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CHAPTER ONE: LENNOX

I hit save on the essay, stared at the blinking cursor, and let my forehead drop to the edge of the keyboard in defeat. The keys clacked under the weight of my skull like they were applauding my descent into academic mediocrity. One paragraph left and nothing left in my brain but static.

The bathroom door creaked open behind me.

A wave of steam rolled into the dorm room, along with Rhett, who looked like he’d just wrestled the shower to a draw.

His skin was pink and raw, drops of water trickling down his body.

He wore nothing but a pair of black gym shorts that hung low on his hips, and the scowl he was sporting could’ve soured milk.

“Your turn,” he grumbled, grabbing his phone off his bed like it had personally wronged him.

I turned in my chair, still half-slumped. “Thanks for leaving me the last three molecules of hot water.”

He shot me a contemptuous look. “You get what you get.”

Classic Rhett. Always three seconds from throwing hands, but never with me. We’d lived together since freshman year and had settled into a rhythm that worked—he grunted and glowered, I smiled and made tea. Balance.

“Did you finish the psychology essay?” I asked, mostly because misery loves company.

Rhett squinted at me, then dropped back onto his bed like his muscles were over it. “What essay?”

“The one due tomorrow at nine.”

He groaned into the pillow, then turned his head toward me, face half-smashed and expression bleak. “God. I thought that was next week.”

“You going to write it?”

“Hell no. I’ve got enough points to pass.”

I laughed, because of course he did. Rhett was one of those guys who never looked like he was trying, but always landed just shy of failing, by design. It was his brand. Casual chaos.

He stretched, long arms folding behind his head, and I caught myself looking, just for a second.

His chest was damp, flushed from the heat of the shower, and the water droplets on his collarbones shimmered in the low dorm light.

He had that hockey build, a testament to the countless hours spent between the rink and the gym.

And the scowl he wore like a second skin pulled something deep and weird out of me.

I blinked, turned back to my laptop, and pretended I hadn’t noticed anything.

What the hell was that? I wondered.

It wasn’t an attraction. Not really. It was one of those moments where someone looked a little too good for a second, and your brain short-circuited. A glitch in the matrix. A hot flash of “maybe,” followed immediately by a wave of “no, no, no.”

Still, I couldn’t help the thought. Why do I react like that to a scowl?

Was something wrong with me?

No. Not wrong. Just…a little messed up in a way I was used to by now.

I knew where that line was. Rhett was too close, too familiar, too quietly queer in the same unspoken way I was.

We’d never talked about it. We never needed to.

It hung between us like an agreement carved into stone: We could, but we won’t .

I liked our friendship too much to touch it. And I think, deep down, he did too.

I typed another line of my essay, letting the sound of his playlist fill the silence. Something moody and low-fi. Something that matched the smell of eucalyptus shampoo still hanging in the air.

One day, maybe, I’d stop staring at hard abs and bad attitudes like they were invitations. One day, I’d have something real enough to anchor me.

But tonight wasn’t that night.

“Hey,” Rhett said suddenly. “If you go down to the laundry room, can you grab my stuff from the dryer? I’ll owe you a protein bar.”

I smirked. “Make it two, and I won’t fold your underwear wrong on purpose.”

“Deal.”

And just like that, we were back to normal. Whatever static I’d felt was gone, replaced by the easy, familiar rhythm of a friendship built on convenience and earned loyalty.

It wasn’t Rhett I lusted after. In fact, the very idea of Rhett like that made me wrinkle my nose.

He was too much like family in all the important ways.

Rhett just happened to look a little like my type.

Impatient, sometimes cold, rocking an aesthetic body, and seething with misplaced anger and passion underneath the surface.

Besides, I had plenty of similar guys to call up for some fun.

When it came to worshiping a toned body or getting a scowl from high above while kneeling for his pleasure, I was well covered.

And more than covered, I had a whole list of passing crushes to test out and see if they could lead anywhere.

Rhett rolled onto his side, propped up on one elbow, and scrolled absently through his phone. “You heading out Thursday morning?”

“Yeah,” I said, glancing at the corner of my screen. 12:17 AM. “Driving.”

“Driving?” He blinked like I’d told him I was going to ice skate home backwards. “To Nebraska?”

I grinned. “Yup.”

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I like a little peace and freedom before I’m neck-deep in holiday small talk and roast beef politics.”

He snorted. “I forgot your parents do the whole ‘heritage dinner’ with speeches and coordinated sweaters.”

“Don’t forget the ice sculpture centerpiece. One year it was a swan. Last year, a puck with my face in it.”

Rhett grimaced. “Nightmare fuel.”

I leaned back in my chair, arms stretching over my head until my spine cracked. “Anyway, I forgot to book a flight, prices skyrocketed, and the forecast’s a mess, so car rental it is. I leave early. Real early. Like ‘still dark outside’ early.”

“You’ve lost your damn mind,” Rhett muttered, tossing his phone to the side and burrowing into his pillow. “Hope your deathmobile has chains and snow mode.”

“It’s a four-wheel drive.” I grinned again, because it was going to be a long-ass drive, but there was something about taking the wheel and setting the pace that felt right.

No TSA. No lines. Just me, my playlist, a coffee thermos, and the open road, even if that road was half-frozen and covered in god knows how many feet of snow by the time I hit the western part of the state.

I was looking forward to it.

“It’s not so bad,” I added. “Nine hours if I don’t stop too much. Eight if I pretend speed limits are more like suggestions.”

“Your corpse better not be on the news,” Rhett mumbled into the blanket.

“If I die, delete my browser history and tell my mom I died a noble death.”

“Your mom’s not gonna believe that. She knows you too well.”

“Fair.”

The truth was, I liked the stretch of highway between Chicago and the little town of Hastings, Nebraska.

It gave me time to think, to shed the layers of Westmont and glide back into the familiar boredom of suburbia.

I could listen to sad music and pretend it meant something, maybe stop at the same grimy gas station in Iowa where I always picked up sour gummy worms and regret.

“I might hit some snow on the last leg,” I said, more to myself than to Rhett. “But I’ve driven worse.”

“You’re a jock with confidence issues and a god complex. You think you’re invincible.”

I chuckled. “And yet, you trust me to do your laundry.”

He lifted a single finger in salute without opening his eyes. “Not trust. Desperation.”

I let the silence settle again. Rhett’s playlist had shifted into a sleepy synth ballad with vocals that sounded like someone singing through a dream.

My essay still wasn’t finished. But my mind had already wandered forward—to the open road, the sound of tires on slush, and the quiet thought that, maybe, something unexpected could happen this time.

It was a ridiculous thing to get me excited.

It was just a possibility. An old acquaintance asked if I was driving home this winter and, if I was, could there be room for a passenger.

I knew who she meant. Lena was hardly a friend, but we’d known each other for years.

You simply couldn’t not know someone in Hastings.

Especially when that someone had an older brother who’d attracted all the attention at the local swimming pool.

Not that he’d done it to flaunt his skill and good looks—or at least I didn’t think so—but because he was freaking majestic.

I’d never seen anyone swim as gracefully as Oliver.

Even now, I could picture it with embarrassing clarity, him slicing through the water at the Hastings public pool like he belonged in some kind of cinematic montage.

All long limbs, sculpted shoulders, and that terrifying, focused calm.

Everyone used to gawk, whisper, and stare.

Me included. The water clung to him like it wanted to be close.

He never even looked like he was trying.

There were days I lingered longer than I needed to, pretending I was still drying off or searching for a towel that didn’t exist, just so I could sneak one more glance as he hit the wall and turned.

I don’t think he ever noticed me. Not then.

Maybe once, our eyes met briefly, hazily.

And I remembered blinking away the contact so fast it stung.

I hadn’t come out to myself yet, much less anyone else.

We were eighteen. It was that hot, sticky summer before college. He was already committed to swim for Westmont. I was headed here too, for hockey, but we’d never spoken about it. We didn’t speak at all.

And I sure as hell didn’t flirt. I didn’t even breathe when he was around.

Two and a half years later, we’d shared a campus, and it was like he lived on a different planet.

I saw him a handful of times. At the dining hall, walking out of the recreational center, once coming out of the aquatic center with water still dripping from his hair, earbuds in, jaw tight, eyes locked on the pavement like he was at war with it.

He never looked around, and he never noticed me. Or if he did, he gave no indication.

Not that I expected anything else.