Chapter 8 Alex
I shouldn’t have come here.
The thought arrived too late, after my knuckles had already rapped against Ethan’s door. Three sharp knocks that echoed down the empty hallway of Bradford Hall.
The Kingswell upperclassman dorm was quiet at this hour—past midnight, most people either passed out or still at parties.
I stood there, swaying slightly. My ribs ached where someone’s elbow had caught me, and my knuckles were split, dried blood crusting in the creases.
The door opened a crack.
Ethan’s face appeared, squinting against the hallway light. He was shirtless, wearing flannel pajama pants that hung low on his hips. His hair mussed from sleep, a crease from his pillow pressed into his left cheek—he must’ve been about to fall asleep.
“Alex?” His voice was rough with sleep, but it sharpened immediately when he saw my face. “Holy shit. What happened?”
“Can I—” My voice cracked. I swallowed hard, tasted blood and beer. “Can I come in?”
He didn’t answer, just opened the door wider and stepped back. I walked past him into the room, and something in my chest loosened. Safe. This was safe.
Ethan’s single was exactly what I expected—a controlled explosion of creativity.
Christmas lights outlined the crack where the wall met the ceiling.
Posters covered the walls: indie films I’d never heard of, a massive print of Call Me By Your Name, something in French that looked artsy and pretentious.
A corkboard above his desk was layered with photos—Ethan at various parties, arms around people I recognized from campus, candid shots that captured moments mid-laugh.
His desk was chaos: laptop open, editing software paused on what looked like crew practice footage. Empty coffee cups forming a small graveyard and a ring light on a tripod in the corner.
“Sit.” Ethan gestured to the bed, then flipped on his desk lamp. He grabbed a water bottle from his mini-fridge and thrust it at me. “Drink this. You reek like a brewery.”
I sat. The mattress was softer than mine, and I sank into it. My whole body hurt, not just the physical aches—something deeper.
“There was a fight,” I said. My voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else. “At the party. Kappa Alpha Theta.”
Ethan lowered himself into his desk chair, spinning it to face me. “Yeah, I saw it on someone’s Instagram story.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Marcus started it, didn’t he?”
I nodded and took a drink of water. The cold helped.
“He said some shit to one of the Riverside guys. Remy, I think? I don’t— it happened so fast.”
I pressed my hand against my forehead. Marcus called Remy a faggot. I couldn’t tell Ethan that.
“Liam punched him. Then everyone was just—”
“Liam.” Ethan’s voice was careful. “Liam Moore?”
“Yeah.” I took another drink. I felt sick, and the room was starting to spin.
“And you were there.”
“I was there.”
Silence. I could feel Ethan watching me, that observant way he had. Like he could see through all the layers I’d built up. It was usually comforting, but tonight it felt dangerous.
“Did Liam hit you?” Ethan asked.
“No.” The word came out sharper than I intended. “No, he— Someone else came at me and Liam—” I stopped. Swallowed hard. “He stopped them.”
Another pause, but longer this time.
“He protected you,” Ethan said.
I nodded. The word protected warmed my chest.
“And then?”
“And then nothing. He looked at me like I was nothing. Went back to the fight like I didn’t exist.”
My chest tightened. I could still see it—the flash in Liam’s eyes, kindness—then ice.
I was nothing to him.
“Alex.” Ethan’s voice was gentle now. “Look at me.”
I didn’t want to but I did anyway.
He was watching me with those dark eyes, and something in his expression made my throat close up.
“You’re not here because of the fight,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
I tried to hold his gaze, but I couldn’t. My eyes dropped to the floor—vintage rug, probably thrifted, geometric patterns in faded colors. Everything in this room was chosen, intentional, his. Not curated for parents or legacy or image. Just Ethan being Ethan.
God, what would that feel like?
“I can’t—“ I started, but the words caught. My hands were shaking. I pressed them against my thighs, tried to steady them. “I don’t know what to do.”
“About what?”
About everything. About the race. About my father.
About the video. About the way Liam looked at me on the water, the way he destroyed me, the way he saved me tonight just to dismiss me.
About the fact that I can’t breathe around him.
About the fact that I’m sitting here in your room because you’re gay and safe and maybe if I—
I cut the thought off. Took another drink of water.
“I’m tired,” I said finally. “I’m so fucking tired of all of it.”
Ethan was quiet for a long moment. Then he stood, grabbed a first aid kit from his closet. Sat down beside me on the bed.
“Let me see your hand.”
I held it out. He took my wrist gently, turning my hand over to examine my knuckles. His fingers were warm. Careful. He dabbed at the dried blood with an alcohol wipe.
“This is going to sting,” he said.
It did. But I barely felt it.
I was too aware of his proximity. The warmth of his bare shoulder inches from mine. The way his hair fell forward as he bent over my hand. The faint scent of his body lotion—coconut and something else, something clean.
My chest tightened for a different reason.
No. Don’t.
But I couldn’t help it. My eyes traced the line of his collarbone, the slope of his shoulder. Smooth skin, lean muscle, a small tattoo on his ribs I’d never noticed before: a film camera, tiny and delicate.
He was beautiful. That wasn’t new information. Ethan had always been beautiful—confident and open in a way I’d never be. But right now, in the soft light of his room, with his hands gentle on mine—
Stop it.
“There,” Ethan said, applying a band-aid. “Not too bad. You’ll live.”
He looked up, and our faces were suddenly very close.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Heat was spreading through me, pooling low in my stomach. I was getting hard. Right here. Right now. In Ethan’s room, with him sitting there bare-chested in his pajama pants, watching me with those dark eyes.
My eyes flicked down to his lips, just for a second, then back up.
He was right there and he was gay. We could just do anything right now—Ethan was available. Not like Liam. Why was I going for someone I couldn't have?
He’s so sexy.
If I could just—if I could prove to myself that it wasn’t Liam. That it was just—that I could want someone else. Anyone else.
Please let it be anyone else.
“Ethan,” I said, and my voice came out rough. “I—”
I leaned in.
His eyes widened. He started to lean back, but I followed. My hand came up to his face, fingers brushing his jaw.
“Alex—” he said, but I cut him off.
Then I kissed him.
For a second—one stupid, desperate second—he didn’t move. Our lips met and I tasted mint toothpaste and something else, something that should have felt right but didn’t, couldn’t, because—
Ethan’s hands came up to my chest and pushed me but I didn't move.
“No,” he said against my mouth.
But I didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. I leaned in harder, my other hand sliding to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. Heat and desperation and the desperate need to make this work, to feel something other than what I felt for Liam—
“Alex, stop—”
I kissed him harder.
Ethan’s hands locked against my chest and he shoved much hard this time. I stumbled back, nearly fell off the bed, and caught myself on the floor, breathing hard.
“What the fuck?” Ethan scrambled backward on the bed, putting distance between us. His face was flushed—anger, not arousal. “I said no!”
“I’m sorry—” My voice shook. “I just thought—”
“You thought what?” He was breathing hard too, chest rising and falling. “That I’d just let you use me? That because I’m gay I’m just waiting around for some closeted guy to experiment on?”
“That’s not—”
“Yes it fucking is!” He stood up from the bed, putting the desk between us. Creating a barrier. “You showed up here drunk and desperate and you thought, ‘Hey, Ethan’s gay, he’ll let me figure my shit out.’ Is that it?”
“No, I—” But the words died in my throat because he was right. He was absolutely right.
“You don’t want me, Alex.” His voice was shaking now. “You want him. You want Liam so fucking bad you can’t see straight, and you came here hoping I could be your escape hatch.”
My throat closed up. “I can’t want him.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t understand. My father, the team, everything I’ve worked for—”
“I understand perfectly.” Ethan’s laugh was bitter. Sharp. “You think I don’t know what it costs?”
“Then why—”
“Because I won’t be your experiment!” His voice rose, cracking. “I won’t be the guy you fuck to prove to yourself you’re not in love with someone else! I won’t be the one you use so you can keep lying to yourself!”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are!” He was breathing hard, hands clenched at his sides. “You’ve been lying since the day I met you. To me. To yourself. To everyone. And I’ve watched you torture yourself for over a year.”
Tears burned at the edges of my eyes. “I didn’t mean to—”
“That’s what makes it worse!” His voice broke. “You didn’t mean to hurt me. You didn’t mean to use me. You just did it anyway because you’re so desperate to not be who you are that you’ll destroy anyone who gets close.”
“I wasn’t trying to—“
“You kissed me after I said no.” His voice went quiet. Deadly. “You pushed when I pulled away. Do you understand what that means?”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Ice water down my spine.
Oh God.
“I—” I couldn’t breathe. “I didn’t—”
“You did.” Ethan’s eyes were red now. Wet. His voice broke. “I thought we were friends. I thought I was helping you. And you turned it into—”
“I’m so sorry.” The words ripped out of me. “God, Ethan, I’m so sorry—”