Chapter Two

Cole’s POV

Three Days Before the FestivalIf I weren’t so critical — so allergic to superstition — I might believe the universe sends warnings before a bad day. Today would have qualified.

I set my alarm two hours late. Missed my own conference slot — the one where I was the guest speaker. Skipped coffee. And then, as if the day required symbolism, someone spilled theirs directly down the front of my shirt.There was no time to change.

I delivered a presentation on computational modeling in a plain black T-shirt. Unprofessional. Unforgivable. At least I knew the material. Logic survives embarrassment.

The day should have ended there. It didn’t.After finally hitting Master in League of Legends last night, I dropped back to Diamond in a single afternoon — bad rotations, worse teammates, zero macro awareness.

When the word Diamond flashed across my screen, I slammed my palm against the café table. Not hard enough to draw attention. Just enough to release pressure. A quiet breath left me.

Adrenaline is information, not instruction.

I checked the clock mounted above the espresso machine. 3:07 p.m. I gathered my laptop and charger. The day had already extracted enough from me. My phone rang just as I stepped outside.Ethan. My project partner. There was urgency in his voice.

“Can you meet me in the lab? It’s important.”

Important meant code. And if he’d corrupted our build after two weeks of work, I might actually lose my composure.“

I’m coming.”---The lab was nearly empty. He was the only one there.

“You’re here,” he said softly as I approached.

“What’s the problem?” I asked, already setting my bag down.He stood as I took the chair and pulled up the code. I scanned it once. Twice. There was no error. My stomach tightened.

“Okay. What’s this?” I asked, eyes still on the screen. “There is nothing wrong with the code."

“I never said there was. That’s not why I called you.”

“What else could it be?” Then, my first mistake. Looking up. His lips met mine before my brain finished processing the movement. For exactly one second, I didn’t react. Not because I wanted to. Because I was calculating. Unexpected contact. No consent. Male. Stop.

My chair scraped sharply against the tile as I pushed back. I placed my palm against his shoulder — firm, controlled — and created space. I stood. “What are you doing?” My voice came out level. Not loud. Not shaken. But my pulse had spiked.

He looked nervous. And hopeful. That combination irritated me more than the act itself.“That wasn’t okay,” I said clearly. “You don’t kiss someone without asking.”He swallowed.

“I just— I like you, Cole.”

“I’m straight.” The words came steady. Not defensive. Declarative.

“And I’m not interested.”

He stepped forward again — not to kiss, but reaching. I stepped back. Distance matters.

“Stop.” Firmer this time. He froze.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t think—”

“No. You didn’t.”

Silence filled the lab. Machines humming. Fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. I became aware of my breathing. Controlled. But not unaffected. I adjusted my sleeve — unnecessary movement, grounding habit.

“If you continue,” I added calmly, “I’ll report it.”

Not a threat. A boundary. He hesitated. I picked up my bag.

“We’re here to work. If that’s no longer possible, we’ll request partner reassignment.”

I held his gaze. Steady.

“This doesn’t need to be messy. But it does need to stop. Attraction isn’t offensive. Acting without consent is.”

And then I left. I didn’t look back. But in the hallway, I wiped my mouth once. Reflex. I told myself it meant nothing. Strategic. Temporary disruption.

Still— The hesitation before I pushed him away lingered longer than it should have.

---Night of the Festival

The next two days blurred. I stayed home. Played. Climbed back toward Master. Gaming was clean. Predictable. Outcomes tied to skill and calculation.

Tyler’s call interrupted mid-match.

“Hey, man,” he said — too cheerful.

“What.”

“Why are you like this?”

“Why are you calling?” He sighed.

“I forgot my costume at home. I need you to bring it.”

“No.” Silence.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m busy.”

“With what?”

“Gaming."

“You cannot be serious.”

“I am.”

“Weren’t you coming to watch my final act?”

“I was.” I started, then paused. “I am.”

“Bring. The. Costume.”

“Whatever.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“No wonder we’re twins.”

He hung up first. I stared at my screen. We were going to lose that match anyway. I shut it down and showered.

Campus felt different that night. Too loud. Too bright. Food oil thick in the air. Cheap perfume layered over sugar and sweat. Bass vibrating through concrete. I dislike inefficiency. But there was structure in the chaos. A system beneath the disorder.

Backstage was worse. Organized panic. Half-dressed performers. Scattered props. Controlled hysteria. And then— Stillness.

Everyone watching. A girl stood at the center of it. Fiery auburn hair catching the stage lights. Commanding. Furious. Beautiful in a way that felt deliberate. I would have kept walking. But she looked at me. Directly.

Her eyes — blue, sharp, calculating — held mine. Assessing. Like she’d made a decision. She walked toward me. Fast. Purposeful. I only had enough time to think, This is inefficient.

And then she kissed me. Soft. Intentional. Public. What exactly is going on here? Did I miss the part where I became a theatre kid? My brain lagged a half-second behind the moment. Then— Instinct. I kissed her back.

Not deeply. But enough to feel something. Someone behind us muttered, “Holy—” She pulled away. Her breathing had shifted. So had mine. Up close, I could see it. Not confidence. Not triumph. Something closer to damage control.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Loud enough for only me to hear. And then she walked away. I stood there longer than I should have. Stunned. Processing. Slightly irritated being used as a prop.

Tyler appeared, laughing.

“What did I just witness?”

I shoved the costume bag into his chest and walked toward the audience seating without answering. Because I didn’t have one.

She opened the show. The same girl. Different energy. On stage, she was incandescent. Controlled chaos. And for reasons I couldn’t logically categorize, I found myself watching her more than the performance itself.

My phone buzzed. Once. Then again. Then again. I frowned. I wasn’t someone who received notifications in waves. I opened the app. My name. Tagged. Repeated. Trending. An anonymous account. My jaw tightened. I tapped the post. The image loaded slowly.

Fluorescent lab lights. A blurred figure angled toward me. A hand gripping my coat. And my face. Clear. Undeniable. Eyes closed. Mouth pressed to another man’s. The other face cropped clean out of frame.Only me. Only my expression.

The caption read: “Guess your golden boy isn’t so straight after all.” Comments were multiplying by the second. Speculation. Mockery. Curiosity. My pulse climbed again. Not because of what they thought. Because of the framing.

Someone chose that angle. Someone removed the other face. Someone wanted this to be my narrative. Isolated. Exposed.

And for the first time that night— I wasn’t thinking about damage control. I was thinking about motive.

And who stood to benefit from me standing alone in that picture.