The night had deepened into a silent, indigo stillness that matched the expensive, sterile perfection of James Thorn's bedroom. It was a massive space, a sprawling sanctuary of minimalist grey and brushed steel that felt more like a gallery than a home. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Toronto skyline glittered like a scattered bag of diamonds, but James wasn't looking at the city.
He was lying on his back across the silk duvet of his bed, the blue light of his smartphone casting sharp, angular shadows across his high cheekbones.
He swiped through his gallery, past photos of student council events and polished headshots, until he reached a folder hidden behind a biometric lock. He tapped it, and the screen filled with a candid photo of Joel Cho.
It was a shot taken from a distance, months ago. Joel was sitting in the library, a shaft of afternoon sun hitting his hair, illuminating the delicate, high bridge of his nose—a perfect blend of his Canadian and Chinese heritage. He looked peaceful, his long lashes casting soft shadows on his cheeks as he focused on a textbook.
James's thumb hovered over the screen. Slowly, almost reverently, he traced the outline of Joel's jaw. A small, bittersweet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a look that the students of Upperhill Academy would never recognize.
For two years, James had been the sun, and everyone at school had been content to rotate around him, begging for a stray beam of his attention. Everyone except Joel.
James recalled the hundreds of times he had walked down the hallway, purposely slowing his stride as he passed Joel's locker. He would wait for a glance, a blush, a sign of recognition. But Joel was a ghost. Every time James looked his way, the shy, beautiful boy would recoil, pulling his shoulders in as if trying to fold into the locker itself. Joel would look at the floor, turn his head, and vanish into the crowd before James could even find a reason to say hello.
The rejection had stung James in a way he couldn't explain. He was the President. He was the Golden Boy. And yet, the only person he actually wanted to notice him acted like he was a plague.
He thought back to the morning. The dare.
The dare hadn't been an accident. James had manipulated the conversation for weeks, subtly planting the idea among his inner circle until someone finally suggested it. He had needed a mask. He had needed a reason to touch those soft, pink lips without the school realizing that the Great James Thorn was actually pathetically in love with a boy who didn't know he existed.
When he had kissed Joel in the hallway, he had expected shock. He had expected fear. What he hadn't expected was the confession.
"I like you."
The words had hit James like a physical blow. He recalled the way Joel's voice had trembled, the raw honesty in his eyes. The boy who had spent two years ignoring him, the boy who had hidden in the shadows, actually felt the same way. It had blown him away, shattering his composure so thoroughly that he'd had to retreat into his cold persona just to keep his heart from leaping out of his chest.
The kiss... he was already addicted. The moment their lips touched, James had felt a surge of electricity that made every other experience in his life feel like a dull, grey blur. He wanted more. He wanted it forever.
His thoughts drifted to the darker parts of the day. He felt a pang of guilt as he recalled slipping his own silver watch into Joel's desk.
He had done it while Joel was still out on the field, breathless and crying. He had gone in under the guise of searching, but in reality, he was planting the tether. He knew it was cruel. He knew it would ruin Joel's reputation. But James was a predator of circumstance—he knew that if Joel was a thief, the school would cast him out. And if Joel was cast out, James could be the only one to save him. He needed an excuse to keep Joel in his office, in his sight, and under his thumb where no one else especially not Frank could get to him.
He remembered the moment on the field when he had looked down at Joel. Joel had looked so small, so innocently broken, that James's impulse had almost betrayed him. He had wanted to drop to his knees and kiss the tears away, to apologize for the watch, for the hallway, for everything. But he had panicked. He had seen the way Joel looked at him, and the intensity of his own feelings scared him. So, he had acted on impulse and thrown him down instead, hiding his affection behind a wall of cold, calculated aggression.
He had felt the sickening crunch of Joel hitting the ground, and it had haunted him. That was why he'd snuck back into the classroom to leave the arnica ointment. He couldn't stand the thought of Joel being in pain because of him, even though he was the one who had caused it.
James sighed, his chest Tightening. He knew people were talking. He knew the names they were calling Joel. He had heard them in the halls: sissy, freak, thief.
Every time someone insulted Joel, a part of James wanted to scream, to tear the school apart until they showed Joel the respect he deserved. But he was terrified. What if they found out? What if his manly persona was revealed to be a freak too? Upperhill was a shark tank, and James knew that if his secret got out, he wouldn't be able to protect Joel at all. They would both be torn to pieces.
He had to be the villain. It was the only way to be his shield.
By making Joel his assistant, his errand boy, he was creating a perimeter. As long as Joel belonged to the President, no one else would dare to touch him. No one else could harass him without answering to James. It was a cruel sort of protection, a cage made of mahogany and silk, but it was the only way James knew how to keep his world from falling apart.
James turned off the phone screen, the room plunging into darkness. He closed his eyes, the feeling of Joel's taste still lingering on his tongue—salt, tears, and a sweetness that made his soul ache.
"Just stay close, Joel," James whispered into the empty, opulent room. "Hate me if you have to. Just don't ever look away again."