ログインRYDER'S POV The grey light of dawn barely filters through the blinds when Ryder’s eyes snap open. He doesn’t need an alarm; the adrenaline pumping through his veins is more potent than any caffeine. He stares at the ceiling for a heartbeat, a grin stretching across his face before he even fully processes the thought. He’s going to see Adrian today. Actually see him, on a real date. The realization hits him in the chest, a giddy, warm weight that makes him want to kick his legs like a teenager. He throws off the covers, moving with a stealth that contradicts his usual clumsy energy. The house is silent, a tomb of early morning stillness. Drake and his parents are still asleep. Ryder grabs his duffel bag from the corner, shoving his gear inside with practiced efficiency—skates, pads, jersey. He needs to get to College, needs to burn off this excess energy on the ice before tonight, or he’s going to vibrate right out of his skin. Slipping out the front door, the cool morning air
RYDER'S POV The hum of the engine is the only sound filling the cabin, a low, steady vibration that Adrian feels through the floorboards and the steering wheel. Outside, the streetlights blur into streaks of amber and white, illuminating the interior in rhythmic flashes. Ryder sits in the passenger seat, his body turned slightly toward Adrian, one hand resting comfortably on Adrian’s thigh where the denim of his jeans is worn thin. The weight of it is grounding, a tether keeping Adrian anchored in the aftermath of the cliff. "Okay, but you have to admit," Ryder says, his fingers tapping a light rhythm against Adrian’s leg, "the way that cat looked at the vacuum cleaner like it owed it child support was pure cinematic gold." Adrian glances over, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite his best efforts to maintain a serious expression. He shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. "It was a vacuum, Ryder. It wasn't sentient." "That’s what you think," Ryder
ADRIAN'S POV The leather of the steering wheel feels slick and cold under Adrian’s palms, his knuckles white as he grips it tight enough to strain the tendons in his wrists. The silence inside the car is thick, suffocating, heavier than the humid air pressing against the windows. He glances at the clock on the dashboard, then at the road ahead, which is rapidly losing its streetlights and giving way to dense, shadowed tree lines. "Just tell me where this place is again," Adrian says, his voice tight, clipped. He taps the brake as a deer darts across the road, the red taillights flaring in the darkness. "Your mother said you needed those hypoallergenic pillows from the store downtown. We’ve been driving for twenty minutes, Ryder. We should have hit the city limits ten minutes ago." Ryder sits in the passenger seat, legs sprawled out, looking entirely too relaxed for someone whose mother is supposedly waiting on bedding supplies. He turns his head, the passing streetlights casti
ADRIAN'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 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
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







