CHAPTER 1: THE STRAIGHT GUY ROUTINE

POV: Callum Miller

The bass vibrated through the floorboards, rattling the red solo cups stacked on the kitchen counter. Sticky beer drenched the air, mixed with cheap perfume and sweat. I leaned my lower back against the edge of the kitchen island, folding my arms across my chest and forcing a tight, easy smile onto my face.

“I’m telling you, man, she was looking right at you,” a guy from my frat-adjacent dorm muttered, elbowing me in the ribs and gesturing toward a blonde near the keg. “Go get her snap. What are you waiting for?”

“I’m good,” I said smoothly, my voice calm, casual, practiced. “Not really my vibe tonight.”

“Not your vibe? Bro, you’ve turned down three girls since we got here. Are you living in a monastery or something?” He laughed, taking a long swig from his cup. “You gotta live a little, Miller.”

“Just focused on classes,” I lied, letting out a short chuckle to keep it light. “My dad’s breathing down my neck about my GPA. You know how he is.”

“Right, the military hardass,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “Glad my old man isn't busting my balls every weekend.”

I kept the smile glued to my lips, nodding in fake agreement until he drifted off toward the living room crowd. As soon as his back was turned, the smile vanished. My face felt raw, tight from hours of holding up the front.

Every weekend was the same routine. Show up. Stand around. Act indifferent toward women while making sure I acted just interested enough to avoid suspicion. Laugh at the right jokes. Make mildly dismissive, uncomfortable remarks whenever the guys made crude jokes about queer hookup culture. Put on the mask of Harlan Miller’s dutiful, straight-laced son.

I shoved my hands into the pockets of my dark denim jeans, my thumb brushing against the smooth glass of my phone screen. I felt completely suffocated.

Twenty minutes later, I made my quiet exit, slipping out the back door and walking the four blocks back to the estate.

The Miller house sat isolated on a dark, quiet street, surrounded by manicured lawns and high wooden fencing. It looked like a fortress, and in many ways, it was. I unlocked the front door as silently as possible, turning the knob inch by inch.

“Callum?”

My dad’s stern, gravelly voice cut through the dark foyer from his home office.

I froze, locking my posture instantly before stepping into the doorway. Harlan sat behind his massive mahogany desk, a stack of security reports illuminated under a single brass lamp. His short, graying hair was clipped in his usual military style, his shoulders squared even while seated.

“Hey, Dad,” I said, keeping my tone steady. “Just got back.”

Harlan lifted his dark eyes, inspecting me from head to toe in two sharp seconds. “You’re late. It’s past eleven. Did you finish those tactical reading assignments for your criminal justice seminar?”

“Yeah. Finished them before I went out.”

Harlan’s jaw tightened. He set his pen down with a quiet, deliberate click. “You’re spending too much time wandering around campus parties, Callum. You need focus. You need discipline. When I was nineteen, I was already commanding squads in high-pressure drills. You carry yourself like you’re waiting for permission to exist.”

The words stung, the familiar cold prickle of shame rising in my throat. I lowered my eyes to the floorboards. “I’m trying, Dad.”

“Don't try. Execute,” Harlan grunted, gesturing toward the stairs with a curt flick of his hand. “Go to bed. I want you up early tomorrow. We’re doing a six-mile ruck before breakfast.”

“Yes, Dad. Night.”

I turned on my heel and walked upstairs, my heart heavy, my boots making no sound against the carpeted hallway. I ducked into my room, clicked the door shut, and turned the lock until it snapped into place.

Finally alone.

I let out a long, shuddering breath, slumping against the wooden door. The heavy silence of my room wrapped around me, cold and unforgiving. I walked over to the full-length mirror mounted on the closet door and stared at my reflection.

A tall, lean nineteen-year-old stared back. Pale skin, dark hair, narrow waist. No matter how many miles my father made me run, no matter how many weights he forced me to lift, I never looked like him. I looked soft. Fragile.

And hidden underneath my clothes was a filthy, shameful secret that would break my father completely if he ever found out.

“You’re a coward,” I whispered to my reflection, my throat tight. “A complete fucking coward.”

I hated the act. I hated pretending I wanted girls. I hated the way I had to guard every glance, every word, every breath around my father and my peers. But most of all, I hated what I actually wanted.

I didn't want to command. I didn't want to be the tough, unyielding alpha Harlan kept trying to mold me into.

I wanted to be broken. I wanted a real, powerful man to step into my life, take total control, and strip away every single weight I was forced to carry. I wanted heavy hands on my hips, a stern voice in my ear, and the sweet, addictive relief of total surrender.

My breath hitched as a sudden, intense wave of heat pooled right between my thighs.

My chest heaved. Trembling, I unbuttoned my jeans and pushed them down past my hips, along with my cotton boxers. My length sprang free, already half-hard, thick with pre-cum from the intrusive thoughts flooding my mind.

I stepped back toward my bed, my knees buckling as I sank onto the edge of the mattress.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my right hand wrapping around my throbbing length. I began to stroke myself with a slow, desperate rhythm, my hips twitching off the duvet.

In the dark behind my eyelids, I didn't see girls from the campus party. I didn't see my college campus.

I saw broad, shadowy shoulders towering over me. I felt the imaginary weight of heavy, calloused hands pinning my wrists to the headboard, holding me down so securely that I couldn't move even if I wanted to. I imagined a deep, rumbling, authoritative voice barking orders against my neck, telling me how sweet and submissive I was for him.

“God,” I whimpered into the quiet room, my strokes growing faster, hard and unraveled.

Good boy, the phantom voice echoed in my head, stern and possessively warm. Give it all to me.

A sharp gasp tore from my throat. My thighs trembled violently, my toes curling hard into the carpet. The pleasure built into a fierce, unbearable ache, threatening to shatter me right there on the edge of the bed.

I stroked frantically, my breath coming in short, ragged hitches. I wanted the heavy hand. I wanted the strict commands. I wanted a master, a commander, someone to own every single inch of me until I didn't have to pretend anymore.

My body snapped.

I arched my back, a muffled moan escaping my lips as a intense orgasm racked my frame. Hot heat spilled over my fingers and my stomach, my muscles twitching with residual shocks of pleasure as I sank forward, resting my forehead against my knees.

I sat there for several minutes in the dark, my chest heaving, the room smelling of sweat and my own release.

Slowly, I reached for a tissue on the nightstand and cleaned myself up, pulling my jeans back up over my hips. The physical high faded, leaving behind the familiar, cold hollow in my chest.

It was just a fantasy. A pathetic, solitary moment in the dark that meant nothing. I was still trapped in this house. I was still Harlan Miller’s straight son.

I reached out and picked up my phone from the bedsheets. The screen lit up, illuminating my face in the dark room.

I stared at the display, my thumb hovering over the app store icon. My heart began to pound a slow, dangerous rhythm against my ribs.

I couldn't keep doing this alone. I was drowning.

With trembling fingers, I opened the search bar and typed in a single word that would change everything: Echo.