Chapter 11 #2
Aaron’s apartment is exactly like I imagined—if I had imagined it as a physics experiment designed to isolate the essence of him—and nothing like the dorms. The entryway is stacked with muddy sneakers, duffel bags, and a collapsed umbrella leaking rainwater onto a sacrificial towel.
A dry-erase calendar near the door has every day filled with either a gym session or a group study, most of them written in different colors, some in someone else’s handwriting.
The walls are hung with a random but confident mix: a framed poster from the World Series (not this century), a black-and-white print of Neil deGrasse Tyson, a hand-drawn anatomy diagram with key muscles shaded in neon highlighter.
The soft lighting from the single lamp left on in the small living room paints every surface with a shade of honey. I drop my backpack just inside the door, feeling like an alien who might contaminate the sample.
Aaron leads the way down the narrow hall, passing the kitchen (more empty Gatorade bottles than actual food), then into his bedroom.
His room is smaller than I expected. There’s a full-sized bed, barely made, with a gray comforter and a single pillow.
Two bookcases flank the window—one for textbooks and binders, one for trophies and athletic detritus.
A pair of dumbbells live under the desk, beside a milk crate filled with mystery novels.
I notice a mini-chemistry set on the dresser, the kind you buy for twelve-year-olds with a death wish.
Aaron clears his throat, then sits on the bed, patting the spot next to him. “I, uh, didn’t know if you’d want to come over,” he says, and the words come out softer than usual.
He trails off, and I realize he’s just as nervous as I am.
I sit, careful to keep a full backpack’s width between us. My hands are clammy. I wipe them on my jeans, hoping he doesn’t notice.
Aaron leans back, palms flat on the comforter, and watches me. The overhead lamp catches his profile—jawline sharp, neck still flushed from the walk up the stairs, a constellation of freckles I’ve never seen before scattered over his left cheekbone.
For a minute, we just exist in the glow, neither of us willing to risk the first move. My mouth is dry, but my heart is running a full decathlon in my chest.
Aaron glances at me, then away, then back. “You want something to drink? I’ve got water, Gatorade… tequila, I think, but that’s from last semester.”
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
He nods, like he’s relieved, then drums his fingers on the bed. “So, uh… you ever been with a guy before?” It’s a whisper, barely louder than the hum of the streetlight outside.
I laugh, because otherwise I’ll start listing every mistake I’ve made since birth. “No,” I say. “Have you?”
He grins, a little sheepish. “Only if you count, like, freshman wrestling.”
We both laugh, the tension splintering a little.
Aaron shifts closer, still not touching. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says. “I mean, we can just hang out. Watch a movie or something.”
I nod, but inside I’m screaming for him to get it over with, to cut through the uncertainty and just tell me what comes next. Instead, I stare at my hands, counting the lines on my knuckles, pretending I’m not shaking.
Aaron sees it. He reaches over, covers my hand with his, and the room narrows to just the contact—the heat, the weight, the fact that he doesn’t pull away. My breath catches, then resets.
He gives my hand a squeeze. “You okay?”
I look up, right into his eyes, and the question answers itself.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m really okay.”
He smiles, then, and it’s the one I remember from the cafe—private, unguarded, just for me.
Aaron shifts, closing the last inch of space between us. He slides his hand up my arm, gentle but certain, and touches my jaw. His thumb rests just under my ear, a counterbalance to the wildness in my pulse.
He waits, giving me time to retreat, but I don’t.
He kisses me.
The first contact is feather-soft, as if he’s afraid I’ll evaporate.
His lips brush mine, retreat, then return, more certain the second time.
The warmth of his mouth is electric, the kind of heat that blots out thought.
I lean in, my whole body pivoting toward him, and he tilts his head, fitting us together like a question and its answer.
We break, gasping, and he runs his thumb over my cheekbone. “Still okay?”
I nod, unable to trust my voice.
He kisses me again, slower, lingering. His other hand finds my waist, fingers spreading just above the beltline, and I shudder—half from anticipation, half from the shock of being wanted.
We tip backward, gravity taking over, and land side by side on the bed. The mattress squeaks, the comforter bunches, but I don’t care. All I can feel is Aaron’s hands, mapping every inch of me, his breath hot against my neck.
He nudges my chin up, kisses a line down my jaw, then stops at the hollow of my throat. “Is this okay?” he whispers, voice ragged.
“Yeah,” I manage, and he smiles against my skin.
His hands are everywhere, never rushed but always searching. He slides my shirt up, exposing skin inch by inch, then runs his palm over my stomach. I’m shaking, but not from fear. Every nerve is tuned to him—every brush, every scratch of his stubble, every pulse of his heartbeat through his chest.
He sits up, peels off his own shirt, and I just stare. The lines of his arms, the fade from tan to pale at his shoulders, the small scar above his left pec. I want to say something, but he kisses me again and the thought dissolves.
He pulls me upright, tugs at the hem of my shirt. I raise my arms, let him strip it off, and we tumble back onto the bed, bare skin against bare skin. The heat is instant, dizzying. I cling to his shoulders, his muscles flexing under my fingers, and he pushes me down, gentle but insistent.
“Let me know if you want to stop,” he says, breath coming fast.
I shake my head. “I won’t.”
He grins, then kisses his way down my chest, stopping to nip at the bone just above my heart. I dig my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to keep the contact alive.
His hands find the button on my jeans. He pauses, looks up, and I nod.
He works them open, slides them down my hips, and I shiver as the air hits my legs. He follows, running his hands up my thighs, mouth trailing behind.
We move together, slow and awkward, but the nervousness burns off with every touch. He explores, learns, adapts. When he hesitates, I guide his hand; when I freeze, he whispers reassurance, patient and certain.
At the edge, when the sensation is too much, I gasp, and he buries his face in my neck, riding the wave with me. I feel him shake, his own climax hot against my stomach. The pure joy of the moment ripples through every inch of my body.
After, we lie side by side, catching our breath. Aaron drags the comforter over us, his arm curled around my shoulders, my head tucked under his chin.
We don’t talk. We just breathe, bodies pressed close, the only sound the distant whir of the fridge and the soft, steady beat of his heart.
He traces lazy circles on my back, fingertips barely touching skin. I let my eyes close, the weight of the last week dissolving molecule by molecule.
For the first time, I feel real and solid, held together by the gravity of someone else.
When sleep comes, it’s not the restless, jittery kind. It’s the sleep of people who know, at least for now, that they are safe.
That they are home.
—ΠΩ—
Sara’s apartment is alive in a way that defies physics, biology, or any discipline I know.
The walls are a patchwork of paint swatches and color tests, every surface colonized by art supplies, thrift store finds, and mugs with half-slogans scuffed off by too many dishwasher cycles.
The air is thick with turpentine, brewing coffee, and—beneath it all—the citrus bite of the candles she’s scattered across the shelves and floor.
Each flame sends its own lopsided light, pooling across canvases and bare wood like spilled syrup.
Aaron and I stand on the threshold for a minute, shoes in hand, watching as Hunter and two girls I barely recognize from around campus debate the finer points of “AI in social media.” In the kitchen, Sara hums to herself as she arranges crackers on a plate with the precision of a NASA engineer prepping a lander.
We slip in, dropping shoes at the door, and make our way through the gauntlet of art projects.
Someone’s half-built a sculpture out of coffee stirrers and hot glue, and the table by the window is an archaeological dig of failed ceramics.
The only clear surface is the couch, currently occupied by Hunter, who lounges like he’s waiting for a camera crew to film his intervention.
He clocks us instantly. “Look who brought his boyfriend along,” he says, voice pitched for the whole room.
I flush, but Aaron only grins, dropping onto the couch with enough force to jostle Hunter’s solo cup. “Damn straight,” he says. “You got a problem with that?”
Hunter rolls his eyes, but the smile is genuine. “Best scheme I ever pulled off,” he says, raising his cup in a toast. “To campus infamy.”
Sara appears behind us, wiping her hands on a paint-stained towel. “You made it!” she says, wrapping me in a one-armed hug and squeezing Aaron’s shoulder like she’s checking for structural defects.
She eyes us both, then grins. “You hungry? I made snacks. And by ‘made’ I mean I bought them and put them on a plate.”
The kitchen is a chaos of half-used ingredients and sticky cutting boards, but Sara has managed to arrange everything onto three trays: cheese cubes, crackers, and a bowl of something that might be hummus, or possibly spackling paste.
She gestures for us to help ourselves, then leans in and drops her voice to a whisper. “You good?”
I nod.
She studies my face, then nods, satisfied, and turns back to the main room. “Everyone!” she announces. “This is Aaron.”
He gives a little wave, self-effacing. “Hey.”
Sara pours us drinks—beer for Aaron, something fizzy and violet for me.
We settle in, Aaron perched on the edge of the couch, me on a paint-spattered stool pulled from under the table.
The conversation turns to classes, then to the next round of campus memes, then to the rumor that someone’s started a Reddit thread dedicated to “Deadpool’s Secret Lover.
” Hunter reads a few out loud, adding his own commentary, and the whole room dissolves into laughter.
The door buzzes and Aaron’s friends arrive.
There’s a beat of tension—two different species meeting in the wild, neither sure whether to fight or run.
But Malik breaks the ice by immediately critiquing Sara’s beer selection, and within ten minutes the two groups have merged, swapping stories about Aaron’s gym fails and the time I nearly set a beaker on fire in Chem 101.
I watch Aaron as the night unspools. He’s in his element here, but not the way he is at frat parties or in the gym.
He laughs harder, listens more, lets himself be teased.
When he catches my eye, his expression is soft, private.
Like the room is just the two of us, even with twelve people arguing about the proper pronunciation of “GIF.”
At one point, he moves from the couch to the stool beside me, our knees touching under the table. He leans in, breath warm against my ear. “You happy?”
I nod, and this time it feels like the word is enough.
We pass a bowl of chips back and forth, Aaron’s hand finding my thigh under the table.
I let it stay there, tracing invisible circles just above the knee.
When Sara calls everyone to the kitchen for a toast, I stand and let him pull me close, arm around my waist, the world narrowing to this single moment.
Sara raises her glass, blue hair glowing in the candlelight. “To new beginnings,” she says. “And to not letting the internet define them.”
There’s a chorus of “cheers,” the clink of glasses, and then laughter. I look around—at Hunter, at Sara, at the friends I never thought I’d have, at Aaron beside me—and I realize, for the first time, I don’t want to be anyone but myself.
I catch Aaron’s eye over the rim of my cup. He winks, just for me, and in the flicker of candlelight his face is the only thing in focus.
At midnight, we leave and head out into the city—cold, dark and shining all at once. Aaron laces his fingers through mine, and this time, I don’t let go.
On the walk back, we don’t say much. The night is loud with possibility, the spaces between the words filled with everything we haven’t yet done.
At my building, Aaron stops, pulls me in, and kisses me under the streetlight.
No crowd. No closet. No costume.
Just us.
And this, I think, is the real beginning.