3. Colton
THREE
COLTON
That night
The dorm is too quiet. My roommates are out somewhere.
Even with the fan on full blast and my laptop playing some mindless show in the background, I can still hear the hum under my skin. The one that started the second I saw him walk away.
No, that's a lie. It started the second I heard his laugh.
Micah.
I haven’t said his name out loud in two years. But I’ve thought it. More than I’d ever admit.
And today, he was just… there. As if the universe decided to punish me for every bad choice I’ve ever made.
Jasmine thought the kiss meant something, that me being rock hard beneath her meant I was going to fuck her later.
Hell, she probably thinks I’m going to propose after midterms. I thought she had felt the fakeness of our relationship.
But I might be wrong. I couldn’t even look her in the eye after our lips separated .
Because all I could see was Micah walking away again. I run a hand through my hair, pace once, then give in and grab my phone.
Just to check the app.
Just to see if anything—anyone—new has popped up.
The profile I bookmarked earlier is still there. Blank icon. No photo. But the words hit different now.
Not looking to be saved. Just want to burn.
I don’t know what it is about that line. The quiet desperation of it. The honesty. It doesn’t sound the same as most of the guys on here trying to flex their way into validation. Or the ones that clearly just want a hole to fuck.
It sounds like someone who’s already bleeding and just wants the heat to mean something.
I tap the profile again. And that’s when I see it.
Matched.
The word sits there in a small, simple font beneath the username. Clean. Unassuming. But it rolls through me all the same.
He matched me. My thumb hovers over the screen, pulse quickening. I shouldn’t message.
It’s not smart. It’s not me. But being smart hasn’t exactly done me any favors lately.
I tap open the chat box. Then stare at the blinking cursor for way too long.
My heart’s pounding behind my ribcage, and my mouth is dry.
I think of Micah—pressed against me under the bleachers. The heat of his mouth. The way his hands gripped my hoodie like he needed it and needed me. And how I destroyed it in seconds .
Before I can talk myself out of it, with shaking hands, I type:
Me: You said you want to burn. Mind if I bring the match?
Fuck.
I hit send before I can second-guess it.
My thumb hovers over the screen as though I might unsend it, delete the whole account, throw the phone out the window.
But I don’t.
Because some part of me—some pathetic, aching part—wants to believe there’s still something left in me worth setting fire to. That I might be able to become who I actually am. Instead of all this pretending.
I stare at the screen waiting for it to light up.
Like maybe this mystery guy—whoever he is—might feel the same fire crawling under my skin and answer right now.
He doesn’t. The app stays quiet. Message marked sent but not read. My stomach knots.
I exhale, rub my palms down my thighs, and force myself not to check again. Not to open the chat a second time and reread the words, as if I didn’t just send them thirty seconds ago.
God, what the hell am I doing?
The door bursts open behind me.
“Yo,” Caleb says, clapping the frame with one hand and holding a pizza box in the other. “No game tomorrow. We’re hitting downtown. You in?”
Behind him, Ryan’s already pulling on a clean hoodie from his room and grinning, ready for a wild night. I swipe the phone off my lap and slam it screen-down onto my desk like it’s contraband.
“Yeah,” I say automatically, throat dry. “Sure. Why not.”
Caleb turns around, leaving me in our bedroom, and drops the pizza on the common room table behind him. “Atta boy. You’ve been brooding lately. Thought maybe you were actually studying or something.”
I force a laugh. “Gross.”
I get up, tug on a fresh shirt, and try not to glance back at the phone.
I shove it in my back pocket and grab a slice of pizza. If I’m drinking, I need something other than regret in my stomach.
The guys are already hyping the night as if it’s some kind of epic event; Caleb talking about shots, Ryan planning which bar we hit first. I chew my way through the crust and pretend I’m part of the energy, nodding at all the right moments, smirking and pretending I give a shit.
But the truth is, I feel off.
Too aware of the weight of my phone in my pocket. Too wired. Too empty.
By the time we pile into the Uber, the city’s already buzzing. Neon lights smear across the windshield as we speed toward downtown, and music blares from every open patio and passing car. It should feel like an escape. It should feel fun.
It doesn’t.
Ryan slaps my chest as we hop out. “Let’s get Golden Boy laid tonight!”
I roll my eyes. “Original. And I have a girlfriend.”
“That’s never stopped me,” Caleb replies .
I snort. That’s true. He doesn’t have a faithful bone in his body. But I let them drag me into the noise anyway.
The first bar is loud, sticky with spilled drinks, packed with bodies swaying too close. I slam a shot with Caleb, sip something citrusy and overpriced, let the alcohol smooth the edges off my thoughts.
But it doesn’t numb them.
Because every time I shift, I feel the phone. Every time I check the lock screen— nothing.
No reply. Not even a read receipt. And I don’t know what’s worse—waiting or hoping.
So I down another shot. Let Ryan pull me onto the dance floor. Let some girl with glitter on her cheeks grab my hand and flirt, acting as if it might actually go somewhere. I smile. I nod. I pretend.
Because that’s what I’m good at, right? Pretending.
We’re on our fourth—or maybe fifth—club. Who the hell knows. I stopped counting five drinks and six shots ago.
I stagger out of the Uber, lucky to land on my feet, the sidewalk tilting slightly under me.
That’s when I see him.
Leather jacket. Leaning against the brick wall outside a club with a pulsing neon sign that reads Riot. A guy’s got him boxed in, one hand braced beside his head, mouth fused to Micah’s, clearly attempting to lick the memory of every other man off his tongue. And maybe his tonsils too.
And Micah?
He’s kissing him back. Hungry. Hard. I'm pretty sure they might just fuck right there against the wall. And that’s what makes my stomach drop.
Micah. My ex-best friend. The boy who used to be everything to me. Flushed and beautiful and his hands in someone else’s jacket.
I don’t think. I just move. Toward him.
What exactly am I going to do? I don’t have time to find out because Caleb grabs my arm.
“Colton! Dude, what are you doing? That’s a gay bar. We’re not gonna pick up chicks in there.”
I yank my arm free. Chicks? Right. I’m not gay. I’m straight. With a girlfriend. A perfect girlfriend that I should be thinking about instead of the guy I can’t get out of my fucking head.
“Right,” I say, letting Caleb drag me toward the club next door.
My feet move, but my head’s still back there—outside Riot—where Micah was being kissed and devoured for anyone to see. He wanted it. I should be glad he wasn’t still tangled up in the mess I made. That he's been able to live his life.
We step into another club; louder, hotter, full of strobe lights and girls in high heels with glossy lips and manufactured laughter. It’s everything I’m supposed to want.
Instead, I'm empty.
I grab a drink from the bar without even knowing what it is, down half of it in one pull, and let the burn tear through my throat as if it might scorch the memory of him away.
It doesn’t.
I see Micah everywhere.
In the curve of someone’s smile. The tilt of a guy’s jaw across the room. The way two male dancers grind together without shame.
And it makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
Caleb’s flirting with a girl in a red dress. Ryan’s already dancing with someone, laughing, acting as if he's never worried about a single fucking thing in his life.
And I’m here. Alone. Miserable.
Buzzing with heat I can’t name. Wanting what I can’t have. Watching the door like maybe Micah will walk in by mistake. Or I might walk out and do something reckless.
Again.
I pull out my phone. Check the app.
Still nothing.
The match. The message.
You said you want to burn. Mind if I bring the match?
I can’t tell if he’s read it or not. I stare at the screen until my vision blurs, then shove it back in my pocket.
God, I wish I was drunker.
The Next Morning
The first thing I feel is my skull trying to split in half.
The second is the dried-out cotton tongue in my mouth, like I spent the night licking sandpaper and cheap tequila.
The third? Panic. Because the sun’s already too high, bright behind my eyelids, and my phone is vibrating aggressively from somewhere under my pillow.
I crack one eye open.
Bad idea. The light burns straight through to my soul. I groan and fumble blindly for the phone, knocking it off the bed and nearly following it to the floor.
Finally, I grab it. Squint at the screen.
6 missed calls. 9 unread texts. All from Coach and the group chat.
PRACTICE. FIELD. NOW. WHERE THE FUCK IS GOLDEN BOY?
Shit.
My stomach rolls as I sit up, head pounding hard enough to rattle my teeth. My tongue tastes like shame and stale citrus. I’m still in last night’s jeans, one shoe kicked under the desk, shirt twisted halfway around my torso.
I have no memory of getting home.
But flashes come in pieces.
Flashing lights. Sticky floors. Someone laughing. Someone crying—possibly me. And Micah. Pinned against a wall with someone else’s hands on him. Caleb leaving with the girl in the red dress.
My gut twists as I drag myself upright, shirt clinging to dried sweat and regret. I stagger toward the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and catch my own reflection in the mirror.
Eyes bloodshot. Hair sticking up. Golden Boy, my ass.
I brush my teeth as though it’ll fix anything. Newsflash. It doesn’t.
I grab my gear—half-folded, slightly beer-scented, or maybe that’s just me—and stumble out the door without bothering to check my phone again. Because practice started twenty minutes ago.
And I’m about to show up for it like the walking disaster I am.