Becoming Chaos
Copyright© 2025 by Lyander Lockhart
Chapter 3 - Part 1
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 3 - Part 1 - Gabriel Hare is tall, confident-looking, and absolutely clueless about who he really is. College is supposed to be a fresh start, but instead it becomes the place where every assumption he’s ever had about himself gets shattered. Friendships, rumors, desire—especially desire—force him to confront the truth he’s been circling for years: he is queer, deeply and undeniably. This is a story about becoming: becoming bold, becoming messy, becoming wanted, becoming queer. A Chronicle.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Drunk/Drugged Romantic BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Humor School Cheating Interracial White Male Cream Pie Exhibitionism First Oral Sex Safe Sex Hairy Public Sex
My body still feels Sunday.
Used. Alive. That low, humming ache in places I don’t usually notice unless I’ve been fucked repeatedly and well. The kind of soreness that feels earned. I sit in English Literature pretending to care about Romantic poetry while my muscles quietly disagree with the idea that anything ended.
Monday morning happened at some point. I know this because I dropped Eve off at her mom’s place and we did that awkward, careful goodbye people do when the intensity burns itself out faster than the certainty. We were suddenly shy with each other, like the moment we stopped actively fucking we forgot what to do with our hands. Exhausted. A little ... tender? Very unsure.
The leather seat in my red VW Beetle was warm when I slid into it. That part I remember clearly. Morning sun. On the drive back to campus my body truly relaxed for the first time in 48h, nobody to impress for a short while. September air through a cracked window. My joy. My pride. The one thing that’s entirely mine. My German memory of my Brazilian father. The only memory of him worth remembering.
Apparently, after the most extensive sexual experience of your life, you just ... go to class. That’s college. You sit in a seminar about critical thinking—or effective communication, or whatever the fuck it’s called—and try to look like a functional adult while your body keeps replaying the weekend in small, inconvenient twinges.
I have two classes on Monday. English Lit, which I should care about because I’m technically majoring in History and need the humanities credits. And the freshman seminar about ... something. I sit through both of them like they are an out of body experience. My body is here, at least most of it, my mind and my crotch are replaying the weekend. At some point the professor calls my attention, not knowing my name. Twice. I come back to myself mid-syllable.
The girl next to me is smiling. Not mocking. Just amused. Like she knows exactly where my mind went. My face was probably telling.
By the time I’m back in my dorm, evening has arrived without asking my permission. I collapse on my bed like a corpse. The room smells like stale air and industrial cleaning products, that faint chemical tang that never quite leaves. My roommate—stoner business major—is mercifully gone. I stare at the ceiling tiles, counting water stains, and try to decide if this is what being an adult feels like.
Exhausted.
Slightly confused.
Oddly satisfied.
That’s when my phone buzzes.
Then again.
Then a third time, rapid enough to mean something’s wrong. Three texts from Diego. Texting cost money back then—actual money—so three in a row meant urgency.
dude
DUDE
call me NOW
Before I can dial, my phone rings.
“You motherfucker,” Diego says by way of greeting. He’s laughing. “Twelve times?”
My stomach drops. “How do you—”
“Eve told Isabella. The girl is singing your praises to anyone who’ll listen. Isabella told me. And everyone else on campus. We’re at her place. You need to come over. Now.”
“Diego, I was about to get some rest. Can’t we do—”
There’s a shuffle, then Isabella’s voice cuts in, sharp and decisive. “Gabriel. I’m texting you the address. Big white mansion on the hill off Riverside. You’ll see it. Get here.”
Click.
My phone buzzes. An address.
I should be annoyed. I should say no. I should insist on privacy, on rest, on the idea that my sex life isn’t a spectator sport. But I’m not annoyed.
I’m flattered.
They want me there.
Twenty minutes later, I’m driving my Beetle through neighborhoods that quietly announce how much money lives inside them. Past campus, past student apartments, past the professor houses where comfort still pretends to be modest. Toward the part of town where money doesn’t explain itself.
When I turn onto Isabella’s street, I stop breathing for a second.
The house doesn’t just sit on the hill—it occupies it. Like it expects to be looked at. Like it’s used to being obeyed. My family’s ancestral place back home would look like a polite attempt next to this. And that’s saying something.
I love it immediately. Not because it’s beautiful, exactly. Because it’s confident. Because it doesn’t ask permission to exist. And also because Maggie O’Connor Whitmore would hate it.
I park next to Diego’s beat-up Honda and feel the familiar flicker of awareness: my car, his car, this house. The hierarchy arranges itself without anyone saying a word. My Beetle suddenly feels smaller. So do I.
Diego opens the door before I can knock, grinning. “Welcome to the palace,” he says. “Try not to touch anything. It’s all probably worth more than our combined tuitions.”
Inside, the space opens up in a way that makes you instinctively adjust your posture. High ceilings. Too much light. Expensive art (the kind where you know it’s expensive because it doesn’t look like anything). The kind of silence that feels intentional, eerie. I catch my reflection in the floor for half a second and smooth my shirt without realizing I’m doing it.
The house doesn’t intimidate me. It instructs me. Everything in it seemed designed to remind you that you were a guest. That you didn’t belong there.
Voices drift from the living room—Isabella’s laugh, sharp and pleased, then another voice I don’t recognize. Confident. Certain. The kind of voice that assumes it will be listened to.
“They’re already dissecting the details without you,” Diego says. “Isabella’s been planning this since Eve told her.”
We walk in and everyone turns.
Isabella is stretched out on the couch like the room was arranged around her. Lila is tucked against her side, relaxed, beautiful without trying. There’s already wine open on the table—the expensive kind people drink casually when they’ve never had to check prices. And in an armchair sits a girl with messy red hair, plain clothes, eyes sharp and assessing, watching me like she’s already figured something out.
I understand, suddenly, what’s being asked of me. So I am going to give them that ... not an explanation. A performance.
“Finally!” Isabella says, sitting up. “Gabriel. Sit. We have questions.”
She gestures toward the redhead. “You remember Lauren.”
“Vaguely,” I say. I probably do. Faces blur when you are very drunk and trying to please everybody.
“Sit,” Isabella repeats, patting the couch beside her.
I sit. Diego is already pouring me wine—heavy-handed, confident, knowing that I am going to need it in the night ahead. The couch gives too easily under my weight. I understand immediately why people like this never rush.
“Twelve times?” Isabella says, leaning forward. “That’s what Eve told me.”
“Yeah.” I don’t elaborate. Let her work for it.
She tilts her head. Curious, not mocking. “How does that even work? Logistically.”
“Enthusiastically,” I say.
Diego snorts into his wine. Isabella’s eyes light up.
“Did you sleep at all?” Lauren asks.
“Enough.”
“Friday and Saturday?” she presses.
“Both.” I take a drink. “You writing a field guide or am I your sexual guinea pig?”
Lauren’s eyes narrow slightly, amused. “Someone should.”
Isabella laughs, delighted. “Jesus. Were you two just fucking constantly?”
“When we weren’t eating.” I lean back, match her energy. “She kept ordering Italian food. I kept eating her pussy. Worked out.”
The room goes quiet for half a second. Then Isabella and Diego lose it. Lila grins, shaking her head. Lauren’s mouth tightens.
“Protection every time?” Lauren asks, clinical.
“Geez mom, did we need to?”
“Is she on the pill?”
“Didn’t ask. But I’ll keep it on my to-do list next time I decide to have a sex marathon. Ask her sexual history before initiating intercourse.”
Lauren’s face tightens, jaw clenching. Not used to pushback.
Lila’s grin widens. Isabella and Diego are thoroughly enjoying this.
Isabella shifts, one leg tucked beneath her, leaning closer. “Here’s what I want to know. When did it stop being about being horny?”
I don’t blink. “Did it ever? By my account we just stopped because things became ... raw.”
She grins. “Raw. I like that. Most guys would’ve quit after three.”
“Am I the first male specimen you’ve met?”
Diego laughs. “He’s got you there.”
“I’m not judging,” Isabella says, not answering my question, eyes locked on me. “I’m impressed. Most guys I know would’ve been begging for mercy by round four.”
She leans closer. I can see the challenge in her eyes—the same look she probably gives Lila before pinning her against a wall.
“Aren’t you a lesbian? Most guys are boring, but if you’re interested...”
Lila’s hand comes to rest on Isabella’s arm. Gentle. Familiar. “What?” Isabella says, fighting a smile. “I want to know his secret.”
“There isn’t one,” I say. “She’s hot. I was motivated.”
“Twelve times just happened,” Isabella repeats, grinning now, pleased.
Something shifts in the room. I can feel it—the pause, the recalibration. They came expecting me to be embarrassed. Defensive. Instead I’m giving them exactly what they want, but on my terms.
“Tell me about the batting cage,” Isabella says, leaning forward.
So I do. But I don’t give them the romantic version. I give them the real one. The fence. The way Eve’s legs wrapped around me. The fact that I had my hand up her shirt before we even stopped kissing.
Isabella makes me repeat details. I don’t shy away from any of them. Lauren interrupts with questions that sound like legal disclaimers. I answer them like I’m describing what I had for lunch. Diego keeps refilling glasses. Lila watches me with something that might be recognition—like she sees what I’m doing.
They’re not interrogating me anymore. They’re listening. Leaning in. I’m not defending myself—I’m entertaining them. And I’m good at it.
“We should start a porn company,” Isabella says suddenly.
“You couldn’t afford me,” I say.
“Think about it—”
“No one is starting a porn company,” Lila says, laughing.
“Fine,” Isabella says. “Show me your dick.”
I look at her for a long second. “You offering to reciprocate?”
The room goes very quiet.
Then Isabella throws her head back and laughs. “Fuck. I like you.”
“Thought so.”
She leans back, satisfied. “Okay. Real question. Eve wants casual. Friends with benefits. Is that what you want?”
“That’s what we agreed on, but then again, we didn’t do much talking. We were mostly busy.”
“Not like they’re getting married after two days, babe.” Lila adds, and there’s approval in her voice now.
Lauren watches me. “Are you actually on the same page?”
“We’re adults having fun.” I meet her eyes. “That a problem?”
“No,” she says slowly. “Just making sure.”
Isabella cuts in. “Not everybody wants to marry their first.” She looks at Lauren meaningfully.
“Right.” Lauren flushes for the first time in this whole conversation.
Isabella smiles, satisfied. “Perfect. Now, tell me something. Did you take a certain blue pill?”
I laugh out loud for the first time since I arrived.
“Nature handles it when you’re nineteen and motivated.”
“At least you’re not dull, like most people around here.” Isabella says. “I’m telling this story to everyone.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” I say. “It’s a good story. Just don’t forget to give me all the credit.”
She looks at me like I’ve just passed some test. “Exactly.”
Diego grins. “Told you he’d fit in.”
And the thing is—I do. Not because I belong here. But because I know how to make people think I do.
The party winds down around midnight. Diego gives Lauren a ride—she’s still shooting me looks like she’s trying to figure out if I’m dangerous or just an asshole. Probably both.
Lila walks me out to my red Bug.
The night air is cold, sharp after the warmth of the house. I can see my breath. The driveway curves down the hill, city lights spread out below like someone spilled diamonds.
“She likes you,” Lila says. “That’s rare.”
“I wasn’t so certain for a while there.”
“No, you were.” She glances at me, and there’s something knowing in her look. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”
I don’t say anything. We keep walking.
“Isabella’s...” she pauses, searching for the word. “A lot. She comes on strong. Tests people to see if they’ll crack.”
“And?”
“You didn’t crack.” Lila stops at my car, leans against it. “You matched her. Gave it right back. She respects that.”
“And you?”
She smiles. “I thought it was funny. The lesbian comment especially.”
“Sorry if that was—”
“Don’t apologize.” She waves it off. “I liked watching you two go at it. Like watching two cats size each other up.” She tilts her head. “You’re good at that. Performing.”The word lands heavy. I feel exposed suddenly.
“I’m not—”
“It’s not a criticism.” Her voice is gentle. “I’m good at it too. You think Isabella’s family would accept me if I wasn’t? If I didn’t know exactly how to be charming and pretty and nonthreatening at all the right moments?”
I look at her properly for the first time. Really look. She’s still smiling, but there’s something underneath it. Something tired.
“You grew up with money,” I say. It’s not a question.
“Old money. Boston.” She laughs, but it’s not happy. “I learned to perform before I learned to read. And I sense you were not different.”
“And Isabella?”
“New money. Doesn’t give a fuck about the rules. It’s...” she searches for the word. “Liberating. Exhausting sometimes. But liberating.”
We stand there for a moment. The cold settling into my bones.
“You’ll fit in fine,” Lila says finally. “With us, I mean. Diego already loves you. Isabella thinks you’re entertaining, which is basically love for her. And Lauren will come around once she realizes you’re not actually dangerous.”
“Am I not?”
She looks at me for a long second. “Maybe a little. But not to us.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“Get some sleep, Gabriel.” She pushes off the car. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“Almost no sleep since Friday,” I admit.
“Jesus.” She laughs. “Go. Sleep. We’ll see you around.”
She starts walking back to the house, then turns and gives me a long hug. First I’m surprised, then I reciprocate. She moves a step away and gives me a deep look.
“Hey. That thing you do? Where you become whoever people need you to be?”
I wait.
“It works. But don’t forget who you actually are underneath it all. That person’s worth knowing too.”
She doesn’t wait for a response. Just walks back up the driveway, disappearing into the mansion.
I sit in my car for a minute, engine running, thinking.
She saw me. Really saw me. And instead of calling me out, instead of judging, she just ... understood. And somehow, that was the most impressive thing the whole night.
I drive back to campus barely conscious, running on fumes. Almost 72 hours with barely any rest. Back in my dorm, I collapse on my bed without changing. I start drifting off to sleep.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice points out the obvious:
You didn’t answer questions. You performed. You gave them exactly what they wanted—crude, confident, unashamed. Just like he would have done.
I ignore it. That’s what fitting in feels like.
Tuesday morning, I walk into Gender & Power in Ancient Societies still riding the high from last night. Not rested. Not grounded. Just ... buoyant.
The lecture hall is one of those old-style auditoriums with stadium seating and windows that let in too much autumn light. It smells like old wood and chalk dust, and burnt coffee drifting in from the hallway. I grab a seat in the third row—close enough to seem engaged, far enough back to maintain plausible deniability if I zone out.
Then she walks in.
The room doesn’t go quiet exactly, but there’s a shift. Like everyone recalibrates without knowing why. The kind of energy that changes when someone with actual presence enters a space.
Professor Hastings is younger than I expected—late twenties, maybe early thirties—and she moves like someone who’s never questioned her right to take up space. Tall, athletic build, dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. She’s wearing jeans and a leather jacket, and somehow makes it look more authoritative than any suit I’ve ever seen. Lara Croft meets Artemis, I think. Immediately regretting it, now it will be all I think about.
She sets her bag down—worn leather, covered in patches from national parks—and writes on the board in neat script: Claire Hastings — Gender & Power in Ancient Societies
Then she turns to face us, and I’m struck by how direct her gaze is. Like she’s actually looking at each person, deciding who’s awake and who isn’t.
“I’m Dr. Hastings,” she says, voice clear and steady. “But you’re going to call me Claire. I don’t care what the syllabus says—if we’re going to spend a semester examining power structures and social constructs, we might as well start by dismantling the arbitrary hierarchy between professor and student.”
Someone laughs nervously. I don’t. I sit a little straighter.
“This isn’t Philosophy 101,” she continues, pacing slightly. “We’re not here to debate abstractions. We’re here to look at how ancient societies constructed gender and sexuality—how power operated through those constructions—and why so much of what we treat as natural is just ... inherited performance.”
That word again. Performance.
“The ancient Greeks,” she says, “didn’t think in terms of ‘gay’ or ‘straight.’ What mattered was position. Who acted. Who was acted upon. Power, not preference.”
I’m leaning forward now, elbows on the desk. I don’t even notice when I start doing it.
“In Athens, a man could have a wife, a mistress, and a younger male lover without anyone blinking. Not because he was ‘bisexual’—that concept wouldn’t exist for two thousand years—but because desire wasn’t identity. It was situational. Hierarchical. Expected.”
She pulls up an image on the projector—ancient pottery, explicit enough to make the room shift uncomfortably.
“This isn’t rebellion,” she says. “It’s structure. The older man taught. The younger man learned. Sex was part of the transaction.”
Someone in the back raises their hand. “So they didn’t have gay people?”
“They had desire,” Claire replies. No pause. No softness. “They just didn’t moralize it the way we do.”
She moves through Sappho, Thebes, Rome—efficient, unsentimental. Names, examples, then gone. No lingering.
My brain is spinning.
I’ve spent the last three days being called gay. Proving I’m not. Performing straightness like a defensive maneuver.
And now this woman is standing here telling me the entire framework is bullshit.
“The point,” she says, stopping mid-pace, “is that sexuality is constructed. Categories can be useful—but they also discipline us. They tell us what we’re allowed to want.”
She looks up. And for a split second, I swear she’s looking straight at me.
“For your first assignment,” Claire continues, “I want you to write about a moment when your desire didn’t fit the category assigned to you. Three pages. Due next week.”
After class, as people pack up slowly, she calls out:
“Red shirt. What’s your name?”
I walk down to her desk, aware of eyes on me. Aware that I don’t hate it.
“Gabriel. Gabriel Hare.”
“You looked like your brain was melting,” she says. Not unkind. Curious.
“It kind of was.”
“Good.” She studies me, head tilted. “If you want to actually think through this material—not just survive it—I have office hours Wednesday.”
“I’d like that, Dr. Hastings.”
“Good.” She meets my eyes. Holds them longer than necessary. “And don’t call me Dr. Hastings.”
“That feels wrong.”
“It should.” A corner of her mouth lifts. “Discomfort means something’s shifting.”
She turns back to her notes. Dismissal without rejection.
I leave the lecture hall feeling off-balance. Untethered.
What if I don’t have to prove anything? What if I can just ... want what I want? What if it is all about power.
The thought is terrifying. And worse—seductive.
And the fact that it’s Claire who gave me permission to think this way makes it feel legitimate. Dangerous. Earned.
Wednesday afternoon, the whole group is sprawled on the lawn outside the student center. I already feel watched. That low hum under the skin.
Let me paint you a picture, since this is where shit starts getting complicated. No—scratch that. Let me tell you how it feels instead.
The student center lawn is one of those deliberately designed “community spaces” that colleges love—wide open grass, a few trees, close enough to food that you can smell it. Designed for togetherness without intimacy. It’s early afternoon, that autumn weather that tricks you into thinking everything is easy.
Diego, Isabella, Lila, Lauren, a few others—I barely register the rest. Someone’s playing music. Many someones are smoking. I’m too aware of one person to notice anything else.
Eve’s there, sitting on the opposite side of the circle from me. Too far. Intentionally so?
We haven’t really talked since Monday morning. A few texts. Nothing that touches the actual thing. Which is that we fucked until it stopped feeling like a decision and started feeling like gravity.
When I sit down, we make eye contact for half a second and look away too fast. She’s in her lacrosse gear, hair up, fingers worrying a strand that doesn’t need fixing. She hasn’t looked at me since.
It bothers me more than I expect.
I’m hyperaware of her posture. The angle of her shoulders. The way her laugh comes late, like she’s somewhere else. Like she’s bracing.
Lila notices first. Then Isabella. I catch the glance, the whisper, the smile. And then Lauren says it.
“Okay,” she announces. “You two are acting weird. This is painful. Go talk.”
Eve stiffens. “Lauren—”
“I’m serious. You’re adults. Mostly. Go have a conversation.” She shoos us like we’re misbehaving children. “Now.”
“We’re fine,” I say. But really, we are not.
“You’re not,” Lila says quietly, already reading me. “Go.”
Lauren is vindicated. The group watches. I feel it—expectation, curiosity. Performance pressure.
“Fine,” Eve says, already standing.
I follow her away, conscious of eyes on our backs. She heads toward the science building. Far enough. Public enough to pretend it’s safe.
We walk in silence. The light is golden, cinematic. I hate that I notice.
“So,” she says. “That happened.”
“Yeah.”
More silence.
“I meant what I told Isabella,” she says finally. “I want casual. I just got out of something bad. I’m trying to be smart.”
Relief hits fast. Too fast. “Me too.”
“So we’re on the same page?”
“Completely.”
I say it easily. Too easily.
I look at her ponytail and some wild memories flood back in. Something shifts. I see it happen in her—thought giving way to want. I don’t let her think her way back out.
I kiss her.
She responds instantly. All that distance collapses. There’s nothing tentative about it now.
“We shouldn’t—” she starts.
“Yeah,” I say. Already not stopping.
We end up inside the science building. Quiet. Too quiet. An empty seminar room with a door that locks.
I won’t pretend this wasn’t a choice. That we didn’t know what we were doing. What matters is this: The awkwardness burns off. The wanting takes over. We stop talking and let our bodies finish the conversation.
“We really shouldn’t,” she says, right before kissing me like she means it.
“Probably not,” I agree, already working on her lacrosse shorts. God, they’re convenient. I can feel her pulse racing under my fingers when I touch her stomach, feel the way her breath hitches when I slide my hand lower.
Her shorts are around her ankles in seconds. My jeans next. I don’t bother taking them all the way off. She watches me, eyes dark, reaching for me.
“Wait,” I say, catching her hand. “Not yet.”
I touch her first. Slide my fingers through her pussy, feel how wet she already is, and it makes my cock throb. She gasps when I find her clit, rocks her hips into my hand.
“Gabriel,” she breathes.
“Shh.” I turn her body around, grip her hips, and push into her in one motion—no condom, just skin on skin. We both gasp. I feel how tight she is, how hard she clenches around me.
“Fuck,” she whispers.
“I know,” I answer, breathless.
It feels different this time, more desperate. Too much and not enough all at once. I can feel everything—every ridge, every flutter, the slick heat of her wrapped around me. Without the barrier of latex, it’s almost overwhelming. I can feel her pulse through her pussy.
I start moving, slower at first. Feeling each sensation. Our smell fills the room. We moan and somewhere in the back of my mind I think we should be quieter, anyone could walk by, but I can’t make myself care.
Grabbing her by the hair already feels natural. I fuck her harder, my other hand gripping her hip to hold her in place, fingers digging into soft skin hard enough to leave marks. She’s making these breathy little sounds, half-moans she can’t muffle, and it drives me insane.
“Gabriel,” she breathes, and there’s something in the way she says my name that makes me fuck her harder.
Her pussy is tight and slick around me, clenching every time I hit deep. I can feel her getting wetter with each thrust, feel the way her body responds to mine. The wet sounds of us fucking fill the small room—obscene, undeniable. My cock slides in and out of her, coated with her wetness, and I can feel it dripping down my balls.
“I’m—” she starts, and I know what’s coming.
“Come on my cock,” I tell her, and she does.
When she comes, she bites her lip hard to keep from crying out, but she can’t hold it in. Her whole body shaking beneath me. I can feel it—the way her pussy clamps down, rhythmic pulses that squeeze my cock, trying to milk me. Her nails dig into my wrist on her hip.
I follow right after, burying myself deep, finishing inside her with a groan I barely manage to suppress. I can feel it—each pulse of cum shooting into her, the way her pussy contracts around me like she’s trying to pull it deeper.
We stay like that for a second, both trying to catch our breath, my forehead resting on her back, the reality of what we just did starting to sink in.
“Fuck,” she whispers. “We didn’t—”
“I know.”
We just look at each other. Agreement without comfort.
When I pull out, the evidence is there. Undeniable. Running down her thighs. She looks away first.
We dress fast. Too fast. Like speed can undo it.
“So,” she says. “It seems we can’t stop doing this.”
“Yeah. You’re too hot to pass.”
She blushes. “Can we ... keep it casual?”
“Yeah. As long as we keep doing it.”
She blushes deeper.
“Friends with benefits.” She pauses. “My Freshman with Benefits.”
I smile. Because I like the title. Because it makes this feel manageable.
When we walk back to the lawn, I tell myself we’re aligned. That this is simple. I’m very good at telling myself things. Not all of them are true.
Isabella looks up immediately. Grins. “Well. That took a while.”
Eve goes red. “We were just—”
“Talking?” Isabella finishes. “Sure.”
“We’re not doing this,” I say, already smiling.
“You absolutely are,” Isabella says. “That’s how this works.”
Eve sits next to me this time. Our shoulders touch. That’s all it takes.
The teasing continues. The laughter. The acceptance. And I feel it settle in my chest—that warm, dangerous sense of arrival.
It feels good. Better than good. It feels like power.
And there’s a small voice pointing out that I just turned sex into currency again—that I chose the risk, the timing, the story value.
Again.
I ignore it.
By the end of the first week, I notice it happening everywhere. Not all at once. Gradually.
Walking across campus, someone I don’t know nods at me. Two girls whispering by the library, one of them glancing my way with a smile. A guy from my dorm floor: “Auction guy, right? Legend.”
I’m recognizable now. Known. Accounted for.
I belong.
It’s addictive.
Eve and I fall into a pattern. An efficient one. We fuck almost every day—her place, my place, empty classrooms when we can find them. Quick and desperate or slow and consuming, but always often. Always easy to justify.
The sex is good. Really good. Good enough to stop asking questions.
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