Chapter 4
I’ve left my room four times in the last couple of days.
Twice to shower, once for food, once to grab a package from the mailroom.
Each trip was a surgical operation—ear to the door, listen for footsteps, check the hallway, then scurry to the destination and back.
I have successfully avoided running into Trey so far.
The shame is bad enough. But underneath it is this new awareness.
The fact that I’m into a guy. That maybe I’ve always been into guys and never let myself see it.
That all it took was one conversation and a pair of gray boxer briefs to make me question everything I thought I knew about myself.
And I can’t face him, because I’m sure he’ll see it on me, like I’m wearing a sign around my neck that says “I jacked off to you.”
My room is my fortress. I have my desk, my supplies, my blackout curtain.
I’ve been drawing nonstop, and it’s the best work I’ve ever done.
But I’m only drawing him. Page after page.
His hands, the veins on the backs of them.
His jaw, the dark shadow of stubble. Close-ups of his eyes, his mouth.
The sketches are spread across my desk and pinned to the wall above it.
Right now I’m in the middle of the biggest one yet.
It’s on my easel, the only piece I’ve given that treatment.
Trey leaning back in his gaming chair, that half-smile on his face, wearing nothing but those boxer briefs.
I need this one to be perfect. I’m using my best paper, the expensive stuff.
I’ve spent an hour shading his chest alone, trying to nail the muscle definition.
It’s starting to feel less like art and more like an obsession.
An entire wall dedicated to a guy I’ve talked to for fifteen minutes.
A guy I’m now actively hiding from. But it’s my way of processing it, I guess.
My way of being close to him without actually being close to him.
Safe, contained, on paper. I can look at him all I want.
Study him. Trace every line of him with my pencil. And he never has to know.
But I need a shower, bad. My hair is greasy, and I can smell myself. I’ve been in the same clothes for two days. The problem is the communal showers are down the hall, past Trey’s door. I can either wait until 3 AM and hope he’s asleep, or suck it up and go now.
Sucking it up is the mature thing to do. The chances of walking out at the exact same moment as him are slim. I’ll be quick. In and out.
Why am I being like this? A twenty-year-old hiding in his room because he’s afraid of a hallway encounter. It’s pathetic. This is what I get for skipping classes. Too much time in my head with nothing to do but spiral.
I’m going. Right fucking now.
I gather my toiletries and a clean towel, put on my bathrobe and tie it tight. Then I press my ear to the door. Silence.
Surprisingly, I’ve barely heard him the last couple of days. No gaming marathons. No thumping against the wall. He’s either decided to be considerate, or he’s been out. And I know that’s what I wanted, to work in silence, but now that I have it, I miss the noise. It was proof he was there.
I crack the door and peek out. The hallway is empty. I take a breath and step out, flip-flops squeaking on the blue carpet. Trey’s door is closed. I hurry past it, eyes fixed on the bathroom door at the end of the hall. I’m practically speed-walking, my shampoo bottle slipping in my grip.
My hand is on the bathroom handle when I hear a door open behind me. My blood goes cold. I know who it is before I turn around.
“Yo, Nico. Thought I heard you out here.”
I turn. There he is. All six-whatever of him in gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, showing the sharp V-lines that disappear below the waistband.
A tight white T-shirt stretched across his chest and shoulders.
He looks even better than I remembered. I’ve been drawing him for days, but my memory didn’t do him justice.
“Hey,” I manage. My voice cracks.
He squints at me, then a slow grin spreads across his face. “You been hiding from me?”
“What? No.” Too fast. Way too fast. “Why would I?—”
“I’m playing.” He walks toward me, and I have to fight the urge to step back. “For real though, I haven’t heard a peep out of you. You good?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just been busy.”
“With your art?” He stops a few feet from me, close enough that I can smell him. God, he smells good. Sweat dried into cotton, musk, warm skin. I want to bottle it.
“Yeah. With my art.”
“Cool, cool.” He scratches his stomach, and my eyes are drawn to the sliver of skin revealed where his shirt rides up. The trail of dark hair. “You heading to the showers?”
“Yeah.” Obviously. I’m standing here in a bathrobe holding a towel and toiletries.
“Mind if I join you? I could use a rinse.” He lifts an arm and sniffs his own pit. “Yep. Definitely need a rinse.”
Do I mind? The last thing I need is to be in a small, steamy, tiled room with a naked Trey. This is the absolute worst-case scenario.
“Sure,” I say. “I mean, it’s a communal shower.”
“Bet. Let me grab my stuff.”
He disappears back into his room, and I stand there in the hallway with my heart slamming against my ribs. This is not happening. This is a nightmare. Or a fantasy, depending on how I look at it, but a very dangerous one. I’m already half-hard from the smell of him.
I’m so screwed.