LOGINADRIAN'S POV For three weeks, the silence between Adrian and Ryder has been a physical thing, a dense, invisible wall erected in the lecture hall and across the campus. They don't avoid each other with obvious drama; there are no slammed doors or pointed glares. Instead, there is a rigorous, professional politeness that feels colder than ice. Ryder doesn’t look at Adrian with that hungry, heat-heavy gaze that used to strip the professor bare from across the room, and Adrian ensures his eyes slide past the hockey player as if he were just another face in the crowd. It is an unspoken truce, a mutual agreement to pretend the sweat-slicked, frantic encounters never happened. Adrian throws himself into the rhythm of the semester, burying his confusion under piles of grading and faculty meetings. But the campus rumor mill is a relentless beast. Whispers follow Ryder in the hallways—tales of a pregnant girl, a shotgun wedding, a star athlete settling down into domestic life. Adrian he
RYDER'S POV The doorbell chimes echo into the silence of the porch, a sharp sound that cuts through the cool evening air. Ryder stands on the welcome mat, shoulders hunched under the weight of a game lost and a mood soured by something he can’t quite name. He waits, counting the seconds as they drag by. No footsteps. No shout of ‘coming!’. The house remains dark and still. He sighs, the sound rattling in his chest, and turns on his heel, ready to retreat into the night and find solace at the bottom of a bottle somewhere else. The latch clicks. The door swings open before Ryder can take a step. There he is. Adrian. He stands in the doorway, framed by the yellow light of the hallway. He is shirtless, his skin pale and smooth, the definition of his abs catching the shadows in a way that makes Ryder’s mouth go dry. A pair of low-slung sweatpants hangs off his hips, leaving very little to the imagination. Adrian’s lips are pushed out in a full, exaggerated pout, a look of pure ann
RYDER'S POV The scent of cinnamon and burnt sugar clings to the air, a cloying, sweet perfume that signals his mother’s presence long before he sees her. Ryder steps into the foyer, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him, and immediately the aroma wraps around his throat like a chokehold. He doesn’t call out a greeting. He doesn’t pause to kick off his sneakers by the mat. Instead, he grips the strap of his backpack until his knuckles turn white and marches up the stairs, each step a dull thud against the carpet. He reaches his room and twists the lock, the metal latch sliding into place with a sharp snick. Only then does he let the bag slide off his shoulder, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. He toes off his shoes, not bothering to untie the laces, and kicks them into the corner. The silence of his room does nothing to quiet the storm raging in his skull. Bankruptcy. The word tastes like ash. His parents had lost everything, decided to hide the crumbling foundation o
RYDER'S POV He spots them immediately—his parent, standing near the registrar’s desk like they own the institution given his father’s usual business posture, they might as well. Ryder's father Austin wears a sharp, charcoal suit that strains slightly at the shoulders, his posture rigid and commanding. And Ryder's mother Angel draped in a silk blouse that clings to her curves, scans the crowd with eyes that have always seen too much and too little at the same time. Ryder stops a few feet away, his brow furrowing deep enough to cause a headache. He checks his phone again—no missed calls, no texts. Nothing. He shoves the device into his pocket, the leather case smacking against his thigh. "What are you doing here?" Ryder asks, his voice cutting through the ambient noise. He doesn't move to embrace them, his hands remaining clenched at his sides. "Why didn't you call before flying back to the country? You don't just show up." Austin turns slowly, his face a mask of hardened jud
RYDER'S POV The fluorescent lights of the lecture hall hum with a low, headache-inducing buzz, but Adrian ignores it, his focus entirely on the whiteboard behind him. He writes a passage from The Picture of Dorian Gray, the squeak of the marker against the board the only sound in the room for a moment. He keeps his eyes strictly on the text, refusing to scan the rows of seats, refusing to let his gaze drift to the back corner where he knows Ryder sits. The air in the room feels heavy, thick with the scent of old paper and the faint, lingering smell of Ryder’s cologne that Adrian swears he can still detect from across the room. He turns to face the class, smoothing down the front of his tweed jacket. His posture is rigid, a forced composure that disguises the sharp, throbbing ache radiating from his ass. Every slight shift of his weight sends a jolt of sensation through him—a raw reminder of the night before. He can still feel the phantom stretch of Ryder’s thick cock, the relentl
ADRIAN'S POV Brutal, unfiltered morning light slices through the gap in the blinds, striking Adrian’s face with the force of a physical blow. He groans, a low, guttural sound dragging from his throat, and brings a hand up to rub the sleep from his eyes. His head throbs, a dull, rhythmic pounding that matches the ache settling deep in his bones. He tries to shift, to roll away from the sun assaulting his eyelids, but his body refuses to cooperate. A heavy weight pins him to the mattress—an arm draped possessively over his chest, a muscular leg entangled with his own. The events of the previous night crash down on him, not as a vague fog, but as a vivid, high-definition replay. The scent of stale sweat, musky cologne, and the distinct, coppery tang of sex hangs heavy in the air. Adrian freezes, his breath catching in his throat. He knows exactly whose arm this is. He knows exactly whose leg is trapping him. Ryder. His student. The star hockey player. Adrian turns his head slowly
ADRIAN'S POV Adrian stands at the edge of the mattress, his fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. The request hangs in the air between them, heavy and charged. Ryder wants him to bottom. The thought sends a jolt of panic through Adrian’s chest, tightening his throat. He has never let
RYDER'S POV Ryder stands frozen in the center of his mansion his eyes locked onto the man standing near the door. The air between them feels heavy, charged with a static that makes the hair on Ryder’s arms stand up. In his mind, the silence breaks, not by the awkward hum of the refrigerator, b
RYDER'S POV Ryder moves through the living room like a man possessed, his hands fluttering over the marble surfaces of the side tables. He grabs a coaster, wipes an invisible speck of dust with the hem of his shirt, and sets it back down at a precise ninety-degree angle. The silence of the mansi
ADRIAN'S POV The digital shriek of the alarm cuts through the silence, a jagged noise that drags Adrian from the depths of sleep. His hand slams out, palm connecting with the snooze button with a force that sends a dull throb up his arm. He lies there for a moment, rubbing the grit from his ey







