8. Micah
EIGHT
MICAH
By the time I get to Luke’s dorm, the door’s already open, and the smell of popcorn hits me. Not the microwave kind either—real glass container popper set up on his desk, burned slightly and over-salted like someone got cocky.
Luke is flopped on a beanbag in front of the TV, two controllers in his lap and a third wedged under his arm. His hair’s even curlier than usual, probably from the humidity or from flailing too hard during setup. Will and Ty are already arguing over whose turn it is to be Yoshi.
“Micah!” Luke shouts like he hasn’t seen me in years. “Thank god. Will’s about to commit a felony over Rainbow Road .”
“You picked Princess Peach again,” Will mutters. “And he’s planning on picking Waluigi.”
I raise a hand in surrender. “I can switch.”
“No, no,” Luke says, shoving a controller at me. “We support chaos in this dorm room.”
We settle in—me cross-legged on the floor next to Luke, and him half-lounging against my shoulder from his bean bag as if it’s a headrest. Ty snacks out of the popcorn bowl, throwing a kernel at Will.
They bicker for a minute, and then the match starts, music blaring, and it’s mayhem from the first lap.
“Micah, I swear to God,” Will yells as I pass him. “If you drop one more banana?—”
“You’re just mad I’ve got better peel placement.”
“ He said what he said, ” Luke cackles, steering directly off the map with absolutely no remorse.
Somewhere around the fifth round, Ty turns down the volume and tosses a half-eaten granola bar at Luke’s head. “Pause. I need a sugar break or I’ll crash harder than your driving.”
“Rude,” Luke says, catching the bar one-handed. “Micah, tell them I’m a national treasure.”
“You’re a public safety hazard.”
“Same thing.”
It’s dumb. It’s loud. It’s easy.
And somewhere between the shouting and the name-calling and Luke fake-crying after a blue shell, I realize—I’m not an outsider anymore.
I feel in it.
Really, in it.
Later, when the others drift out and the room quiets, it’s just me and Luke. We’re still sitting side by side on the floor, backs against the bed. The TV’s glowing softly, stuck on the tournament ranking screen.
“You good?” he asks quietly, head tilted toward me.
I nod. “Yeah. I think I am.”
Luke bumps my shoulder with his. “Good. ‘Cause we’ve officially claimed you. No returns.”
I snort. “What if I suck?”
“Then we’ll train you,” he says simply, and yawns. “But for the record, you’re pretty damn good. At Mario Kart and not being a total dick.”
I smile—small, but real. “Thanks.”
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Anytime, Micah.”
Later that night, I’m stretched out on my bed, one arm behind my head, the other lazily scrolling through my phone. The ceiling fan clicks rhythmically overhead, and the campus lighting streams through the blinds in stripes across my chest.
It’s been a chill day. I made some friends.
I haven’t thought about Colton since this morning.
Much. Until now.
The app pings.
New message.
GoldenSpiral23.
I open it without hesitation.
GoldenSpiral23: Still thinking about you. Is that normal?
I raise an eyebrow, a smile creeping across my face.
Guess someone’s done pretending he’s too busy now.
I tap back, slow and easy, letting the sarcasm drip from the words I type.
Me: Thought you had “stuff” tonight?
Three dots appear. Then vanish. Then reappear again. I toss my phone onto my chest, waiting. Because whatever he says next? He’s already playing my game now. And I'm in the mood for a distraction.
I smirk, already half-expecting some bullshit excuse. Something cocky to deflect.
But then the message comes across.
GoldenSpiral23: Yeah… I lied.
Didn’t have plans. I just chickened out. Not great at this.
I’m… shy, I guess.
I blink. Huh. Wasn’t expecting that. I sit up a little, phone resting in my palm, rereading the message. He could’ve kept the game going. Played it off. Deflected.
Instead, he gave me…that?
A confession. Small. Honest. Unnecessary. It’s either calculated as hell—or real.
Either way, it gets under my skin. And it definitely gets my attention. I grin slowly and start typing.
Me: Shy, huh? That why you were so cocky earlier? Overcompensating? *side eye emoji*
I watch the screen. Wait for the dots. Because now I want to see what happens when I press. And pressing is what I do best.
A pause.
Then the dots return.
GoldenSpiral23: Maybe. Or maybe I’m just better at talking dirty than making the first move.
Oh ?
I shift slightly, heat curling low in my stomach.
Me: Sounds like someone wants to be told what to do.
GoldenSpiral23: Depends. You offering?
God, he’s fun.
Bold in all the wrong ways. Careful, but cracking. And the more he opens up, the more I want to pull. So I push.
Me: I don’t waste time on ghosts. Show me I’m not getting catfished.
GoldenSpiral23: What kind of proof are we talking?
Me: Chest pic. Shirt off.
I want a piece of paper with the date on it. Just so I know you’re real and not some bored, middle-aged dude in Idaho.
GoldenSpiral23: You want it now?
Me: Unless you need time to hit the gym first. Or shave.
I toss the phone onto my stomach, smirking at the ceiling. If he sends it? This just got interesting. If he doesn’t? I’ll know exactly what kind of game this is.
I pick my phone back up and scroll through a few apps while I wait, pretending I’m not watching the screen.
Then—ping.
New image.
No message, just a photo .
I tap it open.
And fuck .
Shirtless. Bathroom mirror. Good lighting. Clean chest, with a blonde happy trail disappearing beneath his shorts, broad shoulders, a light dusting of sweat as though he just finished working out or barely dried off after a shower.
A folded piece of paper held between two fingers, sharpie scrawled with the date and time.
And no face.
But the body?
Damn.
I drag my teeth across my bottom lip, phone cradled in one hand as the other slides down my abs beneath the waistband of my sweats. My cock’s already half-mast just from the picture.
Lazy strokes. Slow. Teasing.
Because why not?
Me: Well damn, shy boy. You’ve got nothing to be nervous about.
Three dots. Then a pause. Then:
GoldenSpiral23: You like?
Me: Oh, I more than like. Got anything lower?
My hand tightens. I’m not even pretending this is innocent anymore.
It is a hookup app; dick pics are normal.
Not that I normally send them or ask for them.
There’s something about a guy that seems like he might still be figuring shit out that makes me want to see more.
I might have a type. Emotionally unavailable because they still live in the fucking closet.
I picture him—nervous behind the camera, flushed, maybe hard already, debating how far to go.
God, I hope he’s hard already.
Me: Shirt’s gone. Let’s see what else you’re hiding.
I grin, slow and dark, thumb gliding lazily over the pre-cum gathering at my slit as I wait.
Because shy boys? They’re always the ones who break the hardest. And I want to be the one who makes him snap. I blink at the screen.
GoldenSpiral23: Not to kill the mood or anything, but...You are a real person, right? Like... not secretly someone’s dad messing with me?
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. Oh, baby boy’s nervous. Probably flushed. Probably regretting sending that chest pic already.
I stretch one arm above my head and glance at my side reflection in the window. Messy curls, still damp from my third shower of the day. Chest bare, except for the tats snaking along my left side. Sweatpants slung low. Hard as a fucking rock and tenting my sweats.
I look like trouble. And that’s the exact energy I want to send back.
GoldenSpiral23: Just. You know. Maybe a quick pic back? Chest + date + time = proof you’re not catfishing me from a golf course?
A golf course?
I’m still grinning as I tug open my drawer, grab a sticky note, and scribble the date and time across it in sharp, jagged print. I hold it to my chest, snap a quick pic—no filter, all confidence—and attach it.
Click. Send.
Then I add:
Me: Real enough for you, sweetheart?
I watch the “delivered” mark appear and lean back against the pillows, lazy satisfaction curling through me.
He asked for proof. Let’s see how much further he wants to go.