The dorm was quiet.
Dorian sat on his bed, phone in hand, the last message still burning on the screen: Tomorrow. Don't forget: I'll be watching.
Across the room, Tyler was packing up the folding table, stacking BLIMP cans back into their case. Kyle sat on his bed, still wearing the white shirt with BLIMP SECURITY scrawled across the chest, reading his book like nothing had happened. He didn't look at Dorian. He never really looked at Dorian. His eyes stayed on the page, his shoulders hunched slightly, the way they always were when Dorian was in the room.
"Focus group success," Tyler announced, zipping the case. "We have data. We have feedback. We have a brand."
Kyle turned a page. His hands were steady, but Dorian could see the way his jaw tightened when Tyler's voice got too loud.
The door opened.
Marcus walked in, wiping sweat from his forehead with the collar of his t‑shirt. His gym shorts were dark with it. He pushed his glasses up his nose—a nervous habit, the way he always did when he was thinking—and scanned the room. The folding table. The BLIMP cans. Kyle's ridiculous shirt. His gaze landed on Dorian, held for a moment, then moved on.
He didn't say anything. Just nodded once, grabbed a towel from his desk, and sat on his bed.
Tyler gave a little wave. "Marcus. Good practice?"
"Yeah."
"Cool. Cool."
Tyler busied himself with the BLIMP case.
Marcus sat on his bed, phone in his hand. The screen was dark. He didn't turn it on. He just held it, staring at the blank glass, one hand reaching up to push his glasses into place again.
Dorian's heart hammered.
He has the photo. And he's saying nothing.
His own phone buzzed in his hand. He looked down.
Priya: Can't sleep. You?
Priya: Roommate's gone for the night. You should come over.
He stared at the message. His thumb hovered.
Priya: Don't make me say it twice.
He typed back.
Dorian: Send address.
He stood. Tyler looked up. "You heading out?"
"Yeah."
Tyler gave him a thumbs up. "Go get some, champ. Use protection."
Dorian grabbed his jacket. "I'm going to study."
"That's what they all say." Tyler grinned.
Kyle turned a page. Without looking up, he murmured, "He looks like he's going to war."
Tyler squinted. "That's... intense."
Kyle shrugged one shoulder. "It's an observation."
Tyler muttered under his breath, "I need to workshop my jokes."
Dorian paused at the door. Looked back. Marcus hadn't moved. His phone was dark. His eyes were fixed on the blank screen. The silence was heavier than any accusation.
He walked out.
---
Priya's apartment was on the edge of campus, a narrow walk-up above a laundry. She was waiting at the door, the chain still on, her face half‑shadowed.
"You came."
"You said not to make you say it twice."
She slid the chain off and pulled him inside. The apartment was small—one room with a kitchenette in the corner, two beds pressed against opposite walls. Priya's side was near the window, a mess of pillows and tangled sheets. Her roommate's bed was made, neat, a single textbook on the nightstand.
Priya was wearing a thin bathrobe, the belt tied loose, her hair still damp from a shower.
"You're staring," she said.
"You're wearing a bathrobe."
"It's my apartment. I can wear what I want." She pulled him toward her bed. "I couldn't stop thinking about you."
She kissed him. Her hands were cold from the shower, her lips warm. The robe shifted, the fabric sliding against his fingers. He pulled her closer, his hands finding the belt, loosening it.
Then she pulled back. Stepped away. Walked to the middle of the room.
The belt came undone. The robe fell.
She stood there, bare, the light from the window cutting across her skin.
"What do you want, Dorian?"
The question hung in the air. He didn't have an answer. His eyes traveled over her, and he felt frozen. He didn't know where to look. He was embarrassed, aroused, terrified of being bad at this.
She walked toward him slowly. Each step deliberate. She stopped close enough that he could feel her warmth but not touching.
She reached up, touched his face. Turned it so he had to look at her.
"You've done this before, right?" Her voice was teasing, but her eyes were curious.
He hesitated. She read the answer.
"Okay. Then let me help."
She pulled his hoodie over his head. He fumbled, got tangled. She laughed softly, helped him free.
His hands hovered at her waist, unsure. She took them, placed them on her hips.
"Touch me," she said. "Like you want to."
Her skin was warm, smooth under his hands. His fingers slid down her back, felt the curve of her spine. She pressed against him, her breath warm on his neck.
His body reacted—hard, undeniable. She felt it, smiled against his skin.
"Shippo," she murmured. "That's... a lot."
She reached down, traced him through his jeans. He tensed. She looked up, curious.
"How is that possible?"
He had no answer. His face burned. He'd never been asked that before. She laughed softly, reading the embarrassment on his face.
"I'm not complaining. Just... impressed."
She unbuttoned his jeans slowly, watching his face. Her fingers hooked into the waistband, pulling down, letting him free.
He was exposed. Afraid of being clumsy, of disappointing her. She took him in her hand, her grip firm, her thumb circling the head. His breath caught.
"See?" she whispered. "That's not so hard."
She guided his hands to her breasts, showed him how she liked to be touched. His thumbs brushed her nipples, felt them harden. She arched into him, a soft sound escaping her lips.
When he hesitated, she whispered: "It's okay. I'll tell you what feels good."
She pulled him onto the bed, laid back, her legs parting to make room for him. She reached down, positioned him at her entrance, her eyes locked on his.
"Slow," she said. "I want to feel all of you."
He pushed in, and her mouth opened, a sharp inhale. She was wet, tight, pulling him deeper. He watched her face, the way her eyes fluttered closed, the way her lips parted.
"More," she breathed.
He moved, and she matched his rhythm, her hips rising to meet his. Her hands roamed his back, nails scraping his skin. He was clumsy at first, too fast, then too slow, but she corrected him with her hands, her words, her body.
She was responsive. Her breath caught. Her nails dug into his shoulders. He found a rhythm, gained confidence.
"There," she gasped. "Like that."
He drove into her, and she cried out, her back arching, her legs tightening around his waist. She was trembling, her breath ragged. He was close, the pressure building, but she pulled him down, kissed him hard.
"Not yet," she whispered.
She rolled them over, straddling him, her hair falling around her face. She moved on him slowly, her hips rolling, her hands braced on his chest.
She was beautiful, her skin flushed, her eyes dark.
She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear. "I want to watch you come apart."
She moved faster, and he couldn't hold back. His hands gripped her hips, and he came, his body shuddering, her name on his lips.
She collapsed against him, her breath warm on his neck, her heart racing against his chest.
---
Later, they lay tangled in her sheets, her leg hooked over his, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest. His hoodie was somewhere on the floor. Her robe had joined it.
"You're blushing," she said.
"I'm not."
"Your face is red, shippo." She propped herself up on an elbow, looking at him. "I didn't take you for the blushing type."
He avoided her eyes. "I'm not."
She grinned. "Liar."
She settled back against him, her head on his shoulder. Her hand found his under the blanket and held it. Her fingers traced the lines of his muscles, his ribs.
"You're tense," she said. "When was the last time someone did this for you?"
He didn't answer. She kissed his chest. "I'll take that as 'too long.'"
She was quiet for a moment, her thumb tracing circles on his hand.
"Marcus has been weird all week," she said quietly. "He looks at his phone, reads something, puts it down. Doesn't talk." She paused. "I thought it was about us." She lifted her head to look at him. "Is it about us?"
Dorian stared at the ceiling. "I don't know."
She studied his face for a long moment, then lay back down.
"You told me it was just a fling." Her voice was calm, curious. "What's her name?"
His throat tightened. "Sarah."
"Sarah." She said it like she was tasting the word. "She's lucky."
She didn't ask more. Her fingers kept moving on his skin.
"You ever think about what happens after?" she asked.
"After what?"
"After all this. After the mixer. After... everything." She lifted her head again. "You're not going to be here forever, are you?"
He didn't answer.
She nodded slowly, like she'd expected that. "Shippo. That's what I thought."
She lay back down, her cheek against his chest. "I'm not asking for anything, Dorian. I just wanted to know."
He wrapped his arm around her. The weight of her was warm, steady.
"Tonight," she said, "you're here. That's enough."
---
He woke to gray light through the thin curtains. Priya was still asleep, her hair spread across the pillow, her hand still tangled with his.
His phone was on the floor, face‑up. He reached for it.
Sarah: So excited for tonight! Wear something nice. I want to show you off 😊
Elise: Hey, just confirming Saturday. Looking forward to it 😊
Unknown: Ready for tonight? Everyone will be there.
He stared at the screen.
Priya stirred beside him. Her hand slid up his chest, rested over his heart.
"What are you running from, Dorian?"
The question was soft, direct. No judgment.
He didn't answer. Couldn't.
She kissed his shoulder. "You don't have to tell me." Her fingers traced his collarbone. "But your heart's racing."
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "Stay. Just a little longer."
He looked at the phone one more time. Sarah's message. Elise's. The unknown texter's.
He set it aside.
"Okay."
Outside, the campus was waking up. The mixer was tonight.
[END OF CHAPTER 21]