The darkness of Frank's bedroom felt like a physical weight, pressing down on him as he curled into a ball on the cold marble floor. He hadn't even made it to his bed. The silk robe was twisted around his damp, shivering body, a mocking reminder of the elegance he thought he possessed—the elegance that had meant absolutely nothing to the man down the hall.
For the first time in his twenty-one years, Frank Austin felt ugly.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the tears leaked out anyway, hot and stinging. It was a visceral, chest-aching kind of sobbing that he couldn't control. All his life, Frank had been the sun that everyone else orbited. At Upperhill University, he was the golden boy. Girls like Bianca didn't just date him; they displayed him. Men looked at him with a mixture of envy and hidden longing that Frank had always dismissed with a sneer. He was used to being the prize. He was used to the power of a single look.
"What is wrong with me?" he whispered into the dark, his voice cracking and hollow.
He felt a wave of nauseating humiliation as he recalled the morning. He had stood there in Dean's tight, cobalt spandex—shorts so short they were a provocation—expecting a reaction. He had preened. He had intentionally moved in ways that highlighted the lean muscle of his thighs, the curve of his waist. And Davis had looked at him like he was a faulty piece of gym equipment.
Then the night. The bathroom. The bed.
He had literally thrown his body at a stranger. He had begged. He had moaned into the mouth of a man who was probably counting the seconds until it was over. The memory of touching Davis through those grey lounge pants and finding him completely limp was a jagged blade in Frank's heart. It wasn't just rejection; it was an erasure. It was Davis saying, "You are so insignificant to me that my body won't even acknowledge your existence."
Frank's hand drifted to his own chest, feeling the frantic, bruised beating of his heart. He didn't understand this "awakening." He had spent years convinced he was the straightest man on campus. He'd had the girls, the sports, the bravado. But in the span of forty-eight hours, a man with cedar-scented skin and a voice like low thunder had dismantled every pillar of Frank's identity. It was terrifying. He was attracted to a man who treated him like a nuisance, and he was addicted to a presence that was about to vanish.
"He's leaving," Frank gasped, the realization hitting him like a physical blow to the stomach. "He's leaving tomorrow because of me."
Panic flared in his chest, overriding the shame. If Davis left, the silence in this house would become a tomb. If Davis left, Frank would be left alone with this new, terrifying version of himself—a version that only made sense when Davis was looking at him, even if that look was cold.
Frank scrambled to his feet, his legs shaky. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, his eyes red and swollen. He didn't care about his pride anymore. He just couldn't let the air in the room go cold.
He walked back down the hallway, his steps heavy with a different kind of desperation. He reached Davis's door and pushed it open slowly.
Davis was standing by his suitcase, which was open on the bed. He had already packed most of his gear. He looked up, his expression guarded and unreadable, his large hands resting on a folded stack of t-shirts.
"I thought I told you to stay out, Frank," Davis said, his voice a low, warning rumble.
Frank stood in the doorway, the light from the hallway casting his silhouette against the floor. He looked small and vulnerable. The silk robe was cinched tight, and his face was unmistakably tear-streaked.
"Please," Frank said, his voice barely a whisper. "Don't go."
Davis went back to his packing, his jaw tight. "There's nothing left for me here. You aren't a student; you're a liability. I don't get paid to fend off the boss's son in the middle of the night."
"I won't do it again," Frank blurted out, stepping into the room. "I promise. I... I was confused. I was acting like a kid. You were right."
He took another step, his hands trembling at his sides. "I'll be a good student. I'll listen to every word you say. I'll do the hills, I'll do the burpees, I'll stay in the lines. I won't touch you. I won't look at you like that. Just... please don't tell my father you're leaving because of me. Don't leave me with... with this."
Davis stopped packing. He stood perfectly still, his back to Frank. The tension in the room was so thick it felt like it might snap. Davis was thinking about the mess on his sheets from ten minutes ago. He was thinking about how his own body was screaming for the boy standing three feet behind him.
But Frank didn't know that. Frank only saw the cold, unyielding back of a man who didn't care.
"You'll be a 'good student'?" Davis asked, finally turning around. He leaned back against the dresser, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze was like ice, scanning Frank's miserable face. "You expect me to believe that the boy who tried to crawl into my lap an hour ago is suddenly going to be a disciplined athlete?"
"Yes," Frank said, his voice gaining a desperate strength. "I'll do whatever you want. I'll be whatever you want me to be. Just don't go. If you leave... if you leave now, I don't know what I'm supposed to do with all of... this." He gestured vaguely to himself, to the room, to the air between them.
Davis stared at him for a long, agonizing minute. He saw the genuine terror in Frank's eyes—the fear of a boy who had just realized his world wasn't what he thought it was.
"The final decision," Davis said, his voice dropping into a register that made Frank's skin prickle, "will depend on how you wake up tomorrow."
Frank blinked. "What?"
"Five AM," Davis said, his eyes narrowing. "If you are on that mat, dressed in your own gear, with your mouth shut and your head in the game, maybe I'll reconsider. But if I see one tear, one pouty look, or one more pair of those tiny shorts , I am out that door before the sun is up. Do we understand each other, kid?"
Frank felt a surge of hope so sharp it was almost painful. "Yes. Yes, sir. I understand."
"Get out," Davis said, turning back to his suitcase. "And lock your own damn door this time."
Frank turned and practically fled the room, his heart soaring despite the lingering ache. He didn't see Davis's hands grip the edge of the dresser until his knuckles turned white. He didn't hear the long, shaky exhale Davis let out once the door was shut.
Frank went back to his room and sat on the edge of his bed. He wasn't crying anymore. He was focused. He had a chance. He was going to show Davis he could be a man. He was going to be the best student Davis had ever seen.