2. Micah
TWO
MICAH
I shouldn't have come back.
That’s the thought that keeps looping in my skull, no matter how many times I tell myself this is just a coffee. Just a date. Just a guy.
He’s sitting across from me in a crisp button-down, talking about his dog or his gym routine or his cousin’s wedding—the usual get-to-know-you shit.
I nod when I’m supposed to. Smile, sip my drink, pretend this isn’t the same campus where everything turned to shit two years ago. And that I’ve willingly come back.
It’s going fine. Until it’s not. Until I glance toward the patio and see him.
Colton Taylor.
The sight of him is akin to a brick to the chest.
Golden-boy glow cranked to a hundred. Hair a little shorter than it used to be, sun-kissed and messy in that artfully careless way that screams effort disguised as ease.
He’s wearing a fitted white tee that stretches over his quarterback-built chest, broad and solid, like he was carved to be adored.
His thighs strain against pale denim; he’s sitting there as if he owns the patio, the school, the fucking sky.
He’s sitting there with some girl in a skimpy little dress, laughing, all pale skin and blinding teeth. Her hand’s already on his chest, and she’s perched right in his lap as though it’s hers by default.
And then he kisses her.
No hesitation. No space. Just lips to lips, as if he’s done it a thousand times and plans to do it a thousand more.
It’s not the kiss that hurts. Not really. It’s how easy it looks. As though I never existed. And two years ago, he didn’t kiss me behind the bleachers like he was drowning and I was the only breath he’d ever wanted.
That he didn’t panic when someone saw us. Didn’t shove me away. Didn’t look me in the eye and said, Don’t fucking touch me again.
I knew I’d see him eventually. That was always part of the plan.
Coming back here, joining the team, flashing the good-student act long enough to get the scholarship reinstated—it was all a means to an end. A careful setup. A chessboard I’ve been rigging for months.
But I didn’t expect it to be today .
Didn’t expect to look up and see him here. Living life and appearing happy. As if he didn’t ruin me and walk away without a scratch. But none of that matters.
Because I didn’t come back for closure.
I didn’t come back to make peace.
I came back to make him pay .
“Hey—uh, where are you going?” the guy across from me asks, blinking at me in confusion, as I stand up .
“Yeah,” I say, not even trying to explain. “I’m not really feeling this.”
He stares. “Was it something I said?”
I don’t answer.
Because across the patio, Colton Taylor is playing house with his perfect little lie, and I’m pretty sure if I stay another second, I’ll do something I can’t take back.
Like walk over there and tell the whole fucking truth out loud. And demand him to tell me why the hell he kissed me if he was never going to mean it.
So I leave.
Not because I’m over it. But because I’m not. Not even close.
I walk.
I don’t know where I’m going, just that I need to not be here. Not near him. Not near that table with her still draped across his lap as though she’s earned the right.
Colton fucking Taylor.
My boots hit the sidewalk too hard, each step ringing up my legs. The air tastes stale. Too warm. Too close. My fingers twitch as if they remember something my mind wishes it could forget.
And then I’m there again.
It smells like turf, sweat, and cheap cologne.
The field lights are off, but the night hangs thick and humid around us as Colton paces beside the back of the bleachers, tossing a football from hand to hand.
His hoodie’s half-zipped, and his hair’s damp from the shower.
He looks like every wet dream I’ve ever had, not that I can tell him that.
He knows I’m gay, but he’s not. And I’m fine with that, at least that’s what I tell myself every fucking day.
It’s not worth ruining our friendship over.
I’ve fallen for my straight best friend.
A rite of passage for guys who date other guys. But it doesn’t make it easy.
We’re alone. Just the two of us.
The same as always.
“Coach is gonna ride my ass,” he mutters, barely loud enough to hear. “Said I looked like I was sleep-throwing.”
I grin from where I’m leaning against the rail. “Because you were. You missed Parker’s wide open. Twice.”
He huffs out a fake laugh, then goes quiet again.
Long enough that my chest starts to tighten.
There’s always been something electric in the silence between us. A hum under the surface. I never reach for it. Never name it. Because if I do, I risk the one thing I do have—him. As my best friend. My teammate. My almost-everything.
So I stay where I am.
Until he moves.
One second, he’s three feet away. The next, his hand’s wrapped around the back of my neck, the football rolling awkwardly away, and he’s backing me into the cold metal of the supports for the bleachers.
My heart trips over itself.
“Colt—?”
And then he kisses me.
Hard.
Fast.
Like he’s just figured out what he wants, and it’s me. Like he’s been holding his breath for years and finally let it out with my name on his tongue.
I don’t think. I can’t. Because his mouth is on mine, and it’s everything I’ve never let myself want. Everything I’ve buried under jokes and late-night texts and the weight of being the best friend .
He tastes like Gatorade and mint gum, and something Colton—something warm and reckless and home. His hands are shaking a little as they grip my shoulders, as if he doesn’t know what to do with them, like touching me might set the world on fire, and he’s willing to risk it.
I freeze. Then I melt into him.
My fingers curl into his hoodie, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between us.
I shift, backing him into the support of the bleachers, the night air cool against the heat of us.
Moonlight catches in his hair, making him look unreal, as if this is a dream I’m going to wake up from, alone and aching.
But he’s real.
And he groans—God, that sound—low and surprised, like he didn’t mean to make it. As though this kiss is getting away from him.
I kiss him harder, pretending I can convince him it’s okay. That I want this. That I’ve always wanted this. That it’s not just a fluke or a mistake or a dare gone too far. That I’m not going anywhere.
His hands slide up to my jaw, thumbs brushing my cheek like he’s memorizing it. Like he needs to. And for one impossible second, it feels as if everything might change. This moment could rewrite the whole world.
“Holy shit.”
The voice slams into us, breaking into our perfect fucking kiss. I turn my head just in time to see Jeremy standing there, mouth open, staring.
And Colton—he jerks back like I burned him, shoving me away.
“Fuck.” Then louder: “Don’t fucking touch me again. I’m not fucking gay, you asshole. ”
Like it was me who started it, and he didn’t just answer every question I’ve ever had with that single kiss.
I blink, and I’m back on campus. The rando is gone. The cafe’s patio is behind me. And I’m still walking.
Still bleeding. Still not over it. Because I don’t think I ever was.
It’s kind of hard to get over someone when you were in love with them. When you grew up side by side—matching scars, shared secrets, inside jokes that were a second language.
Harder when that someone lets you burn for it. Lets you take the fall when the truth got too close. Watched you get benched. Blacklisted. Labeled a fucking distraction. A predator. Well fuck him.
He didn’t say a word when they pulled my scholarship. Didn’t flinch when I got dropped from the roster. Just smiled for the cameras. Held his girlfriend’s hand and posed, pretending to be the golden boy he’s always been.
Two years.
Two fucking years I spent climbing out of the grave he helped dig. Fighting through advisors. Through courts. Through rumors whispered loud enough to ruin me.
I screamed discrimination . They said I was bitter. Said I was trying to ruin his future because he didn’t love me back.
And maybe I am bitter. Because I did love him. And he ruined mine first.
But I didn’t come back only to finish my degree. Didn’t come back just to play. I came back to destroy him.
To watch that pretty little legacy crack. To make him feel what it’s like to lose everything while someone else smiles through it .
Colton Taylor may have survived the fallout—but he won’t survive me .
Not this time.
The dorm room is small, but it’s mine.
Single occupancy, private bathroom, no roommate breathing down my neck or asking questions I don’t want to answer. The walls are still bare, the mini fridge’s hum the only sound. I haven’t even bothered to unpack the second suitcase.
The school bent over backwards to fix what they broke. To avoid another headline. Another lawsuit.
And I’m going to let them.
Let them offer everything they should have given me two years ago and then some. Let them call it a “welcome back” when it’s really a clean-up on aisle fuck-up.
I kick off my boots and fall back onto the bed, the too-firm mattress creaking beneath me. My phone buzzes against my thigh, probably that guy from earlier messaging something stupid like Had fun :) Wanna meet again?
I don’t even open it.
Instead, I thumb over to the app, Prism.
The hookup one.
No names. No photos unless you choose to share. Just vague bios, maybe a few stats. Enough to tempt. Enough to pretend.
Because I’m not looking for real. Not here. Not after earlier. Not after him.
I scroll past the usual crap.
“Looking for my gym bro, maybe more. ”
“No drama.”
“DL only.”
“Looking for masc 4 masc.”
Hard pass. Pass. Pass. Pass. Then something catches my eye.
No photo. Just a blank white icon. But the profile reads:
First time. Be gentle. Or don’t .
I pause.
It’s not the hottest profile I’ve seen. It’s not even the most detailed. It’s vague as hell, but not in the usual douchey way. No emoji lists. No fake deep quotes. Just...blunt. Like the person couldn’t say more without giving too much away. Bi-curious.
I roll my eyes and scroll past.
Too cryptic.
Too try-hard.
Too something.
And yet—my thumb stops. Scrolls back. I stare at it longer than I should.
It stands out. Quiet. Different. And bi-curious guys are sometimes easier to ghost, at least in my experience. They want a one-and-done, a guy to satisfy that curiosity before they go back to girls.
Whatever. Probably a catfish. Still, I hit match. Just in case. Then I drop the phone beside me on the bed and scrub a hand down my face.
The phone buzzes again.
I sigh, already expecting it to be the rando from earlier—trying to salvage a conversation I’d already left behind.
But it’s not.
GAVIN: No way. You back on campus ?
A smirk pulls at my lips. There it is.
Gavin. A hookup from my pre-exile days. All sharp edges and overconfident hands. We fooled around a few times freshman year, but never anything deep. He didn’t ask for more, and I didn’t pretend I had it to give.
GAVIN: Saw you on campus today. Thought you vanished into the gay witness protection program or something.
I snort and type back:
ME: Missed me that bad?
Three dots appear.
GAVIN: Only when I’m bored. Come out tonight. Riot’s got two-for-one drinks and a DJ who doesn’t suck.
I hesitate for all of two seconds. I should stay in. Should sleep. Should not fall back into old habits.
But my chest is still tight from earlier. My skin’s too hot. And I’m not looking to be a model of good decisions tonight.
ME: Pick me up at 10. Portman dorms.
GAVIN: Knew you couldn’t resist me.
I toss the phone onto the bed. I can. But that’s not the point. Tonight isn’t about resisting. It’s about forgetting.