Chapter 5: Breathless

The walk to class helped. A little. The air outside was sharp with early fall, cool enough to cut through the sweat still clinging to the back of my neck. My thighs ached from drills, my shoulders burned from Casper’s corrections, and still, somehow, my dick hadn’t gone down for half the walk.

I blamed the tight underwear. The way they held everything firm, like they were working against me. But that wasn’t it. I knew what it was.

It was the way Casper had pressed in close, his voice low, his fingers warm at the base of my spine, just above the waistband of my shorts. It was the way his sweat had clung to his body, the smell of him so thick and real I could practically taste it when he leaned in. The worst part was how calm he’d been — like it was nothing. Like I was just equipment. Something to position. Adjust.

I shifted in my seat as the lecture dragged on, arms crossed tight, trying not to squirm. My pants didn’t help. They rubbed in all the wrong ways. Everything felt too tight, too present, ugh, too horny. The TA was talking about cell metabolism, something about energy transfer and heat regulation, and all I could think about was the heat in my pants — the way it rose every time Casper touched me.

The classroom was full, but I barely noticed anyone else. My notebook stayed mostly blank. I kept catching myself staring into the middle distance, imagining things I shouldn’t. Casper in his sleeveless tee. Casper shirtless, stretching. Casper’s hand on my lower back. Casper’s voice in my ear.

By the time class ended, I was a mess of nerves and frustration, barely able to stand without adjusting myself first. I headed back to the dorm, heart pounding like I’d just run a sprint.

Please don’t be there, I thought as I climbed the stairs.

But Mason was there.

Of course he was.

He was stretched across his bed, headphones in, one leg up, scrolling something on his phone with a lazy thumb. Shirtless again. His shorts rode low on his hips, waistband dipped just enough to show the start of that deep V-line. His skin still held the glow of a post-practice rinse, damp curls at his neck where he hadn’t dried off properly.

He looked up as I came in, tugging one side of his headphones off.

“Yo. You good?” he asked, voice easy. “You left in a rush after practice.”

I blinked. “Oh. Yeah. Just ... class.”

Mason nodded like that explained everything, then kicked his heel against the edge of the bed. “You do anything fun?”

“Just my brain short-circuiting.” I dropped my bag by the desk, trying to keep my eyes from drifting. “Lecture was brutal.”

“Sounds about right,” he grinned. “You hungry? I was gonna hit the dining hall in a bit.”

“I might go later,” I mumbled, not sure I could handle company just yet.

He shrugged and slipped his headphones back on. “Suit yourself.”

I turned toward my side of the room, muscles still tight, skin buzzing. All I wanted was ten minutes. Just a moment alone. I could lock the door, put on music, get it out of my system. Just enough to take the edge off. Then maybe I’d feel normal again.

But with Mason there — shirtless, stretched out, body casual and loose — that wasn’t happening.

I sat on my bed, staring at the wall, willing my body to calm down. But Mason shifted on the other side of the room, and I caught the movement out of the corner of my eye, the way his abs flexed as he adjusted, the lazy curve of his arm as he reached for a water bottle.

Nope. No chance.

I flopped back onto the bed, arm over my face, and let out a long, quiet breath.

Tomorrow. I’d deal with it tomorrow.

If I could make it that long.

And off to dinner I trudged.