LOGINADRIAN'S POV The space between Ryder and Adrian is charged, heavy with the kind of static that raises the hair on the back of the neck. They stand inches apart, close enough that the heat radiating from their bodies blurs into a single, suffocating source. Ryder’s breath fans against Adrian’s mouth, warm and uneven, smelling faintly of mint and the lingering trace of adrenaline. Adrian’s heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that makes his chest ache. He stares into Ryder’s eyes, searching for a lie, but finds only a chaotic swirl of longing, desperation, and a crushing guilt that doesn’t belong to a crime he committed. The silence stretches, taut and vibrating. The air in the hallway feels thick, stolen. It would be so easy to close that gap, to press their lips together and drown out the noise of the party downstairs in the taste of each other. The forbidden attraction hums beneath their skin, a magnetic pull that makes Adrian’s knees weak and his cock twitch trait
ADRIAN'S POV The dining table hums with the clinking of silverware against fine china, a rhythmic underscore to the polite conversation flowing. Mr. Knight sits at the head of the table, carving a roast with precise, practiced movements, while Mrs. Knight leans forward, her eyes bright with curiosity as she leads the discussion. Drake sits beside Adrian, his posture relaxed and open, radiating a charm that fills the room. Across the table, Ryder sits in shadow, barely touching his food. His attention is fixed entirely on Adrian. Adrian keeps his eyes on his plate, cutting his meat into smaller and smaller pieces, though he has no intention of eating them. Every time he cautiously lifts his gaze, he finds Ryder already watching him. The eye contact is intense, a physical weight that presses against Adrian’s chest, making it harder to breathe. Ryder doesn't blink, doesn't look away, his dark eyes stripping away the layers of Adrian’s composure. "So, Drake," Mrs. Knight says, br
RYDER'S POV The metallic clatter of skate blades cutting through ice gives way to the dull, rhythmic thud of hockey gear hitting the floor as the team floods toward the locker room. Laughter echoes off the high rafters, a chaotic mix of bragging about plays and complaints about fatigue, but Ryder hangs back. He watches them go, the energy of the room feeling distant, like static on a radio he can’t quite tune out. "Ryder. Hold up." Coach Muller’s voice cuts through the ambient noise, sharp and commanding. Ryder stops, his hand hovering over the latch of the bench door. He turns slowly, his legs feeling heavy, leaden weights dragging against the friction of the ice. He glides over to where the coach stands near the center line, clipboard tucked under one arm, his expression unreadable behind the wire-rimmed glasses. "You're staying back?" Ryder asks, trying to keep his voice even, though his throat is dry. Muller doesn't answer immediately. He studies Ryder, his eyes narro
RYDER'S POV Maya bounces up to Ryder, her bright smile lighting up her face with a calculated, practiced radiance. She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him down with a sudden, jarring force, and plants a kiss squarely on his lips. Her mouth is soft, tasting of artificial strawberry gloss, but the contact feels invasive, like a violation of the air he breathes. Ryder doesn’t push her away. He stands there, his body rigid, a statue trapped in a moment he despises, and kisses her back. It’s a mechanical motion, lips moving without passion, his eyes still locked on Adrian over Maya’s shoulder. Adrian stands frozen a few yards away. The shock hits him like a physical blow to the solar plexus, stunning him silent, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He watches for a second longer, his heart shattering in his chest with a soundless, violent crack. He sees the way Ryder’s hands hover at Maya’s waist, not pulling her close but not letting go either. The image burns into Adrian’s
ADRIAN'S POV . "So... is what you were said to William true?" Adrian’s spine snaps straight. The architect’s shirt is unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of chest hair, and his eyes are fixed on Adrian with an intensity that makes his skin prickle. "I... how long have you been standing there?" Adrian stammers, his voice tight. He feels the blood drain from his face, certain that Drake must have overheard the part where he confessed something equally damning. Drake lets out a low, rich chuckle that vibrates in the space between them. He pushes off the doorframe and walks closer. "Long enough to see you panic," Drake says, a smirk playing on his lips. "But I wasn't asking about that. William mentioned you used to be exceptionally skilled at historical restoration. Structural analysis, masonry preservation, the works. He insisted you were the only person who could help with the project I’m working on." Adrian lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, his shoul
ADRIAN'S POV The heavy thud of the final suitcase landing in the trunk echoes through the parking garage, a stark punctuation mark to the silence stretching between them. Adrian stares at the closed lid of the car, his fingers gripping the cold metal edge until the knuckles turn white. The reality of the situation sits heavy in his gut, a dense, twisting knot that makes it hard to draw a full breath. He wipes a sheen of sweat from his forehead, the humidity of the afternoon clinging to his skin like a second layer. Beside him, Drake moves with an easy, fluid grace, slamming the trunk shut with a casual confidence that makes Adrian’s chest tighten. Adrian slides into the driver’s seat, the leather creaking under his weight, and Drake hurriedly scrambles into the passenger side. The air inside the car is cool, conditioned, but it does nothing to lower the temperature rising in Adrian’s cheeks. As Adrian merges into traffic, one hand draped lazily over the steering wheel, the othe
RYDER'S POV The sharp scent of Zamboni polish and sweat hangs heavy in the cold air of the rink, a stench that Ryder Knight usually breathes in like oxygen. Today, it tastes like ash. His skates carve hard into the ice, sending a spray of white shavings into the air as he dekes around a defender
**************** The cacophony of the Blackwood College hallway bled through the heavy oak door—a chaotic symphony of slamming lockers, shrill laughter, and the distinctive squeak of sneakers on linoleum. Inside the office, the air was stagnant, heavy with the scent of old paper. Adrian Vale sat r
RYDER'S POV The corridor stretches out before Ryder, a long, polished expanse of linoleum reflecting the fluorescent buzz from overhead. He walks with a loose, rhythmic gait, the kind of stride that comes from years of dominating the ice, his hockey-honed thighs rubbing together against the roug
RYDER'S POV The silence in the lecture hall is thick enough to choke on, heavy with the dust of chalk and the collective held breath of fifty students. The question—Are you gay?—hangs in the air like smoke, curling around the fluorescent lights. It isn't a whisper. Adrian grips the edges of







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