until my head throbbed. All I wanted was to get to my room, shut the door, and shut him out. Then it hit me—our room wasn’t mine alone. Even if I managed to barricade myself in there, he’d still have a key. He’d still get in.

So I pushed myself harder, swerved sharply into the first side corridor I came to, and spotted a door leading out into the courtyard. A blessing. I shoved through it, stumbling down the steps two at a time, lungs burning, heart battering my chest.

I kept expecting him to round the corner behind me, but when I realised I’d shaken him off, relief washed over me. I collapsed onto the first bench I saw. My chest heaved. Breath came in ragged gasps, heart hammering so violently I pressed my hand against it, as though I could hold it in. I swallowed hard, lifted the water bottle I still had in my hand, and downed what was left in a couple of gulps. Empty. Done.

I leaned back, exhausted. My eyes slid shut, and in that silence, they filled with tears.

I started to cry, properly cry, harder than I had in years. My head dropped forward. The sobs came in jagged waves, shaking me, breaking out of me. Something inside had cracked beyond repair. And even though I’d run, even though they were nowhere in sight, I couldn’t erase the image: Louis kissing Troy, Troy’s hands gripping his waist, their bodies pressed together. It replayed, cruelly vivid, as though I’d been forced to watch it for hours instead of seconds. The memory was sharp enough to make me retch, but I fought it back.

I sat there alone in the courtyard, beneath the pine tree I hadn’t really looked up to in a while. Its branches whispered in the night breeze while the bass from the party still thumped through the dorm walls. I wondered where Louis was now—but that flicker of worry curdled into something heavier, darker. Hatred.

I’d hated him once before—when we couldn’t stand each other, when I thought he was the worst possible roommate fate could have thrown at me, when I imagined him trampling ant colonies without a shred of regret. But then everything had shifted. I couldn’t get through the day without him, without his voice, his kisses, his daft half-smiles. I’d grown to love this city simply because he lived here. Waking up beside him had become the happiest part of my mornings. To feel that hatred again now—after all that—hurt more than the first time, back when the idea of sharing the room with him made me want to return to my village more than anything.

Before, I hadn’t known him, and I hadn’t cared to. Now I did. Now I’d trusted him. And if only hours ago I couldn’t imagine finishing a book without him by my side, I now wished I’d never see those pages again.

The tears kept coming. I started to despise myself for it—sobbing over someone who’d never truly wanted me, who hadn’t had the courage to admit he still loved his ex, who’d done to me exactly what Diana had done before, knowing full well how it had broken me. And yet, the harder I tried to stop, the faster the tears flowed.

I’d started to believe we were tending something real, something growing. In that shabby little haven of ours, I’d felt the garden taking shape—metaphorical flowerbeds sprouting with every kiss, every look, every time the sex blurred into something that felt a lot like love.

I’d almost let myself think this could last—that this was it, proof that sometimes hope doesn’t die, that the most unpredictable things can turn out to be the best. But that night shattered it. Troy had been right. They hadn’t stopped loving each other. And with that one kiss, every scrap of trust I’d placed in Louis splintered to nothing. I’d handed him my heart, thinking it was safe. Now, with every tear, I felt the hollow spreading wider in my chest, wishing I’d never moved here at all—just when I’d started to be glad I had.

I tried to slow my breathing, to draw in deep lungfuls and exhale them steady. Tried to quiet the sobs. I dug my phone out of my pocket, and there they were: ten missed calls from Louis, messages too. I ignored them all. I opened the dial pad, sighed, and keyed in my sister’s number.

It was the middle of the night—I knew she’d be asleep—but I remembered her telling me: Call me, any time. If you need advice, or help, or just someone to talk to. The truth was, I didn’t even know if I wanted to talk. But when her voice answered, I broke again.

“Harry?” she repeated, after the fourth ring. I tried to choke the sobs down, but they came out anyway, harsh and ugly. “What’s happening? Are you crying?”

I dragged in air, swallowed hard, tried to steady myself. “G-Gemma,” I whispered. Just saying her name nearly unravelled me all over again.

“Harry, tell me what’s going on. Where are you? Do I need to come?” she pressed, panic creeping into her voice. I’d never heard her so worried, and guilt stabbed through me for waking her.

“I’m at college. And no… no, you don’t need to,” I sniffed, raking a hand through my hair, lifting my head to the night sky. The breeze stirred the branches of the pine and held me still for a moment. Another tear slid down, but I wiped it away quickly, scrubbing the streaks from my cheeks.

“Could you ask Mum if we can go back to Hawthorne Green tomorrow?” I asked at last, wiping at my nose with the back of my hand. “I—” I sighed. “I just need a break. Just for a few days. Promise.”

Silence. Then Gemma’s voice again, softer. “Alright. I’ll tell her in the morning. We’ll probably come in the afternoon—Mum’s at work till lunch. Maybe just after that…” She paused. “I’ll text you, okay?”

A sparkle of relief crashed through me. I needed out. I needed to know I wouldn’t run into Louis. Not for a while, at least.

 

 

𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

Chapter 16: He’s not who he wants…

 

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

When Stephen found me out in the courtyard—God knows how he’d already heard about what had happened with Louis—I begged him to just leave me there. He even suggested walking me back inside, though it meant risking bumping into Louis again, but I couldn’t face it. I told him I’d sleep on that bench instead—the very same one where I’d spent my first night at college, though I hadn’t even realised it until the words were out. Almost like I was doomed to end up there whenever Louis screwed me over. And I thought, well, what’s one more time?
But Stephen didn’t let me be. He coaxed me up and insisted I crash in his room.

That night I felt like a complete mess, and not just because of the party. Stephen’s roommate had kindly cleared off so I could take his bed; I’d put Stephen into a state I’d never seen him in before; and, worst of all, I’d ruined his plans with Grace. That was supposed to be their big night, their first proper date, a chance to start ticking off all those “firsts” together.
“I–I’m sorry, Stev,” I mumbled as he fussed over the blankets, making sure I wouldn’t freeze. My voice was slurred, my head still fuzzy with booze. “I’m so… so sorry.”
All he whispered, at nearly four in the morning, was not to worry, to get some rest, that “we’d deal with it tomorrow.” Still, the guilt gnawed at me until sleep was out of the question.

The mattress was comfier than mine, yet I couldn’t shut my eyes for even a second. When the sun finally rose and I dragged myself up to use the loo, I noticed a neat pile of my clothes waiting on the desk—my toothbrush, hair stuff, all of it lined up beside. For a moment I froze. How the hell had Stephen got hold of them? I remembered enough to know I hadn’t set foot in my room, and I’d made him swear not to take me back there under any circumstance.
As I reached for the clothes, I spotted a slip of paper laid on top. My stomach dropped. The thought of it being from Louis made my skin crawl. I wasn’t ready to face him, not yet—not after last night. That call to Gemma had been my escape plan, a way of putting off the inevitable for as long as possible.

With shaking fingers, I picked up the note, terrified I’d see Louis’ handwriting. When I finally unfolded it, relief washed over me—it was Stephen’s neat, careful script instead.

 

                                                                     

 

I glanced back at him, still fast asleep, and it tugged a smile out of me. He really was the most thoughtful person I knew. To think he’d gone out of his way to gather my things, probably guessing I’d refuse to step foot in my room that morning and end up stuck in the clothes from the night before—it warmed me. After hours of feeling like my chest had frozen solid, it was the first thing that thawed me out.

I left the note where it was and headed into the bathroom to change.

The moment I shut the door and looked into the mirror, it wasn’t the dark circles or the mess of curls that threw me—it was the bandana. Louis’ bandana, still knotted round my neck. More than my wrecked state, that strip of fabric made me feel sick, like I was staring at someone I didn’t recognise. I yanked it off, dumped it aside, and stepped under the shower. It had felt tight around my throat, suffocating almost, and the sight of it there was enough to set my chest heaving.

When I came out, Stephen was still dead to the world, worn out from babysitting me all night. I grabbed my phone from the bedside table—it was dead, but the screen lit up with a flood of missed calls and messages from Louis. I ignored them, again, and opened my chat with Stephen instead.

                                                           

 

I slipped out as quietly as I could, though Stephen could’ve slept through an earthquake.

First stop was the admin office. Gemma still hadn’t told me when, or even if, we’d be leaving Oakridge, but I already knew I wouldn’t be in any lectures for the next few days. I let them know I’d be out until Wednesday at the earliest. I hated missing Dwight’s philology class, and Graham starting The Tavern of the Wild Man—I’d told him I couldn’t wait for that—but distancing myself from Louis was worth it. Freshers were only allowed one week off per term, and I didn’t want to burn through all of mine. Four days, I reckoned, would be enough to forget the party. Enough to scrub that kiss with Troy out of my brain. I tried not to think about what would happen once I came back.

I figured I’d grab lunch in town somewhere—anywhere but the canteen. With my luck, Louis would be sat at the next table.

Heading towards the bike racks, I found out just how bad that luck really was. There he was, dead ahead. Even catching him out of the corner of my eye sent my pulse hammering. I panicked, pretended I hadn’t seen him, veered down another path. Of course, he came after me.
“Harry—” he called, quickening his pace. My whole body tightened at the sound of his steps getting closer. I didn’t even look round.
“Harry!” he tried again. I kept walking, pretending not to hear.
“Jacob!” he snapped at last, grabbing my arm and yanking me round.

“For God’s sake, with this Jacob thing!” I shot back. “When will you get it through your head that I hate it?” The truth was, I’d grown used to it—almost liked it—but I’d be damned if I let him know.
“What do you even want from me?” I snapped, shaking off his grip. He just stood there, staring, as if it wasn’t obvious I didn’t want to see him.

“What do I want?” he repeated, incredulous. “To talk, Harry. That’s all.” His tone was pushy, demanding. It riled me instantly.
“Talk?” I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “And what is there to say after what I saw you do?” The image of them kissing, which I’d tried all night to erase, came slamming back into focus, enough to make me flinch.

Louis stepped closer, his voice suddenly urgent. “It’s not what it looks like, Harry, I swear. I didn’t mean to kiss him, it just—” He broke off, glanced away, then said flatly, “…happened.”

I stared at him, stunned. He said it like it was nothing, as if someone else had kissed Troy for him, as if he bore no responsibility for any of it.

How dare he? To chase me down, corner me, and then mock me with excuses? Who did he think he was playing games with—me, the one who’d laid my heart bare for him?
I wanted to show him how badly he’d hurt me. But under the weight of those eyes, begging me to forgive, I felt myself weakening. Rage churned in me; I wanted to scream, to hurl the sleepless night back in his face. But when his hand caught my arm again, instead of thrilling me like it once did, it hollowed me out. The thought of pushing him away made my stomach twist.

“It just happened?” I echoed, fists slack at my sides, holding back tears that burned behind my eyes. I’d never been the type to cry mid-row, yet here I was, on the verge of breaking down in front of him. Somehow, I held it back. My pride, fragile as it was, won out over the feelings I hated still carrying for him.

He reached for me again, trying for a gentler touch. I recoiled.
“He—” Louis faltered, stepped closer anyway. I raised a hand, warning him off, my gaze fixed on the ground.
“…he’s not who I want. And I get that you don’t want to hear me out right now, fine. But when you let me explain why, you’ll see—I don’t love him. Not like that. Not anymore.”

I shut my eyes, shook my head.
“I love—” he pressed on, fists clenched, eyes locked on mine.

I knew what was coming, and it made me want to scream at him to stop. I didn’t have the strength, though, so I let him linger in the silence, daring him to say it if he really could.

I waited a good few seconds, swallowing back the lump in my throat as green met blue.
“Better you don’t say it,” I muttered with a hollow laugh. “Wouldn’t believe you anyway.”

“Oh, wouldn’t you?” His face tightened, anger flickering in his eyes. A mirror of my own fury. “But you expect me to believe you? You, who’s been using me all along?”

I gaped at him, baffled. “Using you? Me?” The disbelief snapped into anger. “That’s rich. Who was the one still hung up on his ex while starting something with me, eh? Who was it kissing Troy last night?” My voice shot up as loud as his now, not caring who heard.

At some point, we’d drawn in close, less than a foot between us, glaring like it was a contest. Neither of us blinking, neither willing to back down. Except I had a reason—he’d betrayed me. He didn’t. And the fact he was blaming me only made my blood boil more.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. His stare was almost venomous. “You talk about love like you know what it is,” he spat. “But you don’t. You made me believe in something that never even existed.”

I stared back, stunned, but past caring what he meant.
“…And it never will, not with you,” I shot back, twisting his words against him.

I knew then, as surely as anything, that what I felt was mine alone. Whatever I’d thought he felt for me, it had never been real. He still belonged to Troy.

Louis’ gaze finally cracked—he stepped back, and a shiver ran down my spine. I hadn’t felt this kind of adrenaline since that fight weeks ago, yet here it was again, coursing through me, raw and ugly. I hated him for it.

After chasing me, cornering me, forcing me to hear him out, he finally left me standing there—alone in the middle of the courtyard, under the stares of everyone who’d been pretending to walk by, but had really stopped to listen to every bitter word.

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

When Gemma texted me to fix a time to meet up, I felt a wave of relief I couldn’t put a price on.

I asked them to pick me up outside the café and, even though I’d been the one ringing in the middle of the night desperate to get home, I only greeted them without offering the slightest explanation. Sitting in the passenger seat next to Mum, I stayed quiet the whole way. Their worry filled the car, but I couldn’t bring myself to bring it up—mainly because I had no idea how to start.
The three of us hadn’t seen each other since that afternoon in the city park, when they’d told me they’d heard about the fight. They knew nothing about Louis—about him at all, or that he was the real reason I suddenly needed time away from uni. We’d spoken during the week, we’d said goodnight most evenings, and I’d phoned to tell them about the essay and Graham’s comments. But the fact I’d been seeing someone? That I hadn’t even told them I was bi? Silence seemed the safer choice.

When the Oakridge exit sign appeared, I let out a long, happy sigh. That bit of signage felt like proof I was finally stepping back, choosing my own peace of mind over listening to whatever excuses he might come up with. My mind went back to that “podium theory” he once explained to me. That night, listening to him, I’d felt so hopelessly in love—lost in the sight of him bare-chested in front of me, more beautiful than ever—that I’d made the mistake of trusting too blindly. I should’ve promised myself never to put him on that pedestal, never to place anyone above my own well-being, and never to let my feelings for him burn me down to ashes.
By sneaking back to the countryside without a word, I was finally pushing him off that top step he’d somehow claimed anyway. As for being burnt out—I was already halfway to cinders. That was the real reason I’d chosen to disappear for a few days, to try and piece myself back together.

First stop was my grandparents’ house, and the moment I stepped in I felt like a child again. It was always like that—afternoons spent playing cards, sipping tea, or helping Gran in the kitchen. They were two of the most important people in my life, and I’d missed them more than anything these past weeks.
That day, I watched them settle onto the sofa as they always did, hand in hand or arm in arm for support. To me they were living proof Paolo and Grazia could exist beyond the pages of De Pretis—proof that kind of love was real. I could’ve happily watched them for hours, like I always had as a kid, but I knew I wasn’t strong enough to stay for dinner and soak in their everyday intimacy without breaking down.
So I headed home on foot before the smell of supper tempted me to linger. I left the car for Mum and Gemma to drive back later, and set off along the lanes.

I followed the same tracks I used to cycle to theirs, the ones I took with Olimpia and Javier on our way to school. Each path carried a different memory. I breathed in the crisp air, letting the nostalgia wash over me, though this time with a sharper kind of awareness.
For years I was convinced I’d never betray this place; that no other road would ever carry the same lightness I felt wandering through the village in spring with pollen drifting on the breeze. Even before moving to Oakridge, I would’ve sworn—on my beloved swing—that this would always be my favourite place in the world, untouchable. Yet walking there now, the golden light of sunset warming my skin, I realised if I’d really made that bet, I’d have lost. Things hadn’t turned out the way I once promised myself they would.

As I walked, I found myself staring at the shadow stretched out on the path. Was that really me? The same me who thought Hawthorne Green would always be his only refuge, but who’d ended up feeling most at home in someone’s arms rather than in his garden? The same me who felt that same warmth now soaking into his shoulders as he walked, spread through his chest when a boy kissed him? The same me, whose shadow dodged every ant on the ground, just as he’d carefully hoarded every moment spent with Louis? I would’ve sworn it was me—still me, same body, same boy—even though it felt almost absurd.

The night before I’d cried so hard I was certain I’d numbed myself. But when I reached the garden, keys turning in the lock, the faint smell of stale air hit me as I walked through the sitting room and down the corridor. Sadness settled over me, refusing to budge.
Weeks away from home and I’d let a boy from the city—a boy I’d barely known—make me settle for a single pine tree outside our window instead of the vast countryside surrounding me here. I’d let his blue eyes swallow me more than the endless sky over Hawthorne Green ever had, that sky now fading darker as the sun slipped away. I’d let the inked chest of that boy make me feel as safe as the hammock or the swing ever did. At least the swing would always be there; I couldn’t say the same for him.

I sat down on the wooden seat, Kindle in hand, ready to read myself into distraction. That had been my hope with Silver Drops too, the book I’d started the day after the ritual because it felt so detached from everything I was going through. But when I saw its cover in my library again, a sigh escaped. Even that story was tied to Louis now—to the care he’d shown listening to me read it aloud, to his interruptions whenever the main character annoyed him.

I put the Kindle aside, wrapped my hands round the chains of the swing, and realised I was completely lost. It wouldn’t be enough to shelve Silver Drops, or to leave campus for a few days. Every part of me carried him: my hands that had always reached for him, my legs where he’d rested as I read, my hair he tugged at when we kissed, my lips that—if I focused—still tasted his. My eyes still carried the memory of his, those moments when he got lost in mine and I couldn’t help but smile. For a second I wished I could wake up in someone else’s body. But I knew that even then, I’d never think my way free of him.

Before Louis, I was just an ordinary lad, one speck in the vastness of a cosmos full of people. Out of billions, fate had made me meet him, had made him call me special, made me believe love like my grandparents’ wasn’t the only kind of passion this universe could hold.
Leaning into the swing’s chain, I let myself sway. The wind picked up, making Mum’s flowers tremble in their beds. Watching them bend without breaking, I almost hated to compare them to me and Louis, realising what we’d built was nowhere near as strong as their roots. Yet just as those flowers shared the same patch of earth, Louis and I had ended up in the same room. There had to be a reason for that.

Since moving onto campus, everything had gone wrong—first Diana, then my own roommate. Maybe fate wanted me to meet him, true, but it also wanted me to see he wasn’t right for me. For that pain, I knew I could never forgive it. Still, I couldn’t blame destiny for Louis’ cowardice—for failing to be honest with me. I’d never asked him to choose me over Troy. So why act as if he had, from the very first day?

I looked up; the sky had gone dark. The lampposts flickered on around me, though the stars shone just as bright. Before Louis, I was alone—on this planet, under this same star-filled sky. I’d loved before, yes, but never like he’d made me love. And yet, that same morning, he’d dared tell me I knew nothing about love—me, the one who’d poured it into his hands every single day.
Because of him, I’d stopped being just anyone and become someone to someone. And he—no matter what—would never be just anyone to me again, not even if I moved back to my village and never saw him again. That thought unsettled me more than anything.

I’d convinced myself leaving him behind would be my rebirth, that I’d rise from the ashes he’d left me in after running back to Troy. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Nine hours had passed since I’d last seen him, even argued with him, and he hadn’t left my mind for a second.
I spoke with Gemma, and all I could think of was the call I’d made mid-party. I looked at my grandparents, and the thought that I’d once hoped to build something like that with Louis destroyed me. Mum spoke, and my head filled with worries she knew nothing of. And now, sitting on my swing, even the latter and my beautiful garden couldn’t make me feel safe. My mind was my enemy, and no matter where I went, it would follow.

Then suddenly, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. I pulled it out. I’d once read that if you think about someone hard enough, your thoughts reach them, make them miss you. When I lit up the screen and saw Louis’ name again, my swing slowed to a stop and my heart thudded faster.

 

                                                                     

 

I read it—and for a moment, almost felt glad. As if my thoughts really had reached him, as if maybe he did miss me, even a little. I stared at that message for a good ten seconds, sighing, unsure what to do. But his nerve—his sheer nerve—writing to invite me to the park after shouting at me like that, it stung.

Shaken, I left the chat without replying. While I was there, I checked the rest of my unopened messages. Stephen had written, making sure I’d got to Hawthorne Green in one piece and sobered up as promised. Grace had answered my thank-you from the drive. And then—another text. From an unknown number. The preview showed a photo. Curious, I tapped, half-expecting spam. It turned out to be much worse.

I zoomed once, then blocked the number within seconds, frozen at what I’d seen. Someone had captured a moment I hadn’t wanted proof of—that their thing wasn’t over, not at all.

I’d thought the kiss was the worst of it. Apparently I was wrong.

I didn’t know who had sent it—maybe someone eager to keep me updated now I wasn’t at college—but it didn’t matter. I’d left on purpose, to avoid exactly this. To stop thinking about what they felt for each other. Seeing it again, undeniable, only gutted me more.
Before that photo, I’d even allowed myself to picture it: the two of us on the bench beneath the Great Oak where we’d first met, arguing it out. I’d imagined us spitting words at each other, admitting we’d do best to keep hating each other, shouting that it would end where it began, under that tree. But the photo—him and Troy facing each other, Troy’s hand brushing Louis’ cheek the way only I’d been allowed all week—made me realise the truth. While I’d been falling, thinking I was the only one, I wasn’t. Not even close. The fantasy of arguing under that Oak vanished instantly. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing him.

Just then, I heard Mum’s car pulling in. I stayed where I was, phone in my lap, staring at nothing. When they came through the gate and saw me in the garden, Gemma came straight over, hugging me from behind to shake me out of it. I barely managed a cold hello, couldn’t even look at her. She’d already know, from one glance, that time alone hadn’t helped at all. She sat down beside me on the swing, finally asking what was on my mind.

“He’s not who he wants…” was all I managed, eyes fixed on the ground while hers searched my pale face. I thought back to what Louis had said before I left college, and God help me—I believed him then. The truth was, he didn’t want me enough to want Troy gone either. I wondered if Troy even knew Louis had messaged me, hoping we’d talk, hoping we’d sort things out, all while having no idea I’d just seen that picture.

 

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

Chapter 17: To Miss Someone (Part 2)

 

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

Re-entering the house beside Gemma, asking Mum for a moment of her time, and sitting down at the table to tell them everything that had happened felt both like a relief and a punch to the stomach.

I skimmed over the fact that I liked boys as well, not quite brave enough to say it outright, and feeling Mum’s silence—heavy, almost disapproving—made my hands tremble under their gaze. But then she reached out and placed her hand gently over mine, and all at once, the tension drained from me. Perhaps she did it more out of sympathy for what I’d been through than as a sign of unconditional support, but either way, it was enough.
Gemma, of course, reacted entirely differently—she leaned forward, indignant, and demanded that I introduce her to him the moment we were back in the city, “just so I can tell him what a bloody idiot he is for losing you.” Her exact words.

Talking about it with them made me feel, for the first time, truly understood. Yet the moment Gemma mentioned me going back to college, my stomach dropped—and I must have shown it.
“You can stay here for as long as you like, you know,” Mum said softly, stroking the back of my hand. “I’ll have to go back to work, but you—well, there’s no rush to return if you don’t feel ready.”
For a split second, I almost told her the truth: that maybe I’d never really feel ready.
“Aren’t there any online lectures you could follow?” she added hopefully, and I appreciated her trying, even if things weren’t that simple.

“My course doesn’t offer any, Mum. And I can’t be away much longer…” I explained quietly. Silence fell for a few seconds, and I caught myself fidgeting with my fingers, picking at them the way Louis used to when he was anxious. I must have picked up the habit from him somewhere along the way—another small part of me that now reminded me of him. That was the worst part, really: he lingered in everything I did.

“I see… I’m sorry, Harold,” Mum said, her voice subdued and resigned.
Gemma was the first to fill the silence. “But you know you can call me whenever, right? Like you did yesterday—no hesitation.”
I lifted my head, dropped my hands to my lap, and ran them over my thighs as though trying to release some of the tension. Then I smiled faintly at her. Now that I’d told them everything—no omissions, no secrets left to hide—I felt lighter. My family meant the world to me, and I hoped they both knew how grateful I was for the little trio we’d built together.
“Thank you. Really,” I said, glancing affectionately at Mum as well.

“Since we’re being honest,” Gemma said, half-grinning, “let me give you a bit of advice. No relationships for a while, alright?”
I couldn’t help but laugh—bitterly, but still. She was right, of course.
I’d never truly felt lost when I was on my own; that came later, when someone else entered the picture and I forgot what it meant to fall asleep without thinking of them, or to wake up without waiting for the moment I’d see them again. After years of not feeling genuinely loved, Louis had brought those butterflies back—but Gemma was right. It was time to think about me for a change.

“Alright,” I said finally, and Mum’s smile in response told me how much she needed to hear that. That evening, I felt oddly hopeful again—buoyed by their quiet support. Maybe, just maybe, I’d manage to get through it. To fall asleep without his face in my mind, and wake up peaceful, even if I hadn’t spent the night by his side.

 

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

I spent the whole of the next morning resting, having fallen asleep ridiculously late the night before. I really was tired, but you know how tiredness and the habit of living in the past never quite go hand in hand. Despite the reassurance Mum and Gemma had given me — that everything would somehow work itself out — once I was alone with my own thoughts, lying there in bed, I ran straight into the monsters in my head.

Still, it was the start of a new day — or as close as you can call noon a start — and wasting it in bed felt like the worst thing I could do. So I pulled myself together, got up, and took over the kitchen. Cooking lunch for everyone at least gave my mind something to hold on to.

After we’d eaten, I helped Mum pull the weeds out of my grandparents’ garden, then we went back home and picked some lemons from the trees to take back with us to Oakridge. I kept myself as busy as possible, and it helped, it really did. When something’s weighing on me, it’s hard to shut it out; even reading — which is usually both an escape and a kind of reflection — can make things worse. I tend to dive in so deeply that I start seeing my own life mirrored in the characters. So that day, I didn’t touch a single book. I stuck to housework and gardening, as long as someone else was nearby.

By half four, I’d run out of ways to keep distracted, which Mum noticed immediately. She told me, quite pointedly, to take a break.

“Are you sure there’s really nothing else I can do?” I asked, still dusting one of the little porcelain teacups from the cabinet in the living room. It was an antique Mum had found at one of the autumn markets in Hawthorne Green — easily one of the best around. That morning I’d realised the whole tea set could do with a good polish, so I’d taken it upon myself to get it done. With just the spoons and saucers left, I caught Mum glancing at Gemma, who was lounging on the sofa. Then she stepped closer, gently took the cloth out of my hands, and brushed my arm.

“I’ll finish up, Harry. Go on, love, go and relax for a bit,” she said, looking right into my eyes.

I felt oddly disappointed. Not only had she failed to find me something else to do, she was now taking away the one task I’d given myself.

“But... honestly, I’m not tired,” I protested, though she’d already taken the cup from me and was placing it carefully back on the shelf.

“I know, sweetheart, and I appreciate it. But you didn’t come home just to spend all your time helping me out,” she said softly. I frowned, unsure how to take it. “I imagine these first two weeks back at uni have been quite stressful — with studying and... well, everything else. Why don’t you get some rest?”

Of course I picked up on what “everything else” was supposed to mean.

Since the night before, the whole thing with Louis had become that topic — the one better left unspoken. Neither of them had mentioned it again. There wasn’t much else to say, I suppose, but I could feel them carefully tiptoeing around it, avoiding any conversation that might lead back to him. All day I’d managed to keep myself busy, but the silence they’d both settled into was beginning to feel deafening — especially now. I knew they meant well, trying not to say his name so I could have some peace, but somehow their caution made me feel worse. Even Gemma, who could usually talk to a brick wall if she had to, seemed to have nothing to say.

I must have let my disappointment show. I didn’t mean to sound rude, but dusting those cups, in that moment, had become something oddly important to me.

“Fine, I get it,” I said, trying not to sound too sharp. “You just don’t want me around, that’s all.” Then I turned away from Mum and, without even glancing at Gemma — as if I’d forgotten she was sitting there — I went upstairs, down the hall, and shut my bedroom door behind me with a thud.

It wasn’t until I lay flat on my back that I really registered being there again. For as long as I could remember, retreating to my room had meant taking time for myself — which, ironically, was exactly what I’d been trying to avoid all day. Maybe that’s why Mum’s suggestion had irritated me so much: because I knew it wouldn’t actually help.

The image came back to me almost instantly — me and Louis lying there after we’d had sex, staring up at the ceiling, just like I was doing now. The way he’d pulled me in under his arm, the way his eyes were still glassy when he looked at me, our hands tangled together... everything about what we’d been was still fresh in my mind. That was why I’d kept so busy since morning — because I couldn’t stand being alone with my thoughts. I hated that I still couldn’t stop thinking about him, not even because of what he’d done, but because of what we’d been building, and what he’d thrown away with a kiss.

I was still caught up in the memory when I heard five soft knocks on the door — I’d recognised them by the third. I told Gemma she could come in, relieved she was breaking the silence.

“Am I interrupting?” she asked, peeking her head round the door before stepping in.

“Not at all,” I said, sitting up and gesturing for her to join me.

“Busy day, eh?” she said, shuffling across the room and dropping onto the bed beside me. Gemma was usually a hurricane — loud, effortless, sure of herself — so the fact she’d even asked if she was disturbing me was enough to tell me she had something serious to say. “Busy enough that you actually started cleaning, apparently,” she added with a grin, her tone half-teasing.

“Uni changes you, remember? You were the one who said that,” I shot back. Gemma laughed quietly.

“True,” she said, lowering her gaze and running her hand along the sheets. “In every possible way, it seems...” She flicked her eyes up at me — quick, uncertain — and I could see she was working up to something.

I stayed quiet, leaning back against the headboard, waiting for her to go on. She glanced at me again, then finally spoke.

“You know Mum only wanted to make sure you were resting, right?” she began carefully. “Especially because—”

“Because uni’s stressful? Is that it?” I cut in. I don’t usually snap back when I feel cornered, but lately I’d found myself doing it more and more. Clearly, the sting of Mum’s words hadn’t quite worn off.

“Why do you get defensive straight away, Harry? Has uni changed that, too?” she shot back. Stubborn people never make easy conversation, and we were both stubborn to the core. I had to let my guard down for my honesty to reach her once and for all.

“When you’re attacked by the resident bully the moment you set foot in halls, you can’t not change, Gemma. You just can’t,” I said, the words spilling out before I could stop them. “When you spend your first night on campus sleeping on a bench, and one of the people who finds you the next morning ends up being the girl who’ll agree to be your girlfriend — only to cheat on you the day after... and then that same bully, the one who made your life hell from day one, turns out to be the first boy you ever fall in love with that quickly — well, yeah, you change. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Just saying it all in one go — reliving those moments in a single breath — made my chest tighten. It felt like I’d lived months’ worth of emotions in only a couple of weeks, never given time to process any of them.

Gemma just looked at me then, helplessly, the way you look at someone whose life is unraveling in front of you, knowing you can’t fix it.

“That photo might not mean anything, you know,” she said after a moment, gently. “You do realise that, right?”

Of all the things I’d just told her, she’d latched on to those last few words. Before that, I’d never actually said out loud that what I felt for Louis might be love — the real kind — and hearing it in my own voice startled me. Her mention of the anonymous photo — the one of Louis and Troy — made my stomach twist.

“Maybe,” I said quietly. “Or maybe it means everything.” I paused, frowning. “And then there’s his message... Why did he send it, by the way? What’s that supposed to mean?” The frustration was spilling over; I couldn’t hold it in anymore. Some part of me still hoped she’d somehow have the answers.

“Message?” she said sharply. “What message? He texted you?”

I looked up, caught off guard by her confusion. Had I really forgotten to tell her?

“Explain yourself, Harry — for God’s sake,” she pressed, eyes wide. “Louis actually messaged you? After shouting at you like that?” She was furious — at him, on my behalf. Her gaze was fixed on me, searching for more than I could put into words.

I hesitated for a moment, then scrambled for my phone under the pillows, only to find it on the bedside table. It was nearly five o’clock.

“Today,” I blurted out. “He asked to meet today. At six.”

And before Gemma could say anything else, I was already out of the room, ready to ask Mum if I could borrow the car to drive back to the city.

 

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

The only way we could make it work — so Mum could still have the car later — was for Gemma to drive me into the city, then head back to Hawthorne Green, pack her things, and leave the countryside with Mum.

She agreed, but sitting in the passenger seat beside me, I could feel her scepticism radiating through the quiet. The night before, we’d come to the same conclusion: Louis had acted like a complete arse. He’d ruined everything because he couldn’t make up his mind — keeping a foot in both camps, stringing me along for fun while pretending Troy was out of the picture. Just thinking about it made my blood boil, so I couldn’t blame Gemma for being in a foul mood. She’d always been the protective type — not that she felt it more than I did, but she’d developed this cold, cutting dislike for Louis, even though she’d never met him. It was sharp enough to slice the air between us.

She stayed quiet for the first fifteen minutes, arms folded, that familiar look of disapproval stamped on her face.

“Gems…” I said eventually, keeping one hand on the wheel, the other glancing at the clock every few seconds. I knew one word was enough to set her off, and I said it deliberately — at exactly the right moment. We weren’t in my room anymore, going over every detail of what had happened these past two weeks. We were on the road now, heading straight for the park where Louis had asked to meet me.

“Don’t ‘Gems’ me,” she snapped, and I didn’t even dare look at her. “We spent two hours last night talking about it — about that idiot, about how you feel, about how right you were to not want to see him again. And now what? You’ve decided to drive over an hour just to meet him? For what — so he can blame you for something else you haven’t done?” She turned slightly towards me, her voice low but heavy with disappointment. I checked the time again; I was terrified of being late.

“I honestly don’t get you sometimes, Harry,” she muttered. “I really don’t.”

While she tried to talk me out of what she clearly thought was a huge mistake, I couldn’t help agreeing with her — at least in part. Louis had treated me awfully. He’d made me believe we were becoming something real, only to go and open another door without ever closing the last one. It disgusted me. It had broken me. I’d cried until I couldn’t breathe, avoided reading because every book reminded me of him — of the times we’d read together, shoulder to shoulder, or with his head resting on my lap and his ears carefully listening to my voice. The thought that I’d just been some side story, a distraction he never took seriously, made my skin crawl… even if his eyes had told me something else entirely.

Still, there was something I hadn’t told Gemma or Mum — something I’d barely admitted to myself. I’d been too angry to see it clearly before, too focused on the wrong he’d done me to understand why he’d been angry too. It wasn’t until Gemma reminded me of what he’d accused me of — of using him — that a realisation began to form.

During that stupid game of spin the bottle, Troy had made some smug comment about him and Louis “giving things another go”. When it was my turn, I’d snapped and said that Louis and I were sleeping together. That was it — blunt, careless, said to make a point. An hour later, I saw them kiss, and my whole world collapsed. But now, thinking back with a clearer head, I wondered whether Louis had heard about what I’d said — whether someone had told him I’d reduced whatever we had to something physical, something empty. Maybe that’s why he’d been so furious — maybe he’d felt just as used as I did.

The thought hit me like a punch. I’d been so sure he’d wronged me, but maybe, in his eyes, I’d done the same. That was all it took for me to bolt downstairs, interrupt Mum mid-cleaning, and practically beg her to let me drive back into town.

After Gemma’s reaction to my sudden decision, I tried to explain it all — that I’d forgotten to mention that detail the night before, that I needed to clear the air with Louis. A few hours ago, I’d sworn I’d never want that conversation, but the more I thought about it, the more urgent it felt.

Even then, though, I couldn’t untangle my feelings completely. Louis had kissed Troy because he still loved him — and that was the part that hurt most. That was the one thing I couldn’t change. But our fight… that, at least, I could try to make sense of. I needed to tell him I hadn’t meant what he thought I’d said, that I’d spoken carelessly, that I hadn’t cheapened what we had — not really.

By the time I stepped out of the car and handed Gemma the keys, I knew none of it might matter. Maybe no explanation could fix what had already broken. Still, I found myself walking quickly through the park gates, heading for the oak where he said he’d be, as if the act of going could somehow make a difference.

Oakridge had started to feel like home ever since Louis and I became something — whatever we’d been — and that park had always been the heart of it. The air smelled the same, damp and sweet and green, like a memory I couldn’t shake. As I followed the winding path beneath the trees, every step brought him closer — not just Louis the person, but Louis the memory, Louis the feeling.

I couldn’t bring myself to believe that we were suddenly nothing. I didn’t want to. Because I’d seen it — that quiet something between us, so subtle it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but never by us. It had existed. Still did, in a way. It was there in the city, in every corner I’d left behind.

I’d burned myself out over him, and from the ashes I’d become, I doubted there’d be any phoenix rising — not this time. My heart was too bruised, too restless, and seeing him again would only make it worse.

I took a deep breath as I reached the last path. I was back at square one. I’d convinced myself I’d moved on, that I’d somehow dethroned him from the space he held inside me — but really, I’d only built him a higher one on that podium. And there he stayed, alongside that last kiss of his, and the memory that it had been with Troy, while I was still tasting the ghost of him on my lips.

The more I thought, the stiffer I became. I hated how he could still twist my emotions like this. I hated remembering the door of that storeroom, the shock of seeing them. I hated that his touch still lived somewhere on my skin, that every inch he’d once claimed still hummed with him. And I hated the ashes I’d turned into, knowing that no conversation, no confrontation, would bring me back to life.

Maybe that night at the party I’d gone back to being no one to him. Maybe I’d always been no one. But then… why did I still believe otherwise?

When I finally reached the bench and saw him still sitting there, a wave of relief washed through me, so strong it almost hurt. It was twelve past six — I was late, but he hadn’t gone.

I stood for a moment, just watching him from a distance, then started walking towards him. I didn’t know what I was hoping for, but one thing was certain: the Louis I sat beside wasn’t the same one who’d asked me to meet him.

 

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

 

 

The worst way to miss someone is, to be seated right next to them and know you’ll never really have them.

That’s how I felt from the very first minute in his company, even though Louis hadn’t said a word. He kept staring at the ground, elbows resting on his knees, a few strands of hair falling across his face so I could only see part of it. Instinctively, I almost reached out to brush his hair aside, just to see him better—like I used to do when we were lying on my bed, or his, moving it off his forehead so I could lose myself completely in his eyes. But I pulled my hand back just in time, before Louis could notice that pointless, clumsy gesture. His gaze stayed fixed in the distance, not even a glance, not even a simple hello for me.

I sat there beside him for what felt like ages, too wound up to enjoy the fresh air of that quiet spot—the same air we’d breathed the first time we’d sat on that bench under the Oak. Back then it had felt like our bench, though by now it was hardly ours anymore. It was right there, in front of that tree, that he had asked to see me again after our argument.

I couldn’t explain why he wouldn’t look at me, or why he was sitting so far away, as if we didn’t have a past that—at least I believed—still tied us together somehow. But the way he shifted away the moment I sat down, almost recoiling from my presence, made me realise—maybe for the first time since he blamed me for something he never even named—that I had lost him for good. And nothing, not even the fact I’d made it to the park on time, was ever going to change that.

 

 

.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖