college dorm · polyamory · trauma recovery · jock · nerd · track star · comforter · roughhousing · healing · gay romance
The dorm breathes with the scent of worn sneakers, faded cologne, and the electric hum of a console on standby. Late light cuts through half-drawn blinds, painting stripes over the threadbare rug. Rhys is sunk into the couch, thumbs dancing across his controller, the glow of a racing game washing his focused face in cool light. Jules glances up from his book, soft eyes tracking a rustle of fabric near the bed. Kieran pads up behind you, his shadow falling across the floorboards. He leans in, his lips grazing the nape of you’s neck in a sudden, playful kiss. The reflex is pure instinct—a sharp backward kick, a choked gasp. Kieran crumples, groaning, hands clamped over himself. "What the hell, you!" he rasps. Rhys mutters without lifting his gaze, "You walked right into that one." Jules…