Archive of Our Own ^beta

Henry has never understood America’s obsession with football. 

Not football football, the proper kind played with one’s feet, but this barbaric, bone-crushing spectacle they insisted on calling football, despite it being predominantly about throwing a ball and crashing into one another like wild animals. And here, at the University of Texas, that obsession was borderline fanatical.

He could already smell the barbecue wafting through the thick, humid air before he saw the swarms of Longhorn fans stretching across the massive tailgate lot outside the university stadium. It was a scene of controlled chaos, the asphalt covered with a mosaic of folding tables, camp chairs, and tents decorated with orange and white. The sound of beer cans cracking open and raucous laughter filled the space, occasionally punctuated by someone yelling, “Hook 'em, BITCH!” at the top of their lungs.

To Henry Fox, it was all ridiculous.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shifted his weight, feeling distinctly out of place in his simple white button-down shirt and tortoiseshell Ray-Bans. Despite the unforgiving Texas sun bearing down on him, he had refused to wear anything that might associate him with this particular American ritual. He sighed and glanced sideways at his best friend, Percy “Pez” Okonjo, who looked like he was about to burst with excitement. 

Pez was wearing a bright burnt orange UT crop top, tight jean shorts, and a massive pair of sunglasses shaped like Texas Longhorns. He was practically vibrating with energy, his flamboyant spirit even more exaggerated than usual. His grin stretched from ear to ear as he waved enthusiastically to passing strangers, somehow managing to charm everyone he came across.

“This,” Pez said dramatically, sweeping his arms wide to encompass the chaos of the tailgate, “is what I call culture, my dear Hazza. America at its finest. Feel the energy! Soak it up, darling!”

Henry grimaced. “All I’m soaking up is the unbearable heat and the smell of beer-stained concrete.” He tugged at the collar of his shirt, which was sticking unpleasantly to his skin. “Remind me again why I let you drag me to this? I could be back at the flat, enjoying the air conditioning and a nice novel.”

“Because,” Pez singsonged, slinging an arm over Henry’s shoulder, “it’s our senior year, mate! And you’ve avoided this glorious Texan tradition for far too long. You have to do it at least once before we graduate. We are practically honorary Texans now, after all.”

“Hardly,” Henry sighed. “I’ll never understand the appeal.”

Pez just laughed, his voice blending into the cacophony of tailgaters as they wove through the crowded lot. “You just need to loosen up. Honestly, dear, what’s the worst that could happen? You might even– gasp –have fun!”

Henry highly doubted it. 

Everywhere he looked, there were clusters of fans in eye-watering burnt orange jerseys, throwing footballs, chugging beers, and blasting country music from the backs of alarmingly monstrous pickup trucks. Some students had even gone so far as to bring inflatable pools filled with ice-cold drinks, the occasional splash of water adding to the atmosphere of chaotic revelry. It was... so American. So loud. So utterly exhausting.

He winced as another group passed by, their faces painted orange and white like war paint, each one of them shouting, “Hook 'em, Horns!” like it was the only phrase they’ve ever known. Perhaps it was, Henry mused. American football fanatics weren’t always the brightest, in his humble opinion. 

“This is barbaric,” Henry muttered under his breath.

Pez ignored him, already waving enthusiastically at a group of girls in bedazzled cowboy boots who giggled and waved back. “What’s not to love?” he asked, flashing a charming smile at them before turning back to Henry. “Besides, maybe you’ll meet someone interesting. There’s a whole world outside of your books, you know.”

Henry opened his mouth to retort, but a roar from the crowd as the team’s bus pulled up nearby drowned out his words. People began shouting and surging toward the bus, and Henry could feel the heat of the crowd pressing in on him. His chest tightened with anxiety.

“Come on, Pez,” he groaned, tugging on his friend's arm. “Can we just find some shade? Or better yet, a quiet corner far away from all this...this…” he waved a hand at the sea of crazed Longhorn fanatics, “whatever this is?”

Pez rolled his eyes playfully, but allowed Henry to drag him away from the epicenter of the noise, toward a quieter area near the back of the lot, where a few students were setting up lawn games and portable grills. They passed groups of people engaged in animated conversations, students in cowboy hats balancing plates piled high with brisket, sausage, and corn. 

As Henry scanned the crowd, still trying to comprehend the sheer volume of noise and bodies around him, something–or rather, someone –caught his eye.

It was a laugh, first. A deep, rich sound that sliced through the noise around him like a warm breeze. Henry’s head snapped in the direction of it, and there, just a few feet away, stood him.

Time seemed to slow.

Standing in the middle of the chaotic lot was a man who radiated a kind of effortless magnetism Henry had never seen before. He was taller than most of the people around him, his broad shoulders filling out a burnt orange UT jersey with the number “16” emblazoned on the back. His skin was golden, glowing under the sun, and his dark, unruly curls peeked out from beneath a backward Texas cap. And his smile– Christ, his smile–was enough to make Henry’s heart stutter in his chest.

Alex Claremont-Diaz.

Henry had never met him, not properly, but he’d heard the name. Everyone had. 

Alex was practically legendary on campus. President of the Multicultural Greek Council, a political science major with a minor in Latin American studies, and involved in nearly every extracurricular under the sun. Alex wasn’t just popular–he was beloved. And looking at him now, with his own two eyes, Henry could see why.

There was something about him that was larger than life. The way he held himself, the ease with which he moved through the crowd, the way people gravitated toward him. It was like watching the sun in human form, all heat and light and brilliance–Apollo come to earth amongst mortals, golden and untouchable, his radiance leaving a trail of warmth in his wake. 

Henry’s mouth went dry. 

“Oh, dear God,” he muttered under his breath, tearing his gaze away before his best mate could notice the sudden flush creeping up his neck.

“What was that?” Pez asked, but Henry shook his head quickly, hoping his voice didn’t betray him.

“Nothing. Just...observing. Taking it all… in.” 

Pez’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, and Henry could tell he wasn’t buying it. Before he could press further, though, Pez’s gaze followed Henry’s and landed on Alex. Pez’s face lit up with recognition. 

“Ah, I see. You’ve spotted the one and only Alexander Claremont-Diaz,” Pez said, smirking. “Quite the specimen, isn’t he, Hazza?” 

Henry wanted to roll his eyes. He wanted to shrug and make some snide comment about Alex being just another overconfident frat boy, but the words stuck in his throat. 

Because the truth was, Henry was captivated.

He watched as Alex tossed a football casually between his hands, his body language so relaxed, so utterly unselfconscious, as if he was completely unaware of the effect he had on everyone around him. A group of girls were huddled around him, laughing at something he’d said, and Alex smiled– really smiled, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made his whole face light up.

Henry’s stomach did a strange, unfamiliar flip. 

“Honestly,” he muttered, more to himself than to Pez, “he’s just another–” 

“–gorgeous, charismatic, absolute legend?” Pez finished for him, raising an eyebrow. “Darling, you’re not fooling anyone. The way you’re looking at him, it’s like watching someone fall in love with a sunset.”

“I am not–” Henry started, but Pez just laughed and patted him on the back.

“Relax, mate. You wouldn’t be the first to fall under the spell of one ACD.”

Henry tore his eyes away, swallowing the lump in his throat. It was ridiculous. He barely knew the man, had only ever seen him in passing around campus. And yet… he felt like he knew him. There was something about Alex that seemed so familia r, like a song he had heard once in a dream but couldn’t remember the words to. 

He shook his head, willing himself to focus on anything but the way his heart seemed to skip a beat every time Alex threw his head back and laughed. 

“Don’t be absurd,” Henry said, though his voice lacked conviction. “He is not my type.”

“Sure, he’s not,” Pez teased, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, darling.” 

Henry tried to ignore the way his pulse quickened, tried to shove down the irrational flutter of nerves in his chest. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop his gaze from drifting back toward Alex.

And for just a moment–just a brief, stolen moment–Alex looked up, catching Henry’s eyes across the lot.

The world tilted.

Henry felt the breath leave his lungs as their gazes locked, something electric passing between them. Alex’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, his dark eyes narrowing slightly in interest, before he flashed Henry a lazy, crooked grin that sent Henry’s heart plummeting straight into his stomach.

Henry quickly looked away, cheeks burning. 

Bloody hell.

“Come on,” Pez said, his voice full of amusement as he grabbed Henry by the arm and pulled him toward one of the food trucks. “You, my friend, are in serious need of a drink.”

Henry let himself be dragged along, his mind reeling. He told himself it was nothing, that it was just the heat, or maybe the overwhelming atmosphere of the tailgate, but deep down, he knew the truth.

It was the boy with the golden skin and the effortless charm.

It was Alex Claremont-Diaz.

And Henry was in trouble.

Okay, so trouble finds Henry way sooner than he would've thought.

He wasn’t sure what he expected when Pez dragged him to this unbearably loud, sweaty spectacle called a tailgate, but he certainly hadn’t planned for this.

It all happens fast. One minute, Henry is standing under a thin slice of shade, trying to cool down and avoid any further interaction with the raucous football fans around him. The next, Alex Claremont-Diaz, glistening with sweat and looking every bit the part of a Greek god masquerading as a Southern frat boy, is swaggering toward him, his grin wide, his curls damp and plastered to his forehead, and his entire body gleaming under the unforgiving Texan sun.

Henry feels his heart lurch in his chest like it’s trying to escape.

Alex’s entire shirt is soaked through, sticking to his skin, the fabric clinging in such a way that it outlines every hard line of his torso–his shoulders, his chest, his abs, for Christ’s sake. 

It’s like the man was carved from marble. 

Henry can’t tear his eyes away, no matter how much he tries to convince himself that he’s above this, above feeling thirsty for some sweaty American frat boy. But nothing about Alex feels typical, or ordinary, and everything about him makes Henry’s blood run hot. 

It wasn’t lost on Henry, the memory of Pez, with that maddeningly knowing smile, once quipping that it was very Henry to turn his nose up at all things collegiate Greek life. It had been back in their first year at UT, when they’d both encountered frat bros and sorority girls for the very first time– beyond the American telly shows they’d grown up watching. Henry had been scandalized by the sheer volume of neon Greek letters and red solo cups, muttering something about how it all seemed like some bizarre, overgrown costume party. 

Pez, ever the social butterfly, had thrown himself into the scene with gusto, mingling easily with their new American peers, but he always kept an eye on Henry, offering him that reassuring smile when the culture shock felt like too much. And of course, in the way of best mates who knew each other inside and out, he never missed a chance to rib Henry about his discomfort, always with a warmth that made it clear he was only ever on Henry’s side. 

“I mean, really, Hazza, it’s almost too on-brand,” Pez had laughed, clapping Henry on the back. “Posh English lad scoffing at American Greek life, as if you’re not just the British version in bespoke tailoring. Like, come on–centuries-old titles, exclusive memberships, rituals that no one understands but insists are ‘deeply meaningful’? Sound familiar, mate?” 

Henry had rolled his eyes at the time, brushing it off with a haughty sniff, but he couldn’t deny that Pez might have had a point. There was a certain absurdity to it all–him, standing there with a history of dukes and lords behind him, judging Alex and his keg stands and letters embroidered on sweatshirts. As if his own heritage wasn’t just a fancier version of secret handshakes and strange initiation rites.

“Two sides of the same coin,” Pez had declared grandly, slinging an arm around Henry’s shoulders. “Except one side’s throwing toga parties, and the other’s got portraits hanging in stuffy country estates.” 

And maybe there was some truth to that, Henry had to admit, though he’d die before giving Pez the satisfaction of hearing it out loud. 

But even knowing that, even as he stood there watching Alex with his curls plastered to his forehead, flushed and shining with sweat, Henry couldn’t quite equate him to any of it. 

Alex was... different. 

Alex was the unpredictable, blazing sun in Henry’s otherwise carefully mapped constellations. And no matter how much he tried to act above it all, he knew deep down that he was hopelessly drawn to that brightness, that heat. 

(...It’s pathetic, really, how just one look from Alex was all it took to have Henry completely, hopelessly captivated.) 

But Alex was also swaying slightly, his grin loose and unfocused, his eyes shining with the telltale haze of too many beers and jello shots. 

He’s drunk, Henry reminds himself, as if that thought will somehow help him keep it together. As if knowing that should be enough to quench the fire coursing through his veins, the urge to lean in and close the unbearable distance between them.

“Heyyy,” Alex slurs, his voice a smooth, lazy drawl as he approaches, his eyes lighting up with recognition as he takes in Henry’s face. “You’re that… that posh British guy, yeah? Pez’s friend.”

Henry stiffens, every nerve in his body on high alert as Alex gets closer– far closer than any reasonable person should. “Henry,” he manages, though it comes out more like a croak. He clears his throat quickly. “Henry Fox.”

Alex’s eyes brighten, as if he’s just heard the most fascinating thing in the whole wide world. “Henry,” he repeats, dragging out the syllables like it’s a secret he’s savoring. His smile stretches wider, and Henry feels the air between them grow thicker, heavier, as Alex takes another step forward, until they’re standing mere inches apart.

“Yeah,” Alex continues, swaying just slightly on his feet. His fingers twitch at his side, like he’s resisting the urge to touch Henry, and Henry feels an inexplicable want coil low in his stomach. “That’s a cool name. Henry Fox. Very... British. Very… sophisticated,” he drawls, his voice dropping an octave, leaning into each word like he’s tasting each syllable. “It’s got this whole… royal, classy vibe to it. Like, fuck, I don’t know, you sound like someone who belongs in a palace or something.” 

Henry lets out a breathy laugh, even as his cheeks flush with warmth. “That’s… not quite how I’d put it, but sure.”

Alex grins wider, a little lopsided and utterly charming. “No, seriously, man. It’s got a kind of… elegance to it. Henry. It suits you.” 

His gaze flickers over Henry, like he’s trying to solve a mystery, eager to unravel every detail, and the weight of it sends a shiver down Henry’s spine.

Henry opens his mouth to respond, but the words die on his tongue as Alex reaches up, running a hand through his sweat-damp curls, pushing them back from his forehead. His cap had been lost somewhere along the way, and without it, Alex looked even more effortlessly disheveled. 

The movement is slow, almost lazy, and Henry’s gaze catches on the way the muscles in Alex’s arm flex as he moves. His bicep strains against the fabric of his soaked t-shirt, and Henry feels a fresh wave of heat flood his face.

It doesn’t help that Alex is absolutely dripping with sweat (did he already mention that?), his shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin, outlining the smooth planes of his stomach, the hard curve of his pecs, the trail of every vein. 

Oh, Lord. 

Henry feels a sudden, irrational urge to trace the path of a bead of sweat with his tongue as it slides down Alex’s throat, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

Jesus Christ, he’s thirsty.

“So…” Alex tilts his head, grinning that crooked, goddamn unfair grin as he lets his eyes roam over Henry. “What’s a fancy Brit like you doing at a tailgate? You don’t look like the football type.” He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Or like the kind of guy who sweats. Though, I wouldn’t mind seeing it, to be honest.”

Henry’s mouth goes dry, his pulse skittering in his chest. He can’t trust himself to respond to that–not when every part of him is threatening to betray exactly how badly he wants to take Alex up on that offer. He swallows, glancing away as if he’s suddenly very interested in the crowd around them, though the heat rolling off Alex’s body pulls him right back.

The way Alex is looking at him–like he’s trying to memorize every detail, as if he wants to remember exactly how Henry’s lips curl when he smiles or the shade of his eyes in this light–sends a spark of electricity down Henry’s spine. His pulse is racing, a dull thud in his ears that drowns out the noise of the crowd around them.

“I’m...not really the, erm, football type,” Henry admits, trying–and failing–to sound casual. He can feel the heat radiating off Alex’s body, can smell the mix of sweat and something distinctly Alex–sunshine, beer, and that maddening hint of cologne that’s making his head spin. Santal 33, if he’d be hard-pressed to guess. 

And fucking Christ, would he be hard-pressed to guess… if he had his way. 

Alex takes another step forward, closing the distance between them until Henry can feel his breath against his cheek, warm and intoxicating. 

“Yeah, I figured,” Alex says, his voice low, intimate. “You look a little too...fancy for all this.” He gestures vaguely to the chaos of the tailgate behind him, then lets his hand drop, brushing Henry’s arm in the process. The touch is brief, but it sends a jolt of heat through Henry’s veins.

Henry swallows hard, forcing himself to look away from Alex’s eyes, which are far too dark, far too knowing. He focuses instead–again–on the way Alex’s shirt is clinging to his body, the fabric plastered to every inch of his torso, leaving nothing to the imagination. He can see the faint outline of Alex’s muscles, the way the material stretches over his chest, and he knows, knows, that if he just reached out and touched– 

Stop.

“You’re drunk,” Henry says quickly, the words spilling out before he can stop them. It’s a weak protest, but it’s all he has.

Alex chuckles softly, a deep, rumbling sound that makes Henry’s stomach flip. 

“Maybe,” he concedes, swaying slightly as he takes another step closer, until their bodies are almost touching. Henry can feel the heat rolling off him, can see the way Alex’s curls cling to his damp forehead, his lips slightly parted as he gazes at Henry with those dark, hooded eyes. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not having fun, sweetheart.”

His voice is teasing, but there’s something deeper in it, something that makes Henry’s breath hitch. Alex’s gaze flickers to Henry’s mouth, and Henry’s heart stutters in his chest.

“I think...” Henry forces the words out, his voice strained. “I think you should...sit down. Or get some water.”

Alex’s grin widens, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “You’re worried about me, baby?” He leans in even closer, his lips so close to Henry’s ear that Henry can feel the brush of them as he speaks. “That’s cute.”

Henry’s face flushes, heat spreading across his cheeks like wildfire. He opens his mouth to protest, but the words die in his throat when Alex’s hand comes up to rest on his shoulder. His grip is warm, firm, and Henry can feel the weight of it through his shirt, can feel the way Alex’s thumb brushes against the bare skin of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine.

“You’re not drunk,” Alex says, his voice soft, his eyes locked on Henry’s. “Are you?”

Henry shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak. 

His mind is a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, of desire and restraint. He wants Alex, wants to close the distance between them and feel the press of Alex’s body against his, wants to taste the salt of his skin, wants to pull him closer and lose himself in this heady, overwhelming attraction.

But Alex is drunk. And no matter how much Henry wants him, no matter how much he aches for him in this moment, he can’t take advantage of that. He won’t.

“You’re…” Henry’s voice cracks slightly as he forces himself to take a step back, breaking the contact between them. “You’re very drunk.”

Alex frowns, his hand dropping from Henry’s shoulder, and for a moment, Henry sees a flicker of something–disappointment, maybe?–in his eyes. But then Alex’s grin returns, lazy and crooked, as if nothing in the world can rattle him.

“Whatever you say, Foxy,” Alex says, his tone light, teasing. He takes a step back as well, but not before giving Henry one last lingering, heated look that makes Henry’s pulse race all over again. “Maybe next time.” 

Henry watches, speechless, as Alex turns and saunters– actually saunters –back toward his group of friends, his shoulders loose, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his back. The sight is enough to make Henry’s breath catch in his throat. His entire body is thrumming with unspent energy, desire pooling low in his stomach as he watches Alex disappear into the crowd.

He drags a hand through his hair, letting out a long, shaky breath. His heart is still pounding, his mind still reeling from the way Alex had looked at him, touched him, like he’d wanted something more. And God, Henry had wanted it too.

But Alex was drunk. Henry had done the right thing.

Hadn’t he?

He swallows hard, his pulse slowly returning to normal as he leans back against the wall behind him, trying to collect his thoughts.

It’s only then that he realizes just how much trouble he’s in.

Because Alex Claremont-Diaz isn’t just some passing distraction. He’s something else. Something more. 

And Henry’s way too interested in finding out what that is.

The next time Henry sees Alex, he’s considerably more sober.

It’s a Tuesday morning, the kind where the sun feels too bright for Henry’s liking. The sky is a brilliant, cloudless blue, and everything about the day screams of productivity and enthusiasm–two things Henry is woefully unprepared for before his third cup of tea. 

The paths cutting through UT’s sprawling campus are already buzzing with activity, students walking briskly to classes, bikes weaving in and out of the crowd, and the occasional distant burst of laughter breaking through the gentle hum of conversation.

Henry’s on his way to his British Literature seminar, Mrs. Dalloway tucked under his arm, mentally rehearsing an argument for the paper he still needs to finish. His mind is filled with half-formed thoughts about post-war societal pressures and Virginia Woolf’s stream of consciousness technique when, all of a sudden, his focus shifts.

Because there, cutting across the plaza like some kind of beacon in the crowd, is him.

Alex Claremont-Diaz, unmistakable even from a distance, trekking across campus with that same easy confidence Henry remembers all too well. 

Only this time, there’s no beer in his hand, no drunken swagger, no rambunctious laughter that seems to pull people into his orbit. Instead, he’s carrying a comically oversized wooden Greek letter–so large that it’s actually taller than Alex himself–painted maroon and white. 

A lambda, if Henry’s memory of Greek letters is serving him right.

Seeing Alex in the flesh again, that same Alex he’d pored over in the depths of his mind for days, feels like a punch to the gut. He’s right there, impossibly real and somehow even more distracting in the broad, sober daylight than he’d been that day at the tailgate.

Alex’s backpack is slung casually over one shoulder, bulging with what Henry assumes are textbooks and other symbols of his overly involved campus life, and he’s balancing the ridiculously large Greek letter with an impressive lack of struggle. His biceps– God help him, Henry is noticing his biceps again –are flexing under the weight of the wooden letter as he readjusts his grip, the maroon and white paint catching the light as Alex maneuvers through the crowd.

Henry swallows, his heart thudding uncomfortably in his chest as he watches Alex make his way across the plaza, every step purposeful, every movement effortlessly smooth. The sun glints off his dark curls, still slightly damp from what Henry assumes must have been an early morning run, and the faint sheen of sweat on his skin only adds to the sense of vitality radiating from him. 

It’s impossible not to think of the Olympians of old–glistening under the sun, skin slicked with olive oil, scraped clean with a strigil, their bodies glowing with an otherworldly energy. 

Henry bites the inside of his cheek, realizing with a flush of embarrassment that he’s romanticizing Alex like he’s some ancient sculpture come to life. It’s ridiculous, truly–but he can’t quite bring himself to care. Not when Alex looks like he belongs on a Grecian urn, carved in marble, and here Henry is, helplessly entranced like some lovesick poet. 

How does he look this bloody good at 9 a.m.? Henry wonders, unable to tear his eyes away. 

His heart does an uncomfortable little flip, and suddenly he’s back at the tailgate, back to the moment when Alex had stood far too close to him, all sweaty and drunk and unbelievably flirtatious. Henry had been able to keep his head then, had turned Alex away because he’d been too drunk, and Henry had known it would be wrong to let anything happen in that state.

But now?

Now, Alex is sober, clear-eyed and focused, and every part of Henry’s brain is screaming at him to pay attention, to soak in every detail of this moment because this is the Alex he can’t stop thinking about–the Alex he’s been quietly, desperately pining after ever since that unbearable hot Saturday afternoon.

The Alex who, even now, looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world–both figuratively and literally, considering the enormous Lambda Sigma Alpha letter he’s hauling across campus–and yet manages to do it with the kind of grace and ease that Henry could only dream of.

How does he do it? Henry wonders, biting his lip as he slows his pace, watching Alex weave through the crowd. How does he manage to be so fucking involved in everything, and still have time to look like… –Henry swallows hard– that?

He’d learned more than he’d intended during a late-night stalking session. 

Lambda Sigma Alpha wasn’t just any fraternity; it was part of the Multicultural Greek Council, a fraternity built on community involvement, cultural pride, and leadership (or at least, that’s what their local chapter website said). And Alex wasn’t just a brother—he was the president of the entire Multicultural Greek Council, no less. On top of that, he was maintaining a perfect GPA in political science, serving on the student government, leading campus initiatives, organizing fundraisers, volunteering with local charities...

Christ, Henry’s head spins just thinking about it all. How does one person balance all of that? How does Alex carry it all without breaking?

Because that’s what Alex does–he carries it. 

Not just the comically large wooden letter in his arms, but everything else: the responsibilities, the leadership, the endless activities, the expectations. 

He carries it all, and he makes it look so effortless. Like it’s as natural as breathing for him to juggle a dozen different things at once and still have time to smile, to laugh, to flirt, for God’s sake.

And as much as Henry hates to admit it, he admires that. He envies it, even. Because Henry has never been like that. He’s never been the kind of person who could shoulder so many responsibilities without crumbling under the weight of them. He’s spent his entire life carefully curating his world, keeping everything controlled, contained. A series of neat, orderly boxes–his writing, his academics, his (sparse) friendships–everything in its proper place.

But Alex... Alex is chaos. A brilliant, blinding kind of chaos that Henry doesn’t know how to resist. Doesn’t want to resist.

Henry’s eyes follow Alex as he pauses near the student center, shifting the oversized letter under his arm while checking something on his phone. For a brief moment, the wind catches a lock of his dark hair, and he brushes it away absently, his face half-shadowed by the sun but still achingly beautiful in a way that makes Henry’s stomach twist with something dangerously close to longing.

He wants to go over. 

The thought hits him suddenly, like a rogue wave crashing into his carefully constructed barriers. He wants to walk over to Alex, strike up a conversation, make some offhand comment about the size of the ridiculous Lambda letter and how utterly ridiculous it is that Alex is carrying it across campus without breaking a sweat. He wants to see that wide, disarming smile again, wants to hear Alex laugh the way he had at the tailgate.

He wants– God help him, he wants to know what it would be like to be close to Alex, to orbit that warmth and brightness, to let himself be swept up in whatever force of nature Alex seems to embody.

But Henry doesn’t move. He stays rooted to the spot, his feet glued to the pavement as he watches Alex adjust the letter one last time and head toward the student center doors. For a fleeting second, Alex glances up, his gaze sweeping across the plaza like he’s looking for something–or someone. And for that brief moment, Henry wonders if maybe, just maybe, Alex’s eyes will land on him.

But they don’t.

Alex’s attention shifts away just as quickly, back to his phone, and then he’s gone, disappearing into the building with that same quiet confidence that leaves Henry feeling...hollow. 

Like he’s been carved out from the inside, something vital missing–something that Alex seems to take with him every time he turns away. It’s an ache that sits heavy in Henry’s chest, a sense of absence that lingers, as though the air where Alex stood is suddenly thinner, colder, leaving Henry yearning to fill the space he left behind. 

He wonders if this is what it means to be lovesick–to feel as though a piece of you is always walking away, just out of reach. 

And then, with a bitter little huff, Henry finds his thoughts turning almost indignant. 

Really, someone should look into the criminal effect Alex has on innocent bystanders. The way he leaves people like Henry feeling utterly awe-struck, craving more–it must be some kind of bloody violation. 

Is there a student union complaints office for this sort of thing? Because surely, someone needs to be made aware of Alexander Claremont-Diaz’s serial offenses of obliviously stealing hearts left and right. Henry would be doing everyone a favor, really. If not for justice, then at least for the sake of public safety. 

But… even as he tries to cling to that ridiculous train of thought, a way of brushing off the nagging ache in his chest, it doesn’t quite work. 

Henry exhales slowly, trying to shake the tightness that has lodged itself firmly in his rib cage. He forces himself to turn away, his footsteps heavy as he continues toward his seminar, his mind a tangled mess of thoughts he doesn’t want to acknowledge, feelings he’s not ready to admit to. 

He tries– really tries–to focus on Virginia Woolf and the paper he still needs to write, but it’s no use. 

His mind drifts, stubbornly caught on the shape of Alex’s smile, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, the way he moves with such careless charm. Always Alex, lately. Every stray thought, every idle moment– always Alex.

Henry knows he’s in trouble. He knows he’s already falling, even if he’s too stubborn to say it out loud, even to himself. 

And the worst part? The part that twists in his chest and sends a shiver through him?

He wants to fall. 

Wants to let go of every rational thought, every reason why this shouldn’t be happening, and just fall headfirst into whatever this could be.

He’s never ached for anything this desperately, with a longing that claws at his chest, relentless and unyielding.

It’s… electrifying. 

When Pez attempts his usual weekend ritual of trying to bully Henry into going out with him, Henry… doesn’t resist as much.

Usually, these interactions follow the same predictable script: Pez, bouncing on the balls of his feet with an energy Henry finds both enviable and exhausting, rattles off the list of that weekend’s social events–house parties, bar crawls, mixers, ragers–while Henry busies himself with preparing a mug of tea and his usual excuses. 

It’s a well-rehearsed routine: I’ve got a paper due, I’m tired, Crowds aren’t really my thing, Wouldn’t you rather go without me dragging you down?

But tonight is different.

Because tonight, when Pez throws out the name of the specific fraternity hosting that weekend’s rager on West Campus, something in Henry’s resolve cracks.

He’ll deny it until his dying day, but Henry was a goner the moment Pez mentioned Alex’s frat. His resolve crumbled like an éclair under pressure–much like the ones currently collapsing on the telly screen in front of him. 

Henry had settled in for a quiet evening, legs tucked under a blanket, The Great British Bake Off murmuring in the background while he nursed his tea. He barely glanced up as the bakers agonized over their showstopper round, Paul Hollywood critiquing the choux pastry that sagged tragically on the cooling racks. The tension in the tent was palpable, and Henry found himself muttering under his breath at the screen, “Come on, mate, you know you can’t stack them like that.” 

But then Pez’s voice breaks through the soft murmur of the show, landing three killer blows: “Lambda. Sigma. Alpha.”

And just like that, Henry’s focus shifted, his heart giving that familiar, foolish little flip. The excuses he’d lined up to fend off another one of Pez’s schemes– It’s a pastry disaster, Pez, have a heart –collapsed as spectacularly as those poor, ill-fated éclairs. 

Suddenly, the idea of staying in with his blanket and Bake Off felt… impossible.

“Come on, mate,” Pez is saying now, lounging against the kitchen counter with a sly grin as he watches Henry falter. “It’s going to be huge –I’m talking wall-to-wall people, free drinks, and it’s at one of those ridiculous West Campus houses with a rooftop pool and everything. You have to come.”

Henry looks down at his tea, swirling it absentmindedly, as if the Earl Grey can provide some kind of answer to his internal dilemma. But it’s no use. His mind is already far from the kitchen, far from Pez’s teasing smile. It’s already on Alex, imagining him at this rager–dressed in something annoyingly perfect, probably holding court in the middle of the party, laughing and throwing out casual, devastating smiles. 

Henry can practically see it now: Alex, bathed in that warm, hazy glow that makes everyone else in the room feel like background noise. The image is sharp, almost too vivid, before it starts to blur at the edges, like a telly losing signal–sound cutting in and out, visuals flickering into status. Alex’s laugh crackles, his smile fades in and out of focus, but it’s still the only thing Henry can concentrate on, the only thing that matters. 

And the thought of not being there? The thought of missing the chance to see Alex again, to maybe talk to him– sober this time–is enough to make Henry’s chest tighten in anticipation.

“I don’t know,” Henry starts, but his voice lacks its usual firmness, and Pez is quick to pick up on it. And pounces. 

“Oh, don’t give me that, Hazza!” Pez says, grinning as he leans in closer. “You’re thinking about it. I can tell. You’re not putting up half the fight you normally do. What gives?”

Henry resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m just tired, Pez. I’ve got that paper for my British Lit class. Mrs. Dalloway, remember?”

Pez waves a dismissive hand, his grin widening. “Please. You’re ahead of schedule with that paper, and we both know it. Besides, a little fresh air and fun will do you good. And don’t even try to pretend it’s about the crowds–you’ve braved worse before. Admit it, you want to go.”

Henry bites the inside of his cheek, eyes flicking toward the window as if it’ll offer him an escape. He does want to go. As much as he’s trying to tell himself it’s ridiculous to base his weekend plans around the faint hope of seeing Alex, there’s a part of him– a growing part of him –that can’t stop thinking about it. He wants to see Alex again, wants to be in the same space as him, wants to feel that spark of electricity in the air when their eyes meet, even if nothing happens.

Maybe, if he goes, Alex will come up to him again. 

Sober. 

Intentional.

Maybe Henry won’t turn him away this time.

“You know,” Pez adds casually, though Henry can hear the mischief in his voice. The tone that usually spells out trouble for him. “I heard Alex is going to be there.”

There it is. 

Henry’s heart skips a beat, and it takes everything in him not to visibly react. Instead, he raises an eyebrow, trying to look disinterested. “Alex?”

Pez’s grin widens. Fuck. “Oh, come on. Don’t play dumb, darling. Alex Claremont-Diaz. The one you’ve been trying very hard not to talk about since the tailgate.”

Henry swallows hard, fighting the instinct to look away. 

He’d mentioned to Pez–casually, of course–that Alex had introduced himself at the tailgate. Just a passing comment, like it hadn’t meant anything. But he’d kept the rest of the details to himself: the way Alex’s smile had made his knees weak, how his laugh had seemed to wrap around Henry like a warm embrace, how the touch of his hand on Henry’s shoulder had lingered far longer than it should have.

Yet somehow, Pez always seems to know everything–like a bloody psychic, reading between every line Henry tries to keep hidden.

“I’m not–” Henry starts, but the words die in his throat because he has been trying not to talk about Alex. Not to Pez, not to anyone. 

It’s too much, too dangerous to admit out loud that Alex has been living rent-free in his head ever since that day. That every time Henry closes his eyes, he’s haunted by the memory of Alex’s smile, the warmth of his hand on Henry’s shoulder, the way his voice had dropped to that low, teasing murmur that had left Henry’s heart pounding like a drum.

His mind flashing back to that 3 a.m. social media deep dive he’d done after the tailgate. How he’d stared at Alex’s Instagram feed for far too long, scrolling through photos of him at charity events, frat parties, political rallies–always smiling, always surrounded by people, always so perfect. The memory of it makes Henry cringe inwardly. He’d been a fool, obsessing over every little detail, as if he could somehow piece together a clearer picture of who Alex really was, what made him tick.

He won’t admit it to Pez. Never. Not even under threat of torture. 

“I have no idea what you mean,” Henry says again, though his voice cracks ever so slightly, and he knows Pez has him cornered.

Pez crosses his arms, giving Henry a knowing look. “Look, I get it. He’s… something. Believe me, I’ve seen the way half the campus looks at him. But you, my sweet darling, have it bad.”

Henry flushes, immediately turning back to his tea to avoid meeting Pez’s eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being right,” Pez says, practically singing the words. “You like him. And don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, but I’m telling you–tonight’s the night. You should go, Hazza. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Henry doesn’t answer right away, because his mind is already wandering, imagining the possibilities. 

What is the worst that could happen? 

He could show up, see Alex, and make a complete fool of himself, blushing like an idiot every time Alex so much as glances his way. He could stand there, awkward and out of place, while Alex commands the attention of the entire party, too busy and too perfect to even notice Henry standing on the sidelines.

But then there’s the other possibility. 

The one that has been eating away at him since the tailgate. The possibility that Alex will notice him, that their eyes will meet again across the room, and this time, Henry won’t have the excuse of alcohol to keep him at a distance. This time, Alex could come up to him–smiling, sober, real– and something might happen.

The thought is terrifying. And thrilling. And Henry knows, in his gut, that he can’t resist it.

He exhales slowly, placing his mug down on the counter with a soft clink. “Fine,” he says, his voice quieter than he intends. “I’ll go.”

Pez lets out a gleeful whoop, clapping Henry on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “That’s the spirit! I knew you had it in you, babes!” 

Henry manages a small, tight-lipped smile, though inside he feels like his heart is beating out of sync. “Yeah, well. I hope you’re happy with yourself, Pezza.” 

“Oh, I’m fucking delighted, my dearest,” Pez says, already darting toward the hallway to grab his jacket. “But trust me, you’re going to be a lot happier by the end of the night. Just wait and see.”

Henry’s not sure about that, but as he heads back to his room to change, he can’t help but feel a strange sense of anticipation buzzing in his chest. There’s something about tonight, something in the air, that makes him feel like maybe–just maybe–things might actually shift.

As he pulls on a clean shirt and checks his reflection in the mirror, he lets himself imagine it for a moment: Alex’s smile, Alex’s voice, Alex standing close enough that their shoulders brush, close enough that Henry can smell the faint scent of cologne mixed with beer and sunshine.

Maybe tonight, he won’t have to imagine.

Henry is breathless.

Alex has him pinned against the wall, every inch of their bodies pressed together, the heat of Alex’s skin seeping into his own. He can barely think, his mind overwhelmed by the way Alex’s lips move against his, the taste of him–beer and something sweet, something dangerous. His hands are tangled in the fabric of Alex’s shirt, clutching at it like it’s the only thing grounding him in this moment. And maybe it is.

It had all happened so fast. 

One minute, Henry had been standing by the edge of the party, trying not to feel like the world’s most awkward observer while Pez disappeared into the crowd, already charming half the room. And then Alex had appeared out of nowhere, flashing that infuriatingly perfect smile, eyes lighting up the moment they met Henry’s.

“Hey, Foxy,” Alex had murmured, leaning in just close enough that Henry could smell the faint mix of beer and cologne on his skin. It had been too much, that moment–Alex, right there, all smiles and swagger, as if he hadn’t already occupied Henry’s every thought for the past week.

And then, before Henry could even think to stop himself, he was here–pressed against the wall, Alex’s lips devouring his, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Henry is dizzy with it. His hands are gripping Alex’s waist, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel the skin underneath. Alex groans against his mouth when Henry’s fingers brush against the firm muscle of his abdomen, and Henry’s knees nearly buckle from the sound.

God, he’s beautiful.

The feel of Alex’s body, all heat and strength and want, is sending sparks through Henry’s veins, lighting him up from the inside. He hadn’t realized it would be like this— this intense, this all-consuming. But now that he’s here, now that Alex’s lips are on his and their bodies are moving together, Henry can’t think of anything else.

Alex is kissing him like a man starved, his lips urgent and possessive, teeth grazing Henry’s lower lip in a way that has him gasping into Alex’s mouth. The party rages on just a few rooms away, but here, in this dark hallway, it feels like the world has narrowed down to just the two of them–just the heat of Alex’s body, the feel of his hand gripping Henry’s hip, the pressure of his thigh between Henry’s legs, pushing, grinding.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

“Alex,” Henry breathes, breaking the kiss just long enough to catch his breath, but Alex doesn’t let up. He dips his head to kiss along Henry’s jaw, then lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down Henry’s neck, sucking lightly on the sensitive skin. Henry’s head falls back against the wall, a strangled sound escaping him as Alex’s teeth scrape just enough to make him shudder.

“Fuck, Henry,” Alex mutters against his throat, his voice low and rough. His hand slips under Henry’s shirt, fingers skimming over his ribs, warm and firm and dangerous. “You’re driving me crazy.”

Henry’s breath catches, his pulse racing as Alex’s hand continues its slow exploration of his body. He feels like his skin is on fire, every nerve lit up and buzzing, but there’s something else, something deep in his chest that’s pulling him under–something he’s both desperate for and terrified of.

He’s no stranger to casual sex, to the safety of physical intimacy without the weight of emotions attached. It’s always been easier that way, a way to keep people at arm’s length, to give without really giving. 

Growing up under the cold, watchful eye of his grandmother, he’d never been allowed to express his emotions freely, had learned to tuck them away behind a perfectly crafted facade. Even after he’d put an entire ocean between himself and the suffocating expectations of his family back home, emotional vulnerability didn’t come easily. He prided himself on having the stiffest of British upper lips, the kind that never quivered, never broke.

But this– this is different. Because for once, he doesn’t just want the heat of the moment, doesn’t just crave the sensation of touch. 

He wants Alex, truly wants him, in a way that leaves Henry feeling unmoored, longing for more than just skin against skin. And beneath the heat and the hunger, there’s a flutter of fear, the gnawing uncertainty of what comes after. 

He’s never been this vulnerable with anyone, never let someone this close. 

And Alex... Alex could undo him.

But Alex pulls back, just for a moment, and when Henry opens his eyes, he’s met with a grin that could only be described as devastating. Mischief dances in Alex’s dark eyes, and his lips are still red and swollen from their kisses, slightly parted as he pants for breath. He leans in again, brushing his lips against Henry’s ear as he whispers, “Come with me.”

The words send a shiver down Henry’s spine, but before he can respond, Alex’s hand finds his, fingers intertwining with his, and suddenly he’s being pulled away from the wall, led through the hallway with a purpose that makes Henry’s heart leap into his throat.

“Alex, wait—” Henry’s voice is breathless, barely audible over the pounding of his own heart, but Alex turns back to him, flashing that same life-altering grin that’s both charming and dangerous, his eyes dark with intent

“No waiting, Foxy,” Alex murmurs, his voice low and teasing. “You’re coming with me.”

Henry doesn’t resist. He can’t. 

Not when Alex is looking at him like that, not when his pulse is still racing from the way Alex had kissed him, touched him. He lets Alex pull him through the crowd, weaving past groups of people who barely notice them. Hand clasped tightly in Alex’s, Henry stumbles slightly, trying to keep pace as Alex leads him upstairs with an electric energy that leaves him breathless, away from the noise and the crush of bodies, toward something more private, more intimate.

As they climb the stairs, Henry’s heart thuds loudly in his chest, the anticipation twisting low in his stomach. The party below fades into the background, muffled now, just a dull hum that seems worlds away from the intensity thrumming between them. Alex is practically dragging him now, his grip tight and unyielding, like he’s afraid Henry might disappear if he lets go–like he’s holding on to something fragile, a fantasy just within reach that might slip through his fingers at any moment. 

And Henry... Henry clings back just as fiercely, afraid to break the spell, afraid of what happens when reality catches up with them.

At the top of the stairs, Alex pauses, turning back to glance at Henry with a look that’s both playful and full of heat. “You still want this?” he asks, his voice husky, but his eyes searching Henry’s face for any sign of hesitation.

Henry swallows hard, his heart beating so fast it feels like it might burst. He wants to say something clever, something that will make Alex laugh, that will hide how completely undone he feels. But all he can manage is a nod, his voice caught somewhere in his throat.

Alex’s grin softens, a flicker of something almost tender passing over his features. “Good,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Because I’ve wanted this since the moment I saw you, baby.”

Before Henry can respond–before he can even process the words–Alex is pulling him again, this time toward a room at the end of the hallway. He fumbles with the door for a moment, then pushes it open, tugging Henry inside and kicking the door shut behind them.

The room is small, dimly lit by the soft glow of a single bedside lamp, but it feels miles away from the chaos of the party downstairs. 

It’s quiet here, the air heavy with the kind of tension that has Henry’s breath catching in his throat. Alex still has his hand, fingers wrapped tightly around his, and as soon as the door closes, he tugs Henry closer, pulling him flush against his chest, lips crashing down onto Henry’s once more.

This kiss is different. It’s slower, deeper, more deliberate. Alex’s hands are on Henry’s waist, pulling him impossibly closer, and Henry feels the last of his hesitation melt away, his body responding with a kind of urgency he didn’t know he was capable of. His hands slide up Alex’s chest, his fingers tangling in the collar of his shirt as he tugs him closer, needing more– needing all of him. 

Alex groans into the kiss, his fingers tightening on Henry’s waist as he pushes him backward, guiding him toward the bed. Henry’s legs hit the edge of the mattress, and suddenly he’s falling back, Alex following, hovering over him as they fall together. The weight of Alex on top of him, the heat of his body pressing into his, sends a rush of something molten and electric through Henry’s veins.

Alex breaks the kiss for just a moment, his forehead resting against Henry’s as he catches his breath. “Fuck, Henry,” he breathes, his voice rough and wrecked. “You’re... God, you’re driving me fucking insane, baby.”

Henry’s heart is pounding in his chest, his body trembling beneath Alex’s weight. He opens his mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a soft, needy sound, and Alex’s eyes darken with something primal, something that makes Henry’s breath catch.

“You have no idea,” Alex murmurs, his lips brushing against Henry’s jaw as he speaks, his hands sliding up under Henry’s shirt again, this time more purposeful, more possessive. “No idea how much I’ve been thinking of having you like this, sweetheart.”

Henry can’t breathe. His entire body is alight with sensation–Alex’s hands on his skin, Alex’s breath hot against his neck, Alex’s lips pressing open-mouthed kisses along his collarbone. He arches into Alex’s touch, his fingers digging into Alex’s shoulders, pulling him closer, desperate for more of him.

“Alex,” Henry gasps, his voice breaking as Alex’s lips find that spot on his neck again, the one that makes his whole body tremble. “Alex, please.”

Alex pulls back just enough to meet Henry’s gaze, his eyes dark and hungry. “Please what?” he murmurs, his lips hovering just inches from Henry’s, teasing. “Tell me what you want, princess.”

And Henry. Henry fucking shivers at being called… that. 

His mind is a mess of desire and need, body burning with the weight of what he wants, what he’s always wanted. His hands tighten their grip on Alex’s shoulders, and for a moment, all he can do is stare into Alex’s eyes, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

“I want you,” Henry finally whispers, the words barely audible but heavy with meaning. His heart is pounding, his pulse racing, but he knows, knows, that this is what he wants–what he’s wanted since the moment Alex smiled at him that day across a chaotic parking lot, what he’s been too afraid to admit to himself fully. 

Alex’s expression softens, and for a split second, something vulnerable flickers in his eyes. But then he leans down, pressing his lips to Henry’s in a slow, deliberate kiss, and Henry feels himself melting into it, every last piece of him falling apart under the weight of Alex’s touch.

“I’m here,” Alex murmurs against Henry’s lips, his voice soft and steady, like a promise. “I’m right here.”

And as Henry pulls him closer, as their bodies press together, as Alex’s hands slide up his skin and their lips meet again in a kiss that feels like it could swallow him whole, Henry realizes something:

He’s falling–perhaps stupidly, unbelievably fast–and for the first time, he’s not afraid to let it happen.

It’s intoxicating–the way Alex kisses him, the way his lips move over Henry’s with such intensity, as though he’s claiming him down to his every molecule, devouring him with a hunger that makes Henry’s head spin. The kiss deepens, heat pooling between them, their breaths quick and ragged, as their hands desperately roam each other’s bodies, tugging at clothes, grasping at skin, needing more. 

Alex’s thigh presses firmly between Henry’s legs, creating the perfect friction, and Henry can’t help the moan that slips from his throat. His hips roll up instinctively, seeking more of that pressure, more of Alex’s touch, every nerve in his body lit up like a live wire. 

“Fuck, baby,” Alex growls against his neck, his teeth scraping lightly against Henry’s skin, sending shivers down his spine. “You sound so fucking good like this.” 

Henry feels like he’s falling apart, his body arching into Alex’s every touch, desperate for more of that sweet friction. His hands tug at the front of Alex’s shirt, fingers curling in the fabric as he pulls him closer, needing to feel him, needing every inch of him. 

“Please, Alex–” Henry gasps, his voice breathless, needy, his body trembling beneath Alex’s weight. “Please–”

Alex pulls back just enough to look down at him, his dark eyes filled with something wild, his lips curving into that devastating, filthy grin that makes Henry’s stomach flutter. 

“What do you want, princess?” Alex’s voice is low, teasing, and that fucking pet name again–the way he says it, so casually, so confidently–sends a jolt of heat straight through Henry, making him shudder. “Tell me what you need.” 

Henry’s heart skips a beat at his words, his breath catching in his throat. It’s ridiculous, really–he’s never been called princess before, and yet, the way Alex says it, brands him with it, with that low, rumbling voice of his and that wicked grin, has him melting. His body responds instantly, his hips rolling up against Alex’s thigh as he gasps for breath. 

“I–” Henry’s voice is shaky, his mind a haze of desire as he meets Alex’s gaze. “I need you to touch me. Please.”

Alex’s grin widens, dark and full of heat, and Henry can see the way his eyes flash with smug satisfaction, like he’s been waiting for this. “That’s my good girl,” Alex murmurs, the teasing edge in his voice unmistakable as he leans down, brushing his lips over Henry’s ear. “Such a good little princess for me.” 

Henry whimpers at the words, his whole body shuddering beneath Alex’s, his pulse racing, and Alex knows it. He knows exactly how much Henry loves it, how much that one word–the way Alex owns it–completely undoes him. He can feel the heat building inside him, can feel himself getting harder just from the sound of Alex’s voice, the dirty, possessive way he calls him princess.

“You like that, don’t you?” Alex whispers, his voice full of heat as he presses his thigh harder against Henry, grinding it between his legs. “You like being my princess?”

Henry moans, his back arching off the bed as pleasure courses through him, his fingers gripping Alex’s arms like they’re the only thing keeping him grounded. His mind is spinning, every inch of him alive with sensation, and all he can do is nod, his breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps.

“Yes,” Henry breathes, his voice trembling, his cheeks flushed with heat and embarrassment, but he doesn’t care. He wants Alex to know, wants Alex to take full advantage of the power he has over him. “God, yes, Alex, yes.”

Alex chuckles softly, clearly pleased with Henry’s reaction, and he leans down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to Henry’s neck, his hand sliding down to undo Henry’s jeans with practiced ease.

“Good girl,” Alex murmurs against his skin, his voice low and full of praise. “You’re so fucking good for me, sweetheart. So fucking perfect.”

The praise sends another wave of heat through Henry, and he trembles beneath Alex’s touch, his hips bucking up as Alex pulls his jeans down, his hand brushing against Henry’s thigh in a way that makes his breath hitch. Makes his head dizzy with it. 

“You’re going to let me take care of you, aren’t you, princess?” Alex whispers, his lips moving down Henry’s chest, his fingers hooking into the waistband of Henry’s boxers, pulling them down slowly, teasingly. “You’re going to let me make you feel real good?”

Henry nods frantically, his chest heaving as Alex’s hands roam his body, fingers tracing over every inch of exposed skin. He feels like he’s on fire, every touch from Alex sparking a new wave of pleasure, and he’s helpless to stop the soft moan that escapes him when Alex finally wraps a hand around his cock.

“Fuck—” Henry gasps, his hips jerking up involuntarily as Alex’s fingers curl around him, stroking him slowly, teasing him. “Alex, please—”

“Please what, princess?” Alex’s voice is dark, teasing, as he strokes Henry with slow, deliberate movements, his thumb brushing over the head of Henry’s cock, smearing the slickness there. “Tell me what you want.”

Henry’s mind is a haze of pleasure, his body trembling beneath Alex’s scorching touch, his hips rolling up into Alex’s hand, desperate for more.

“I want you,” Henry breathes, his voice breaking, his chest heaving. “I want you to fuck me. Please.”

Alex groans, his hand tightening around Henry’s cock, his strokes quickening. “Fuck, princess,” he growls, leaning down to press a bruising kiss to Henry’s lips. “You have no idea how much I’ve been waiting to hear you say that.”

Henry’s whole body shudders at the words, his mind spinning as Alex moves over him, his hand never stopping, never slowing, driving Henry closer and closer to the edge. The heat is building inside him, sharp and intense, and Henry feels like he’s going to come undone.

“Come on, baby,” Alex murmurs, his voice low and full of command as his hand moves faster, stroking Henry’s cock with a deliberate, teasing rhythm that makes Henry gasp. “Come for me, princess. I want to see you fall apart, baby.”

That’s all it takes.

Henry’s body tenses, pleasure crashing over him like a tidal wave, overwhelming and intense, pulling him under. He gasps Alex’s name, his vision going white as he comes hard, his body shaking with the force of it, trembling beneath Alex as he rides out his release.

Alex doesn’t stop. His hand keeps moving, stroking him through his orgasm, drawing out every last ounce of pleasure until Henry is a panting, trembling mess beneath him. His chest heaves, his whole body trembling in the aftermath, and Alex leans down, pressing soft kisses to his skin, his lips moving over Henry’s chest, his neck, his jaw, soothing him.

“You did so good, princess,” Alex whispers, his voice soft, full of affection as he strokes Henry’s cheek with the back of his hand, his touch gentle. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

Henry’s body is still trembling, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps, but there’s a warmth spreading through him, a contentment that fills every inch of him. He feels safe here, with Alex, feels wanted in a way he’s never felt before.

“Are you okay?” Alex asks softly, his voice full of warmth and concern as he presses a gentle kiss to Henry’s lips. “Did I ruin you, princess?”

Henry lets out a breathless laugh, his chest still heaving as he shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin me,” he whispers, his voice hoarse, but there’s a smile playing on his lips. “You... God, you were perfect.”

Alex grins down at him, his dark eyes softening with affection as he brushes a strand of hair away from Henry’s forehead. “You’re the one who’s perfect, baby,” Alex whispers, his voice low, tender, as he leans down to kiss Henry again, slow and sweet, full of fondness. “You’re mine.”

With a sudden rush of giddy boldness, Henry pulls Alex down into a kiss, fierce and claiming, pouring all his desire and possessiveness into it. He’s not just falling–he’s grabbing onto Alex, wanting him more than anything, determined to hold on tight because this, him, is only the beginning. 

And there’s no bloody way Henry is ever going to let him go now. Not ever, perhaps, if he has any say in it. 

Henry couldn’t stop smiling. 

In fact, it felt like he hadn’t stopped smiling since last night–his cheeks were starting to ache, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. There was a buoyancy in his chest that made everything feel lighter, brighter, like the world had tilted just enough to align everything perfectly. And the reason for it all, of course, was Alex.

Alex Claremont-Diaz– the boy who had kissed him senseless, talked to him until the early hours of the morning, and held him close like he never wanted to let go.

The night they’d spent together had been so much more than what Henry had anticipated. He had imagined the intensity, the heat—he’d felt it building between them, within himself, for what felt like an eternity. 

But what had surprised him was how it all softened afterward. 

After their initial fevered touches and breathless kisses, they had slowed down, shifting into a rhythm that felt easy, right. They hadn’t just slept together; they had talked. Kissed lazily between words, giggled softly, murmured about everything from childhood memories to future plans.

Alex had told him about his summers spent at camp, how those weeks had always been a break from the weight of expectations back home. He’d mentioned, almost offhandedly, that he’d been a Boy Scout, spending his days learning how to tie knots, build campfires, and earn badges. Henry couldn’t help but smile at the thought of a little Alex in a scout uniform, earnest and determined, probably taking the whole thing very seriously. It was endearing in a way that made Henry’s chest ache, picturing that bright-eyed, hopeful version of Alex, singing campfire songs and making s’mores.

But no matter how much time had passed, Alex had told him, there was always that one summer that had left a scar–when he’d come back to find that his father had left, taking Alex’s older sister, June, with him. His voice had wavered, just a little, when he spoke about it, and Henry had felt a pang deep in his chest.

He could imagine a younger Alex, fresh off campfire songs and lakeside swims, blindsided by the change, the kind of wound that leaves a mark even after it heals. 

Alex spoke about how his mother had thrown herself even deeper into her career as governor, and how he had felt a pressure to be the perfect son to make up for everything that had fractured around them. He’d laughed softly, a little self-deprecating, as he admitted how he’d become obsessed with grades and achievements, how even now, he still felt the need to prove himself. 

Despite the distance, though, Alex told him how June had become his anchor, his best friend–how she had been the one constant through it all.

And Henry had found himself talking too, revealing pieces of himself he almost never shared.

He told Alex about how his father had died of cancer when he was fifteen, how the loss had hollowed out their home, leaving his mother a shell of herself, her laughter and warmth fading like old photographs. He spoke of Beatrice, his sister, who had turned to drugs to drown the grief until she nearly drowned in it herself, a moment that had sent her spiraling into rehab. And then there was Philip, the brother who had stepped into the role of heir, molded into something unfeeling by their grandmother, Gran–someone who had always been more ice than warmth, more command than kindness.

He shared memories of Pez, too–how they had met as gangly, young schoolboys at Eton, both a little out of place among the old money and stiff traditions. Henry had never quite fit the mold of a proper heir, too sensitive, too burdened by a loneliness he couldn’t name, but then there was Pez, bursting into his life with all the brightness of a supernova. Where Henry was shy and hesitant, Pez was vibrant and open, a bundle of endless energy and charm that had swept Henry up and refused to let him sink.

In a way, Pez became his June–the one person who made the heavy days feel lighter, the one who saw through the layers of politeness and restraint that Henry wore like armor. 

Pez had been there through all of it: his father’s death, Beatrice’s descent and recovery, and the cold grip of their family’s expectations. He had offered his unyielding support, not with pity but with a fierce, unwavering loyalty that kept Henry anchored when everything else felt like it might sweep him away. Pez was the one who had pulled him out of his shell time and time again, who reminded him that he could be more than just the quiet boy in the corner.

The words came out slowly, haltingly, as if they were still sharp against his tongue. And Alex had listened, had looked at him like none of it was too much, like he could take it all and more.

So, Henry also spoke about the bitterness he still felt, how suffocated he had been under their family's expectations, the constant feeling of being watched, weighed, and measured. How the first chance he got, he ran, leaving England behind, trying to escape the shadows that clung to him. But even with an ocean between him and the ghosts of home, Henry confessed he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he was still running, still hiding. He whispered how he felt like a coward sometimes, how he’d never learned to stay.

And yet, in that moment, telling Alex those things hadn’t felt like an act of cowardice. It had felt like exhaling, like he was letting out a breath he’d been holding for years. 

He didn’t need to pretend. 

And when he was done, Alex’s hand had found his, fingers threading together tightly, as if to hold all those broken pieces of Henry with a tenderness that he hadn’t thought possible.

Between the confessions, they had dared to talk about the future. 

Henry had found himself listening, rapt, as Alex spoke about wanting to make a real difference, wanting to break out of the mold of his parents’ legacies and forge something of his own. He talked about becoming a teacher, or maybe a lawyer–something that would allow him to help others, to change lives in a way that didn’t involve campaign trails or political maneuvering. He had no desire to follow his parents into the world of politics, where everything felt scripted and strategic. He wanted to carve his own path, one where he could use his voice without feeling like he was standing in someone else’s shadow. 

Henry could picture it so clearly–Alex in front of a classroom, or arguing passionately in a courtroom, his enthusiasm lighting up the faces of students or clients, making them believe in something bigger.

And somehow, Henry had let himself dream too. 

He’d shared his wishes, the ones he rarely let himself entertain: a life where he might write for a living, teach creative writing, publish a book of poetry that someone, somewhere, might actually read. 

He had laughed nervously when he said it, a little self-conscious, but Alex’s gaze never wavered, as if he believed in those dreams even more than Henry did, like he could see those dreams just as vividly as Henry could.

“And travel,” Henry had added, his voice barely more than a whisper, as if speaking it too loudly might break the spell of the moment. “I want to see places that aren’t haunted by... everything. I want to stand somewhere and not feel like I’m carrying the weight of home with me. I don’t know, just... find a little corner of the world where I can finally breathe, where I can be... me.”

For a second, Henry almost wished he could take the words back, tuck them away like he always did with his most vulnerable thoughts. But Alex had reached out, brushing a thumb over the back of Henry’s hand, his touch warm and steady.

“You deserve that, you know,” Alex had said, his voice gentle but sure. “You deserve all of it, Henry. And I’d love to read that poetry someday.”

Henry had blinked, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity in Alex’s words, the way they felt like they were settling somewhere deep in his chest. He wasn’t used to hearing someone say things like that to him, to believing them. But in that moment, with Alex’s earnest smile and his thumb still tracing circles against Henry’s skin, he let himself imagine that maybe it wasn’t so impossible after all.

Henry had never opened up to anyone like that before. But with Alex, it felt natural, like they were already building something without needing to say the words. The connection was undeniable, like a current that hummed between them, pulling them closer and closer.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d craved something like this–someone like Alex. He hadn’t even known it was possible.

And so what was supposed to be a single night of passion had transformed into something much more intimate and innocent. Somewhere between the kisses and the quiet conversation, they had fallen asleep, legs tangled under the sheets, Henry tucked into Alex’s arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

And in the morning, that’s exactly how they had woken up: still holding on to each other, like they couldn’t bear to part.

When Henry had opened his eyes, it was to the gentle rise and fall of Alex’s chest beneath his cheek, Alex’s arm still slung around his waist, pulling him close even in sleep. Henry had blinked sleepily, warmth spreading through him as he realized where he was– who he was with. He had felt the slow thud of Alex’s heartbeat beneath his palm, and for a few moments, he just lay there, listening.

It felt like he was floating in a dream. A soft, warm dream where he was allowed to be happy– really happy–for once. No overthinking, no doubt, just this steady, grounding presence of Alex, holding him tightly, making him feel more wanted, more seen than he ever had before.

Then Alex had stirred, his body shifting slightly, his hold on Henry tightening for a moment before he blinked his eyes open, soft and sleepy. And the first thing Alex had done–the very first thing–was press a kiss to the top of Henry’s head, murmuring in a voice thick with sleep, “Morning, sweetheart.”

Henry’s heart had stumbled in his chest, the sound of that word– sweetheart –coming from Alex’s lips like it belonged there. And the way Alex had looked at him in those first moments of the morning, like nothing else mattered, had cemented it for Henry. 

He wasn’t just falling for Alex–he was already gone.

They hadn’t rushed to get up. Instead, they’d stayed wrapped in each other’s arms for a little while longer, sharing lazy, sleepy kisses and talking about nothing in particular. Henry had never felt so at ease, so wanted, and Alex– God, it seemed like Alex was just as intense about romancing him as he was about everything else. Every smile, every touch, every look was full of that fierce, unwavering attention that Alex gave to everything he cared about.

It was almost overwhelming how easily Alex had already woven Henry into his life. It wasn’t just about the night they’d spent together–it was the way Alex had woken up beside him, kissed him good morning like they’d been doing it for years. The way Alex made sure Henry knew, without a doubt, that he was wanted. Henry had never experienced that before, the certainty of being someone’s first thought, their priority. Alex was always the golden boy, the campus star with a million responsibilities, yet he’d made room for Henry like it was the simplest thing in the world.

And Henry... well, he wasn’t complaining. He was giddy with it.

When they finally did get up, Alex had immediately wrapped an arm around Henry’s waist as they walked out the door, pulling him close as if it was second nature. It had felt so easy, so natural, and Henry hadn’t even had a chance to second-guess it. Alex was already all in, and Henry didn’t have to wonder whether they were on the same page–because Alex made sure there was no room for doubt.

As they walked through West Campus that morning, the sunlight filtering through the trees, Alex’s hand wrapped around his like it had always been there, Henry couldn’t stop grinning. Every time Alex squeezed his hand or gave him that lazy, charming smile of his, Henry’s heart fluttered in his chest. 

It was surreal. It was perfect.

Alex, of course, had something else in store for Henry–something that made Henry’s heart feel like it was too big for his chest.

They had strolled through downtown, Alex effortlessly leading them to a charming little European café Henry had never noticed before. It was tucked away from the main roads, its outdoor garden spilling over with colorful flowers and shaded by trees. The moment they walked in, Henry felt like he had stepped into another world–quiet, intimate, the perfect backdrop for the morning that had started with Alex’s arms around him.

The garden was gorgeous, their table perfectly set beneath the trees, and Henry could barely contain his excitement as he took it all in. The whole place had a peaceful, calming energy, and Henry couldn’t help but wonder if Alex had brought him here on purpose, knowing exactly the kind of atmosphere Henry would love.

Their table served to be an absolute dream. A basket of warm, buttery croissants sat in the center, alongside a platter of French pastries that looked too beautiful to eat. A meat and cheese board lay spread out beside them, with freshly squeezed orange juice that tasted like it had come straight from a sun-drenched orchard.

But as perfect as the food was, it wasn’t what made Henry’s heart nearly stop.

It happened so casually, so simply. They had been talking, hadn’t stopped since last night, really, laughing about something silly Alex had said. And then, out of nowhere, Alex wiped his mouth with a napkin, leaned forward with a grin, and asked, in the most sincere tone, “So... do you wanna be my boyfriend, sweetheart?”

Henry’s heart had stuttered.  

It was such a simple question, but the weight of it hit him like a tidal wave. There was no grand speech, no buildup–just the question, laid out as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Henry had blinked, his breath catching as he processed the words, his mind racing to catch up with the ease with which Alex had asked. 

But as much as he wanted this– wanted Alex–there was a part of him that couldn’t help but wonder if it was all too good to be true. Henry had always been careful with his heart, always cautious, because what if… what if it all went wrong? What if he wasn’t enough for Alex, or worse–what if Alex realized he deserved more? 

The fear… it twisted inside him, a knot he didn’t know if he could quite untangle completely, but then Alex’s steady smile–the kind that reached his eyes–seemed to melt it all away, easing the tension in Henry’s chest. At least for now. 

But it was enough. 

And so, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Henry had leaned forward and kissed him–a kiss that tasted of strawberry jam, joy, and everything he hadn’t known he was missing.

“Yes,” Henry whispered against Alex’s lips, his smile so wide and elated it nearly hurt. He couldn’t help it–his heart was pounding, but it wasn’t out of fear. It was pure happiness. “Yes, I want to be your boyfriend, darling.”

Alex’s eyes softened, his grin spreading into something wide and warm as he reached for Henry’s hand across the table, lacing their fingers together. The weight of his hand was steady, comforting, and Henry felt that rush of joy bubble up again, his chest so full of affection he thought he might burst with it. 

“Good,” Alex said simply, his thumb brushing lightly over Henry’s knuckles. “Because I’ve been wanting to ask you since I woke up.”

Henry’s breath hitched, a soft, delighted laugh escaping him as he gazed at Alex, completely lovestruck. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing–it had been so easy for Alex. He had just asked, and somehow that had made it all the more real. Henry didn’t have to wonder, didn’t have to wait for Alex to make his intentions clear. He was already all in.

And as they sat there, hands intertwined on the table between them, sharing pastries and stealing kisses between bites, Henry couldn’t help but marvel at how simple, how right everything felt. He hadn’t known it could be like this–hadn’t realized how effortless it could be to fall for someone and know, with complete certainty, that they felt the same way.

In that moment, sitting in the garden café with the sun warming his skin, and Alex’s hand in his, Henry knew one thing for certain: he was in too deep.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

He couldn’t wait to tell Pez. 

Monday morning on campus had that familiar hum of activity–the buzz of students rushing between classes, the swish of bike wheels on pavement, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air. 

Henry and Pez walked side by side, making their way across the quad after their morning classes, headed toward the dining hall for a quick bite before their usual trip to the library. Henry’s cheeks ached from how much he’d been smiling all morning. He couldn’t help it. He was still riding the wave of happiness from his weekend with Alex, and every time he thought about it, a giddy warmth bloomed in his chest.

“So, let me get this straight, babes,” Pez said, eyes wide with delight as Henry filled him in on the details of his weekend. “Not only did our dearest Alexander take you to the most romantic brunch, but then, the very next day, he takes you to Zilker Park for a picnic? And there were dogs?”

Henry nodded, the lovestruck grin that had been plastered on his face all morning growing even wider. “Yes! There were so many cute dogs. We just laid out in the grass, talking about everything, and every few minutes these dogs would come bounding up to us. Alex kept giving them belly rubs like some kind of dog whisperer.”

Pez clutched his chest dramatically. “Oh, Hen. That boy is good. You’re positively glowing, darling. Positively glowing.”

Henry felt his cheeks warm, but he didn’t try to hide it. 

He was glowing. 

Everything about the weekend felt like a dream, and he wanted to relive every moment of it over and over. The way Alex had looked at him during their brunch, the way he’d brought Henry’s hand to his lips between bites of croissants and cheese. And that picnic–it had been simple, sure, but there was something so effortlessly perfect about it. 

Just lying in the grass, the sun warm on their faces, the gentle breeze carrying the scent of flowers. It was... everything.

“And did I mention how he asked me to be his boyfriend?” Henry added, almost shyly, his voice catching as the memory of that moment replayed in his head.

Pez stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes wide. “What?” he squealed, grabbing Henry’s arm in excitement. “Oh, babes, you didn’t tell me that part! Tell me everything.”

Henry chuckled, heart fluttering. “It felt so… right! We were sitting there, eating pastries, and he just looked at me and said, ‘Do you want to be my boyfriend?’ Like it was the easiest thing in the world.”

Pez shook his head in wonder, looking at Henry with a glint of admiration. “Hazza, you’ve really found yourself a good one. No games, no confusion. Just a boy who knows what he wants, and he bloody wants you, my dear!”

Henry bit his lip, feeling that familiar blush creeping up his neck. “I know. It’s still... a bit overwhelming, but in the best way. I didn’t even realize how much I needed something like this. And Alex, he just... he makes it all so easy.”

But even as the words left his mouth, Henry felt a gnawing doubt settle in the pit of his stomach. His smile faltered slightly, and he glanced at the ground. Pez’s sharp gaze caught the subtle change in Henry’s demeanor immediately.

“What is it, darling?” Pez asked, his voice softening. “Something’s bothering you, I can tell.”

Henry hesitated, running a hand through his hair. He had never been great at voicing his insecurities, especially when it came to things that really mattered. But this... this had been gnawing at him since last night, even as everything with Alex felt like a dream.

“I just...” Henry started, his voice dropping, almost embarrassed to say it out loud. “What if... what if this is too good to be true? What if we rushed into it too quickly, and Alex realizes I’m not... I’m not enough ? What if I drag him down?”

Pez blinked, his brow furrowing. “Henry, where is this coming from?”

Henry sighed, feeling the weight of his words settle over him. “I mean, look at him, Pez. He’s Alex Claremont-Diaz. He’s full of life and sunshine, and he’s so involved and good at everything. And then there’s me. I have... dark days. Days where I can barely get out of bed, where I’m just... stuck in my head. I’m not interesting like he is. I’m not the life of the party. What if... what if this honeymoon phase fades, and he realizes that I’m just... I don’t know... Henry?” 

Pez stopped walking and turned to face Henry fully, his expression uncharacteristically serious. He placed his hands on Henry’s shoulders, his touch firm but gentle.

“Hazza,” Pez said softly, “I want you to listen to me, and I want you to really hear me, okay? Alex isn’t with you because he’s looking for some perfect version of you. He’s with you because he cares about you —all of you. The quiet days, the dark days, the days where you don’t feel like enough. He’s not going to wake up one morning and decide you’re not interesting. He sees you, Hen. All of you. And he still chose you.”

Henry swallowed hard, the weight of Pez’s words settling over him. 

He nodded slightly, but there was still that gnawing doubt, that voice in his head that whispered maybe it was all happening too fast. He hadn’t even known Alex for that long, and they had only been officially dating for, what, less than 48 hours? It all felt too good to be true.

“But what if…” Henry started hesitantly, looking down at his shoes. “What if we rushed into this? We’ve barely been together two days, Pez, and already I feel like I’m in too deep. What if Alex realizes I’m not… I’m not what he thought I was? What if he gets tired of me, or realizes I’m… I’m…” 

Pez sighed softly, his expression shifting to something softer, more understanding. “Babes, you’ve got to stop worrying this much so soon into a new relationship. Seriously. You haven’t even given it a chance yet, and you’re already talking like it’s going to fall apart.”

Henry bit his lip, still unsure. “But it’s all just… so fast. I don’t know if–”

Pez cut him off gently, squeezing his shoulders a little tighter. “Look, I get it. You’re scared because it feels like things are happening quickly. But the truth is, it doesn’t matter how fast or slow things go–what matters is how you feel about each other. And from what I’ve seen, Alex isn’t the type of guy to dive into something if he didn’t mean it. He chose you, Hen, and you deserve good things.”

Henry blinked, Pez’s words sinking in slowly. Did he really deserve something like this? Something easy, and happy, and right?

“And for the record,” Pez continued, his voice growing more gentle, “you’re not dragging anyone down. You’re not some weight around Alex’s neck. You think he doesn’t have dark days too? You think he doesn’t get overwhelmed by the pressure of being everyone’s golden boy? It’s okay to have bad days, Henry. That’s part of being human. And Alex–he’s a smart lad. He knows what he’s signing up for.”

Henry swallowed, his throat tight. “But what if I ruin this? What if I’m too much?”

Pez smiled softly, shaking his head. “Hazza, you’re never too much for the right person. Alex isn’t going anywhere. And even if– if –things get tough, you’ll work through it. Relationships aren’t all sunshine and rainbows. Sometimes they’re messy, but that’s what makes them real. And you, my precious Hen, deserve something real.”

Henry blinked rapidly, feeling the sting of tears in the back of his eyes, but even still, a small smile tugged at Henry’s lips, and Pez grinned back at him.

“I know you, darling,” Pez continued. “You’ve spent too long thinking you don’t deserve good things, but you do. You deserve this. Alex is a good guy–stop overthinking it, stop trying to predict how things will go wrong. Just let yourself enjoy it.”

Henry swallowed, his throat tight with emotion. “Thank you,” he whispered, the words barely audible.

Pez grinned, but his eyes were warm with affection. “Don’t thank me yet, babes. You can save all that gratitude for when I’m standing as your best man at your wedding to your most handsome, beloved Alexander, holding your future cat and dog babies, and being the godfather to your 2.5 kids.”

Henry let out a startled laugh, some of the tension easing from his chest as Pez continued with his dramatic flair.

“I’m talking complete godfather status,” Pez added, eyes twinkling. “I want to be there for every milestone–first steps, first words, the moment your golden retriever and your kitten finally become best mates. I’ll be the one with all the wise advice and emotional support when your little darlings need to know how to properly throw the most fabulous parties.”

Henry laughed again, shaking his head in disbelief. “2.5 kids?”

Pez waved his hand dismissively. “It’s the perfect number, darling. And by that point, you’ll probably have a whole menagerie of fur babies anyway. You and Alex will be that couple.”

Henry rolled his eyes, but the warmth of Pez’s words filled him up, a lightness he hadn’t felt in days settling in his chest. Leave it to Pez to find the perfect mix of humor and reassurance.

Henry let out another soft laugh, wiping the corner of his eye with the back of his hand. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Pez linked his arm through Henry’s, pulling him close as they continued walking. “You’d be a miserable little sod, that’s what. But luckily for you, you’ve got me. And for the record, Hazza, you’re a bloody catch. Don’t you dare think otherwise.”

Henry felt the tension in his chest ease, though a small part of him still held onto those nagging insecurities. It wasn’t easy for him to shake off the worry that Alex would eventually see the parts of him that weren’t quite as shiny, that weren’t as golden or magnetic as Alex himself seemed to be. 

But Pez was right. 

Alex chose him. And maybe that was enough for now.

As they neared the dining hall, a boy in a blazer suddenly appeared in front of them, nervously shifting on his feet. He couldn’t have been more than a freshman, and his eyes darted between Pez and Henry, clearly unsure who to address first. A shiny “LSA” pin on his lapel caught the sunlight as he cleared his throat.

“Um, are you Henry Fox?” the boy asked quietly, his voice almost lost in the noise of the students milling around them.

Henry blinked in surprise. “Erm, yes, that’s me.”

The boy thrust a single red rose out toward him, his hand trembling slightly. “This is from Alex. I was told to give it to you,” he mumbled, barely meeting Henry’s gaze. A small envelope, tucked into the stem, caught Henry’s eye. As Henry reached out to take the rose, the boy shifted nervously on his feet. “Um... could you, uh... could you tell Alex that Carter did a good job delivering the rose?” His voice wavered, and he looked up at Henry with wide, anxious eyes, as if his life depended on it.

Before Henry could even respond, the boy spun on his heel and hurried off, clearly relieved to have completed his task, like he had just delivered a state secret.

Henry stood there, holding the rose and the small note, completely bewildered. He glanced at Pez, who was biting back a laugh, and shook his head. “What–?” 

Pez raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching with amusement. “A rose, darling? From Alex?” He nudged Henry playfully. “Well, isn’t that romantic.”

Henry stared at the rose for a moment, a flush creeping up his neck as he felt his heart flip in his chest. He opened the envelope, his fingers trembling slightly as he pulled out a small, handwritten note.

It read: 

Hen,  

I know you like roses, and I wish I could give you a whole garden. But for now, I hope this single bloom is enough to remind you that you deserve beauty without pain–no thorns this time. I’d never want to be the one to hurt you. 

Yours, 

A

Heat flooded Henry’s cheeks, and his smile widened as he read the note, feeling the warmth in Alex’s words. He tucked the note into his bag, heart thrumming with giddy excitement. “Yeah, but–how did he manage to–?”

“Also, can we talk about that blazer?” Pez interrupted, his eyes still following the retreating boy. “Is he out of his mind? It’s Texas. That heat is no joke. He must be sweating through that stuffy thing!”

Henry let out a laugh, shrugging. “Maybe it’s a fraternity thing? I don’t know.”

They both continued walking toward the dining hall, the rose still clutched in Henry’s hand, and as they approached the entrance, Pez was in the middle of offering some wild theory about secret fraternity codes when another boy in the exact same blazer and khakis appeared. This one also looked like a freshman, wide-eyed and nervous, and he hurried up to Henry with a pink carnation in his hand.

“Henry Fox?” the boy asked, panting a little.

Henry nodded, already laughing awkwardly. “Yes?”

The boy handed him the flower along with another note, mumbling quickly, “This is from Alex. Uh, also... could you, um, let him know that Luis did a good job with the delivery?” His voice cracked slightly at the request, and he shot Henry a pleading look before scurrying off like he was about to be taken out by some unseen force if he didn’t complete his mission.

Henry blinked, now holding yet another flower and note, as he and Pez stared after the boy in utter confusion. He opened the new note, his heart fluttering as he read it.

Sweetheart, 

I can’t stop thinking about what you said, about how you love the sound of rain on the rooftops. I keep picturing us finding that little corner of the world where the rain never stops, just you, me, and a sky full of possibilities. I hope I’m part of that picture too. 

Yours, always thinking of you, 

A

Pez whistled low. “Blimey. Either Alex has a flair for the dramatic, or there’s a whole team of sweaty, blazer-wearing minions at his disposal.”

Heat flooded Henry’s cheeks, his pulse quickening as the realization sinks in. 

This isn’t just a spontaneous gesture. 

Alex has planned this–the rose, the pink carnation, the handwritten notes carefully chosen and written with purpose. His heart stumbles at the thought, caught somewhere between disbelief and that overwhelming warmth he feels only when Alex is involved. 

“I... I think this might be some kind of... gesture.”

Pez gave him a playful shove. “Some kind of gesture? Hen, this is a full-on romantic operation.” 

He glanced down the path where the two boys had disappeared. “Although, what’s with these poor kids? They act like they’re on some sort of mission impossible assignment, as if Alex is going to take them out if they don’t deliver.”

Henry laughed, shaking his head. “I have no idea, but they’re definitely taking it seriously.”

They sat down for lunch in the dining hall, Henry’s grin never fading as he told Pez more about the picnic, the dogs, and how Alex had kissed him softly under the sun, promising to make their weekends together a routine. Every detail made Henry’s heart race, and Pez listened intently, his smile wide and happy for his best mate.

But the surprises weren’t over.

As they left the dining hall and began walking toward the library, yet another boy in a blazer–this one holding a bright yellow daisy–approached Henry, looking just as anxious as the first two. He handed over the flower along with a small, folded note, whispering, “This is from Alex,” before adding, “Could you, uh, please, please let him know that Marcus did a good job delivering the flower?” His eyes widened nervously, and without waiting for Henry’s answer, he disappeared into the crowd as fast as he’d come.

Henry unfolded the note, his chest tightening with emotion as he read Alex’s messy scrawl: 

Baby, 

You once said you could never imagine being someone’s muse, but you deserve to know what it’s like to be written about, adored. So, this is me, trying to capture what you mean to me in words. I know I’m no poet, but I’d spend forever trying if it means making you smile. 

A little shoddy, but all yours, completely. 

A

Pez, meanwhile, burst out laughing. “I’m starting to think you’re dating a mafia kingpin, Hazza. Who are these guys, and why are they so determined to melt in those stuffy clothes? What happens if they don’t deliver the goods–are they sleeping with the fishes?”

Henry could only shake his head, feeling dazed and ridiculously happy. He tucked the flowers and note into his bag, feeling his heart swell with every gesture. But by the time the fourth boy showed up with a small bouquet of violets, along with a note that listed all the things Alex liked about him–

...The way your lips curve when you’re deep in thought. The way your eyes light up when you talk about books. How you can make even silence feel comfortable, like it’s something precious. And your laugh–like the first sunshine after a Texas cold snap, warming everything up. Every little piece of you has me hooked, pretty baby.

–Henry had had enough.

Pez was practically in hysterics. “This is unreal, Hazza! They’re delivering flowers like their lives depend on it! Honestly, maybe I should start my own delivery service, too. ‘Pez’s Petal Parcel, guaranteed to melt your heart or your money back.’”

Henry rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop a smile as he pulled out his phone and quickly dialed Alex’s number, his heart racing with exhilarated anticipation.

“Hey, baby.” 

“Alex, darling,” Henry said, biting his lip to keep from laughing. “Who are these guys in the blazers? I’ve been getting flowers and love notes from strangers all day. They keep saying they’re from you.”

Alex’s chuckle was rich and satisfied on the other end of the line. “Oh, them? My pledges, baby.”

Henry blinked, confused. “Your pledges?”

“Yep,” Alex said, and Henry could hear the amusement in his voice. “It’s Greek pledge week. They have to do whatever the brothers tell them to. So... I gave them a little assignment.”

Before Henry could respond, Pez leaned in closer, raising his voice just enough so Alex could hear. “Oi, Claremont-Diaz! Can I borrow one of your little minions for a bit? They seem quite efficient. I’ve got some groceries that need carrying, and they look well-trained.”

There was a beat of silence before Alex’s laugh rang out, bright and teasing. “Pez! You want to borrow my pledges, huh? I’m not sure if they’re ready for your... unique style of management. They’re busy handling my flower deliveries.”

Pez scoffed, leaning into the phone with a dramatic flourish. “Oh, flower deliveries, is it? Darling, let’s not pretend. This is no mere bouquet run. Let’s call it what it truly is: the Frat Mob Flower Drop. Has a bit of an edge to it, don’t you think? A touch of danger amidst the daisies.”

Alex’s laugh crackled through the line, bright and thoroughly entertained. “Alright, Pez, you’ve got me. Frat Mob Flower Drop does sound kind of badass.”

Pez’s grin widened, thoroughly in his element now. “Oh, but you know me, dearest–I’m all about refinement. What you really need is something with a touch of class. How about ‘Bro-tanical Express’? It’s got a certain je ne sais quoi, wouldn’t you agree?”

Alex’s voice turned mock serious, but the amusement was unmistakable. “You might be onto something, Pez. But I’m rather partial to ‘Brotherhood Bloom Patrol.’ It’s got a... dignified ring, don’t you think?”

Henry, barely holding back his laughter, put on his most serious, posh voice. “What about ‘Frat Boys in Bloom’? It has a certain poetic edge, doesn’t it? Practically Shakespearean. ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s keg?’”

Pez snorted, practically wheezing with laughter. “Oh yes, Hazza! ‘Thou art more wasted and more frat.’ I can just picture it now–Chad reciting Shakespeare in a toga, holding a beer bong like it’s a skull.”

Alex couldn’t hold back his own laughter. “To chug, or not to chug–that is the question,” he shot back, voice full of mock gravitas. “Whether ’tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous rush week...”

Pez gasped dramatically. “Or to take arms against a sea of rival frats and by opposing... party on.”

Henry rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at his lips. “I think we’ve just elevated Greek life to an art form. Frat boys and sonnets. It’s what Shakespeare would have wanted.”

Alex chuckled, still clearly enjoying the bit. “You’ve got it all wrong, baby. The true bard of the frat house writes his verse in beer foam on the countertop. But hey, I was thinking, ‘Pledge-agram Delivery Service’ has its own charm too. Can’t you just picture them with little name tags?” 

Pez clutched his chest in mock horror. “Oh, Claremont-Diaz, you’ve stolen my heart! But listen, if I catch any of your little minions slacking off, I’ll have them reassigned to my command. A bloke like me could always use a few eager recruits to do my bidding. Can’t let all that enthusiasm go to waste, now, can we?”

Henry gave Pez a playful shove, rolling his eyes as Pez wandered off with a wink, muttering something about flower monopolies. Henry shook his head, turning back to his phone just in time to hear Alex’s warm, teasing voice again.

“Sorry about that,” he said into the phone, though he was grinning. “He’s... a handful.”

Alex laughed, the sound bright and amused. “Yeah, but he’s good for you. Keeps you on your toes. Besides, I think he’s a little jealous of my operation.”

Henry rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his lips. “Jealous, is he? Well, you have to admit, sending your little army of pledges to play delivery boys is... quite the move.”

Alex’s chuckle softened into something more sincere. “It’s not just for show, baby.”

Henry blushed, warmth flooding his chest. “So, they’re running around campus delivering flowers and notes to me because...?”

“Because I want you to know how much I’m thinking about you,” Alex replied smoothly, the blasted charmer. “And because you deserve to be spoiled, princess.”

Henry felt his cheeks burn, his heart flipping at the nickname and at the overwhelming sweetness of it all. He couldn’t stop smiling, not even if he tried. “You’re unbelievable.”

Alex’s voice softened. “I just want you to know how much I care about you, sweetheart. This is only the beginning.”

Henry’s heart thudded in his chest, his voice barely a whisper as he replied, “I know. And I... I can’t wait.”

After a moment, Henry bit his lip, glancing over his shoulder to spot yet another pledge in the same ridiculous getup, looking around frantically in the distance. “But, Alex, why in the bloody hell are they all trudging around in blazers and khakis? It’s Texas– practically a furnace out here. They must be sweating buckets in those things.”

Alex’s laugh was rich, full of that easy charm Henry adored. “They have to look presentable. It’s tradition. If they want to be invited into the brotherhood, they need to show they’re willing to represent us properly–respectably.”

Henry snorted, raising a skeptical eyebrow, even if Alex couldn’t see it. “Is tradition what we’re calling hazing now?”

Alex chuckled, the sound playful and warm. “Hazing? Please. We’re far too honorable to haze anyone. Not by university rules, anyway.” He added with a wink in his voice, making Henry laugh despite himself.

“I don’t understand fraternity culture at all.”

Alex’s voice took on that teasing, affectionate tone Henry already knew too well. “You don’t need to understand it, baby. You just need to know that I’m thinking about you. That’s all that matters.”

Henry rolled his eyes, though his heart fluttered at Alex’s words. “You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?”

“Maybe,” Alex said, his voice warm, teasing, and so full of tenderness that Henry’s heart felt like it might burst. “But you love it.”

Henry couldn’t argue with that. He smiled, feeling a fresh wave of warmth wash over him. “Yeah. I really do.”

There was a pause as Henry absentmindedly played with the petals of the rose in his hand. Then he remembered. “Oh, and by the way, I’m supposed to tell you that Carter, Luis, Marcus, and Connor all did a great job delivering your flowers. They were very eager to let you know that.”

Alex’s laugh came through the line, warm and mischievous. “Oh, did they? Bless their little hearts. I’ll be sure to give them gold stars and maybe a sticker or two.”

Henry smirked, his curiosity getting the better of him. “But, erm... just out of interest, what would’ve happened if they hadn’t done a good job?”

Alex’s voice dropped to a playful, mock-serious tone. “Oh, don’t you worry, baby. Their blazers would’ve been safe–pressed and pristine. But they’d be wearing them a whole lot more. Think extra shifts, hauling kegs in 100-degree heat, maybe even reciting sonnets in front of the frat house while drenched in sweat. No more flower deliveries, though–oh no, they’d be banned from that sacred duty for life. The ultimate dishonor.”

Henry couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head. “You’re such a menace, you know that?”

“Baby, I am just looking out for the high standards of LSA flower delivery,” Alex said, voice full of exaggerated indignation. “I take these things very seriously. It’s my responsibility–nay, my duty –to uphold the honor of all Greeks on this sacred campus. If we can’t even deliver flowers properly, what hope do we have for the rest of Greek life?”

Henry rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t stop the warmth spreading through his chest. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” Alex replied, his voice turning soft, a smile in his words. “But, baby, you know you love it.”

And Henry did. God help him, he really did.

It was Saturday morning, and the whole campus buzzed with excitement. 

Game day. 

Texas versus Oklahoma–a home game, the one everyone was talking about. 

Alex had been hyped all week, counting down the days, and now, standing in the kitchen of his frat house, he was practically bouncing with energy. They were supposed to be loading up his truck with cases of drinks and snacks, ready for the tailgate, but instead, they’d gotten distracted. 

Or rather, Henry had gotten distracted.

Alex looked too good.

Earlier that morning, Alex had tried to explain American football to him, voice animated and hands gesturing wildly, tracing imaginary plays in the air. His eyes had been alight with that particular kind of passion that made him almost manic, like he was sharing the secrets of the universe. “So, you’ve got your quarterback here,” he said, practically vibrating as he mimed a pass, “and the offensive line protects him, but then–boom, defense comes crashing in, trying to sack him, and–” 

Somewhere in between Alex’s detailed explanation of offensive lines and defensive strategies, he’d launched into the history of the Red River Rivalry. “It’s not just any game, okay? This goes back forever–Texas and Oklahoma, fighting for bragging rights. It’s about pride, about proving who’s the best on either side of the Red River. They hate us, we hate them, and–” 

But Henry hadn’t heard a word of it. 

If this had been a cartoon, he was sure he’d have had literal heart eyes. 

He watched the way Alex’s curls bounced with every excited movement, how his entire face lit up when he talked about something he loved, like he couldn’t possibly contain all that energy. The way Alex’s lips curved into a smile, his eyes flashing with that competitive fire–it was all Henry could focus on.

(At one point, Alex had even tried to teach him the chants, practically shouting them in the kitchen with an earnestness that was almost endearing. 

“Okay, so when they say ‘Texas,’ you shout back ‘Fight!’ And when they yell ‘OU,’ you have to yell ‘Sucks!’ as loud as you can. Got it?” He demonstrated with gusto, clapping his hands for emphasis, and Henry had tried, really, but mostly he’d just been distracted by how adorable Alex looked while doing it.) 

When Alex had finally paused for breath, Henry had blinked, realizing he was supposed to respond. He tried to muster a semblance of understanding, but his heart had still been pounding too hard from watching Alex to even pretend. 

“So... a less tough rugby. Okay. Thanks, darling,” he had said blankly, trying and failing to keep the fondness out of his voice.

Alex had rolled his eyes, though his grin widened, like he knew exactly where Henry’s mind had been. 

“Less tough? Baby, this is Texas football. People here bleed for this noble sport,” he shot back, clapping a hand on Henry’s shoulder, his voice dropping to a tone that was suddenly, comically dead serious. “But honestly? Listen, sweetheart, all that strategy I just threw at you? Forget it. Here’s what really matters: OU fucking sucks. End of story.”

Henry had chuckled, putting on a mock-serious expression as he nodded. “Right, I think I’ve got it now, darling. It’s essentially rugby, but with... let’s say, heightened local… hostilities. And the most important part, can’t forget it–‘OU fucking sucks,’ yes? I’ll be sure to shout it with the most appropriate fervor.” 

“You’re already a fucking pro at this, baby!” 

And now, as they stood in the kitchen together, Alex buzzing with excitement, Henry couldn’t help but smile to himself. Alex was in his element–practically glowing with anticipation for the day ahead–and Henry was completely undone by it.

Leaning against the counter, Henry’s gaze followed every movement Alex made as he bustled around, his eyes tracing the lines of Alex’s body with unrestrained appreciation. The burnt orange UT polo hugged Alex’s frame, the fabric stretching over his chest and shoulders with every movement. And his shorts–God, his shorts –were tight, hugging his hips and thighs in a way that made Henry’s mouth go dry. A backwards cap perched on his head, the brim turned just enough to give him that effortlessly casual, all-American look. He looked so completely fratty, so undeniably bro-y, that Henry almost wanted to be embarrassed by how much it was doing it for him.

When had frat bros become his type? 

Or was it just that anything Alex was, Henry found himself into?

His mind was only half on the tailgate. The rest was on Alex. On how his biceps flexed every time he lifted a case of drinks, on the way his shorts rode up just slightly with every movement. Henry licked his lips, his heart thudding in his chest. 

He wanted him–wanted him now.

“You’re staring, baby,” Alex teased, setting a 24-pack of Dos Equis on the counter and turning toward Henry, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

Henry didn’t even bother denying it. He crossed the distance between them in a few quick steps, his hands finding Alex’s waist, tugging him close. 

“Can you blame me?” Henry muttered, his voice rough with want. “You look delicious, darling.”

Alex grinned, his eyes darkening with heat. “Oh, do I now?”

Henry’s hands slid lower, slipping under the hem of Alex’s polo, his fingers brushing over the warm skin of his stomach. Alex let out a low hum of approval, his body instinctively leaning into Henry’s touch.

“You’re driving me mad, Alex,” Henry whispered, pressing his body against Alex’s, feeling the heat between them. “How am I supposed to think about anything else when you look like this?”

Alex’s grin widened, his eyes glinting with mischief. “We’re supposed to be getting ready for the tailgate,” he teased, but his hands were already moving, sliding up Henry’s sides, slipping under his shirt, pulling him closer. “But maybe I like distracting you, sweetheart.”

Henry’s breath hitched as Alex’s hands wandered lower, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of Henry’s own shorts, teasing. “Maybe I don’t want to go to the tailgate,” Henry breathed, his voice low, his pulse quickening as Alex’s fingers brushed dangerously close to where he wanted them.

“Is that right?” Alex’s voice was thick with desire now, the teasing edge fading as his hands gripped Henry’s waist, pulling him flush against him. “What do you want to do instead?”

Henry didn’t answer with words. 

Instead, he dropped his hand lower, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of Alex’s sinfully tight shorts, wrapping around the hardness he found there. Alex let out a low groan, his head falling back as Henry’s hand stroked him, slow and deliberate.

“Fuck, sweetheart...” Alex gasped, his grip tightening on Henry’s hips. “You’re gonna get me in trouble, princess.”

Henry smirked, his hand moving faster now, his thumb brushing over the tip of Alex’s cock, teasing him, drawing out another low groan. “Good,” Henry whispered, leaning in to press his lips to Alex’s neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. “I want to make you lose control.”

Alex’s breath came in short, ragged gasps, his hips jerking into Henry’s hand as pleasure coursed through him. “You’re fucking unbelievable,” Alex growled, his hands sliding down to grab Henry’s ass, squeezing hard, pulling him closer.

Henry’s heart raced, his body humming with the intensity of it all. They were in the kitchen, for God’s sake–supposed to be loading up the truck, getting ready to join everyone out in this forsaken Texas heat. But all Henry could think about was the way Alex’s body trembled under his touch, the way Alex’s breath hitched with every stroke of his hand.

God, it was intoxicating to see Alex like this. 

To see the golden boy–the leader who kept everything together, always so composed, so in charge–come undone right in front of him. Henry knew how the world saw Alex, how everyone on campus looked up to him, how he was the one people turned to when they needed a steady hand. 

But right now, Alex wasn’t steady; he was a mess, and it was because of him. It sent a possessive thrill through Henry’s veins, a rush that had him gripping Alex tighter, pulling him closer. 

Mine, a voice in his head whispered, fierce and certain. This is mine. He is mine.

Henry loved taking care of Alex right back, loved that he could be the one to help him let go for once. Alex always carried so much–expectations, responsibilities, the weight of everyone else’s needs. It was like he was carrying the world on his shoulders, and all Henry wanted was to pry it away, just for a moment, to let Alex lay down his burdens. To help him breathe a little easier, to give him this space to be completely unguarded.

“You like this, love?” Henry whispered, his voice rough and thick with desire. “You like me touching you like this?”

Alex’s head fell forward, his forehead resting against Henry’s shoulder as his hips bucked into Henry’s hand. “Fuck, yes...” Alex panted, his voice wrecked, his fingers digging into Henry’s ass, pulling him harder against him. “Don’t stop. Fuck, princess, don’t stop.”

Henry grinned, biting his lip as he quickened his pace, his hand working Alex’s cock with a steady rhythm. The sounds Alex was making–the gasps, the groans, the way his voice broke with every desperate plea–sent waves of heat straight through Henry, making his own body ache with need. He loved this, loved every second of helping Alex let go, of giving him this chance to forget everything else and just feel. 

It was like helping Atlas put the world down, just for a while. 

And Henry relished the fact that, for now, it was his hands Alex clung to, his name Alex gasped out, his touch that unraveled the golden boy–his gorgeous boy–so completely.

“I never thought I’d be doing this,” Henry murmured, his lips brushing against Alex’s ear. “Getting a frat boy off in a frat house of all places.”

Alex let out a breathless laugh, his body trembling against Henry’s, his hips jerking erratically as he teetered on the edge. “You... You’re gonna kill me, baby,” Alex groaned, his breath hot against Henry’s neck.

Henry’s hand moved faster, his own breath coming in short, shallow gasps as he pushed Alex closer and closer to the brink. 

“Come on, love,” Henry whispered, low and seductive. “Let go for me. Be good for me, yeah? That’s it... my good boy.”

A shiver ran through Alex at Henry’s words, his whole body responding to the praise. Henry could feel it in the way Alex’s muscles tensed, the way his breath hitched as he chased that final bit of release. 

“You like that, don’t you?” Henry murmured against Alex’s ear, his voice rough and full of desire. “My perfect, beautiful boy... doing so well for me.”

Alex’s whole body tensed, his grip on Henry tightening as a low, desperate moan escaped his lips. “Fuck... baby,” he gasped, his voice wrecked as pleasure crashed over him, his hips jerking against Henry’s hand as he came, trembling and gasping against Henry’s shoulder.

Henry held him through it, his hand still stroking him, slower now, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until his boy was a panting, trembling mess in his arms.

When Alex finally pulled back, his eyes were heavy-lidded, his face flushed, and his lips curved into a lazy, satisfied grin. “You’re... fucking unbelievable,” Alex panted, still trying to catch his breath.

Henry grinned back, feeling a rush of pride and desire swell in his chest. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Alex chuckled, his hands slipping down to the hem of Henry’s shirt, tugging it up and over his head in one swift motion. His fingers moved to undo the button on Henry’s shorts next, peeling them down with a practiced ease. “Now it’s your turn, baby,” Alex murmured, his voice low and dark as he dropped to his knees in front of Henry.

But before he lowered himself completely, Alex caught Henry’s wrist, pulling his hand up between them. 

Henry barely had time to register what Alex was doing before Alex’s tongue darted out, licking over Henry’s fingers–still wet with Alex’s cum. He held Henry’s gaze, a wicked gleam in his eyes, keeping his tongue out to show Henry the filthy evidence, savoring the taste like it was the best thing he’d ever had. 

Heat rushed through Henry, his knees nearly buckling at the sight.

“Fuck, Alex...” Henry breathed, his voice rough with want, and Alex just smirked, trailing his tongue along the last of it before turning his attention back to Henry’s body.

“Baby,” Alex murmured, his tone mockingly sweet as he smeared the remnants of his own release down Henry’s cock, leaving a slick sheen behind. He blew a hot breath over it, watching with satisfaction as Henry shuddered, his hands gripping the counter for support, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

And then Alex’s mouth was on him again, hot and relentless, taking him in with a hunger that bordered on feral. Henry let out a low, shaky moan, his head falling back as Alex worked him with devastating precision.

Alex’s hands gripped Henry’s hips, firm and unyielding, holding him steady as he took him deeper, his mouth moving with a deliberate, maddening slowness that had Henry’s entire body trembling. 

“You taste so fucking good, baby,” Alex murmured, voice rough with lust as he pulled back just enough to look up at Henry. 

The sight was devastating. 

Alex’s dark, mischievous eyes were framed by lashes so long and thick, it was sinful–so fucking sinful how beautiful they were, casting shadows across his cheekbones. His lips were wet, swollen, parted slightly as he breathed heavily, and that backwards cap, still perched on his head, only added to the effect. It made him look both boyish and dangerous, all-American and pure-blooded male, so fucking masculine. 

Like a classic fuckboy who probably wouldn’t give Henry the time of day. 

And yet here he was, on his knees for him, looking up at him like he wanted nothing more than to keep gagging on Henry’s cock, to have his throat used until he was breathless and desperate for more.

Henry swore he’d never seen anything more breathtaking in his life.

“Like that, sweetheart?” Alex grinned, his voice husky as his thumb traced along the base of Henry’s cock, teasing, making him shudder. “You’re so fucking hard for me. I can feel how much you want it, how desperate you are to come, my pretty baby.”

Alex didn’t wait for Henry’s answer, didn’t give him a moment to catch his breath before he wrapped his lips around the head of Henry’s cock again, this time letting his tongue swirl over the slickness he’d left behind, dragging every sound he wanted out of Henry with ruthless skill. And all Henry could do was grip the counter harder, feeling like he was going to unravel completely, right here in this frat house kitchen, at the mercy of Alex’s wicked, talented mouth.

He could barely think–barely breathe –his entire world narrowed down to the feel of Alex’s mouth on him, the way his tongue flicked over the tip, teasing, tasting, ruining him.

Alex’s grin only widened, his dark lashes fluttering as he leaned back down, his mouth sliding over Henry’s cock again, slowly, deliberately, dragging it out just to watch Henry fall apart. 

“You taste so fucking sweet, princess,” Alex groaned, his breath hot and ragged as he pulled back again, his lips brushing over Henry’s reddened skin. “My good, good girl… I could do this all day. Make you come for me over and over until you can’t even fucking think straight.”

Henry whimpered, his entire body trembling as Alex’s words washed over him, intensifying the heat coiling in his stomach. 

He’d never known he could love being called princess, or good girl, but from Alex’s lips, it was like a secret key that unlocked something inside him. It made him feel cherished, like he could let go of every last bit of control and just be. Alex’s voice wrapped around him like a warm blanket, coaxing him into a place where he could be vulnerable, where he could let himself fall apart completely because Alex was right there to catch him. It made him feel– God, it made him feel good to be good, to be Alex’s pretty baby, to just feel without having to think. 

“Alex... my love, please...” His voice was shaky, breathless, his body teetering on the edge of release, and Alex knew it.

“You want it, don’t you?” Alex’s voice was low, dark, his lips ghosting over the head of Henry’s cock, teasing him, making Henry’s breath catch in his throat. “You want to come down my throat, baby? You want me to take every fucking drop?”

Henry couldn’t form a coherent response–he could only nod frantically, his hips bucking involuntarily as Alex’s mouth returned to him, moving faster now, more insistent.

“That’s it,” Alex growled, his hands tightening on Henry’s hips, his mouth working him with a sinful precision that had Henry seeing stars. “Come for me, baby. I want to feel you fall apart.”

Henry let out a strangled moan, his body trembling uncontrollably as Alex’s filthy words pushed him right to the edge. “Fuck... Alex, I’m–”

He didn’t even get the words out before his entire body tensed, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter until it finally snapped, and Henry came hard, gasping Alex’s name as his vision blurred. He could feel Alex’s mouth on him, swallowing every last drop, his tongue still teasing, drawing out Henry’s release until Henry was nothing but a trembling, panting mess.

When Alex finally pulls back, his eyes are heavy-lidded, his beautiful lashes fluttering as he looks up at Henry with a grin so full of mischief it sends a fresh shiver down Henry’s spine. “You’re so fucking hot when you come for me, baby.”

Henry’s breath comes in ragged gasps, his fingers still gripping the counter as he tries to steady himself, his heart racing. He couldn’t quite find the words for how much he loved the way Alex talked to him, praised him, made him feel like he was something precious, like every moan and whimper was something Alex wanted to pull from him. 

“Christ, Alex,” he breathes, his voice wrecked, “you’re going to kill me.”

Alex stands, his hands sliding up Henry’s chest as he presses a slow, possessive kiss to his lips, and he tastes himself on Alex’s tongue. “Nah, baby,” Alex whispers against his mouth, his voice low and dark. “I’m going to keep you wanting more.”

Then–

Alex pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a way that was both filthy and obnoxiously casual, like he hadn’t just wrecked Henry in the middle of his frat house kitchen. His grin is still all mischief, eyes glinting with satisfaction as he straightens up, his hands lazily brushing over Henry’s hips before pulling his shorts back up and fastening them with a snap.

“There,” Alex says, his voice thick with amusement. “Now we’re all put together again.”

Henry could barely breathe, still trembling as he leaned back against the counter for support. His heart was pounding, his skin buzzing from the aftershocks of what had just happened. He was a mess– utterly undone–and all Alex did was wipe his mouth, like he hadn’t just turned Henry’s entire world upside down.

“Come on,” Alex says, his tone light, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, as though he hadn’t just dropped to his knees and made Henry see stars. He turns toward the sink, casually turning on the faucet, the sound of rushing water filling the space between them. Alex washes his hands, the suds swirling away like it’s the most mundane thing in the world, even as the remnants of their shared heat linger in the air. 

He glances over his shoulder at Henry, a dopey grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “We should get going before the guys start blowing up my phone. They’ll lose their shit if we run out of beer.”

Henry blinks, still trying to catch up with the sudden shift in mood, his breath still coming in ragged gasps. Alex was acting like they hadn’t just crossed every line of what was probably honorable frat house etiquette, like Henry’s knees weren’t still weak from the intensity of it all.

He watches Alex for a moment, then steps up beside him at the sink, rolling his eyes playfully as he nudges Alex’s shoulder.

“Move over,” Henry mutters, reaching for the soap. Alex steps aside with a smirk, letting Henry join him under the stream of cold water. The two of them stand shoulder to shoulder, scrubbing away the remnants of their encounter, the moment so ordinary that it almost makes Henry laugh. 

Yet, somehow, the warmth of Alex’s presence right next to him–so close he can feel the brush of their arms–is enough to keep his heart racing.

Then–

Beer. Right. Tailgate. Wait. 

“ What ?” Henry manages to croak out, still a little breathless. Alex’s words finally register in his muddled brain, cutting through the lingering haze of pleasure. “We’re... now we’re going to deliver the beer?”

Alex turns to look at him, smirking as he turns off the sink and dries his hands. “Yeah. It’s tailgate day, baby. Gotta keep the brothers happy.” He shoots Henry a wink, utterly unbothered by the fact that they’d just delayed their whole timeline for some quick kitchen fun.

Henry stares at him for a second, then mutters under his breath, barely loud enough for Alex to hear, “And here I thought if you needed something done, that’s what pledges were for.” His tone is all grumble, like he’s trying to sound annoyed, but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrays him.

Alex’s chuckle is low and wicked as he pulls Henry closer, brushing his lips against Henry’s ear. “Aw, but where’s the fun in letting the pledges do it, pretty princess?” He pauses, letting his voice drop into a husky whisper, each word dripping with mischief. “Besides, I’m so sorry for putting you to work, baby, but you just look so damn good all sweaty. Watching those arms flex? Drives me absolutely insane.”

Henry’s face flushes hot, a rush of heat spreading through him at Alex’s words. He shoves at Alex’s chest, an exasperated laugh bubbling out despite himself. “You’re the worst, Alexander Gabriel,” he mutters, trying to sound annoyed, but the warmth curling in his stomach–and the helpless grin tugging at his lips–gives him away completely.

Alex’s grin only widens, leaning in again as he teases, “Ooo, first and middle name? Am I in trouble, baby? You gonna punish me?” His voice dips, all suggestive and shameless, his breath warm against Henry’s skin.

Henry rolls his eyes, but he can’t stop the flutter in his chest, the way his pulse quickens at the playful challenge in Alex’s tone. “Keep dreaming, Claremont-Diaz,” he retorts, but the effect is spoiled when he shoves Alex back with a laugh, more playful than forceful. Alex stumbles a step, grinning even wider as if he’s won this round, but Henry’s heart is still racing, his cheeks warm from both the teasing and the heat of their earlier closeness.

What one does for love, he thinks. 

The absurdity of it wasn’t lost on him. Here he was, willingly running errands for a group of frat boys, loading up Alex’s truck with cases of beer so they could get back to the tailgate in time for kick-off. This was his life now.

And, Christ help him, he wasn’t even complaining (too much).

Henry shakes his head, Alex’s touch still burning like a brand on his skin, and trails after him to the back door where Alex’s truck is parked. Alex moves with an easy swagger, already hoisting cases of drinks into the truck bed, like nothing out of the ordinary just happened. Like he isn’t the most filthy and gorgeous thing Henry has ever laid eyes on.

A gummy grin pulls at Henry’s lips as he watches in disbelief, leaning against the door frame. Henry’s gaze drifts back inside the house, over the stained couch, the posters peeling from the walls, and the lingering scent of Natty Light that seems to cling to everything. He’s out of place here, and yet, with Alex at his side, it doesn’t feel quite as daunting. 

He moves to grab a case of beer, the cold seeping through the cardboard, and slides it into the truck bed. The absurdity of it all hits him again–the fact that he, Henry Fox, of all people, is willingly running tailgate errands, lugging cheap drinks to keep Alex’s frat brothers stocked and happy. It’s the kind of thing that, just weeks ago, would’ve made him roll his eyes.

And yet, with Alex, it feels right. It feels effortless.

Because it wasn’t just anyone asking him to do this. It was Alex. His Alex.

And Henry knew–had known for a while, really–that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for him.

Henry glances over at Alex, who’s loading the last case of drinks into the truck, that easy, confident smile plastered on his face. His muscles flex under that damned orange polo, fabric clinging to every line of his body, while his hair, still mussed from their earlier encounter, falls into those unfairly beautiful eyes.

Henry’s heart skips, a soft laugh slipping from his lips before he can stop it.

This is my life now, he muses, still half in disbelief. 

And the wildest part? 

He wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Because the truth, which Henry isn’t quite ready to say out loud–at least not yet–is that it’s been love for him since the very first moment he laid eyes on Alex. 

That sunny Saturday afternoon, weeks ago, at the tailgate, when he spotted Alex across the parking lot, laughing with his friends, that smile like a ray of sunshine cutting through the thick Texas heat… Henry had felt it then, deep in his bones. 

He’d known. 

Maybe it’s too soon to say it out loud, too soon to give that feeling a name. But standing there, watching Alex flash him that wicked grin, the one that makes his knees weak every single time, Henry knows. He’s always known.

He’s completely and utterly in love–deep, terrifying, wonderful love–with Alex Claremont-Diaz. 

And God help him, but he can’t wait for the day he’ll finally say it out loud.

Bonus 

It’s a Tuesday afternoon, and Henry is trudging back across the quad from a particularly dreary British Literature seminar, his mind still tangled up in Tennyson’s metaphors. 

The sky is overcast, casting a muted light over the campus, and luckily, the quad is only semi-crowded–just enough space for him to avoid the usual chaotic foot traffic that makes navigating campus a headache. He breathes a small sigh of relief as he manages to weave through a group of students without having to sidestep every few feet.

It’s in the middle of this rare moment of tranquility that he’s suddenly stopped in his tracks by a vaguely familiar freshman in a blazer and khakis. The boy’s attire is wildly out of place among the usual sea of hoodies and jeans, and it takes Henry a moment to place him. His mind races as he tries to connect the dots, but the oversized bouquet clutched awkwardly in the freshman’s hands doesn’t exactly help with the mental math.

Then, recognition dawns.

“Alberto, right?” Henry says slowly, glancing between the freshman and the bouquet, which could probably qualify as a weapon if wielded properly. 

Alex had mentioned the name a few times, usually with that proud, fond grin that never failed to make Henry’s heart do a ridiculous flip. Alberto was Alex’s “little bro” in the fraternity–an aspect of Greek life that Henry was still struggling to wrap his head around. Alex had explained the “Big and Little” system to him once, something about mentorship, bonding, and family trees within the fraternity. 

But honestly, Henry had mostly been distracted by the way Alex’s entire face seemed to come alive when he spoke about it. 

The way his eyes sparkled with unrestrained excitement, crinkling at the corners with every laugh. The way his grin spread slowly, almost involuntarily, until it took over his whole expression, like he couldn’t contain the sheer joy he felt for life itself. It was the kind of smile that could light up entire galaxies, that made everything else fade into the background until it was just the two of them, standing in the very center of the universe. Alex’s cheeks flushed with passion, his voice full of that warm, honeyed drawl Henry had rapidly become obsessed with–

Henry cut off his own thoughts, feeling his heart lurch in his chest. 

God, he really was a goner.

But anyway–

One detail had stuck, though: Alberto was also the captain of this semester’s pledge line. It was a role Alex himself had held back when he was a pledge, and he’d been insufferably proud of Alberto following in his footsteps. 

“It’s a big deal, you know,” Alex had said, puffing out his chest in that endearing way. “The captain sets the pace, makes sure everyone’s on track. It’s leadership, babe. And it’s especially important for my little. Gotta make sure he does me proud.”

Henry had nodded along back then, smiling indulgently at Alex’s enthusiasm, but now, standing face-to-face with Alberto, he feels a pang of sympathy for the poor kid. The freshman looks as if he’s about to present Henry with a bomb rather than a bouquet, his expression teetering between determination and outright terror.

“Erm, hi?” Henry tries again, offering a tentative smile as he eyes the massive bouquet. 

But before Henry can inquire any further, there’s a sudden shuffle behind him, and a dozen more pledges materialize out of nowhere, each one dressed in the same blazer-and-khakis ensemble. They fall into formation behind Alberto, who stands at the front as the Captain, flanked by the rest of his pledge line–the last of whom gives Henry a sheepish, apologetic shrug (Daniel, if Henry is remembering his name correctly).

Henry raises an eyebrow, wondering if he’s walked into some sort of fever dream. “What’s all this, then?”

Alberto clears his throat, takes a deep breath, and then, in a voice that’s a little too loud for the quiet afternoon, announces, “Mister Henry Fox, this is a special delivery from our fearless leader over at Frat Boys in Bloom!”

Henry barely has time to register what’s happening before all the pledges launch into a dramatic, synchronized recitation. Each one straightens up, lifting a hand to their hearts like they’re about to deliver a proclamation before a king:

“Shall we compare thee to a summer’s day? No, for thou art more rad than any May! Thy eyes outshine the very morning sun, Thy grace and wit leave all others undone.”

Henry stares, utterly bewildered, as the pledges continue in unison, projecting their voices like they’re auditioning for some sort of frat house Shakespeare-in-the-Park:

“Thy smile, it beams like frothy brew, And oh! Thy charm, it bids the gentlemen adieu! Thy voice rings sweeter than a kegger's cheer, And lo, thy laugh–’tis music to our ear!”

Alberto takes a step forward, brandishing the bouquet like it’s Excalibur itself, and delivers the next lines with a dramatic flourish:

“Roses red, to match the blush upon thy cheek, A token from our leader, who’s far too meek– To tell thee that his heart, it beats for you, That every word he speaks, he swears is true!”

The rest of the pledges chime in, gesturing like a Greek chorus, the seriousness on their faces clashing hilariously with the over-the-top nature of their lines:

“For Henry Fox, thou art our muse, And to thee, we hope, these flowers amuse! Accept this gift, and know this, too: Our fearless leader thinks only of you!”

Henry is caught between mortification and a very real desire to burst out laughing. It’s like watching a group of very earnest, very confused thespians who have somehow wandered off the set of a Renaissance fair and into the middle of campus. He’s not sure whether to laugh or melt into the ground from second-hand embarrassment, but the sight of a dozen earnest faces reciting love poetry at him in perfect unison is too surreal to ignore. And, really, it’s sweet in that utterly ridiculous way that only his Alex could have orchestrated.

As the performance reaches its dramatic crescendo, the pledges finish with a flourish, sweeping their arms in a grand gesture toward Henry as Alberto steps forward, presenting the bouquet with a flourish. “This concludes our performance,” Alberto declares, trying–and failing–to keep a straight face. “We hope you have a most splendid afternoon, sir.”

There’s a beat of silence, during which Henry just blinks at them, then at the bouquet, trying to figure out how he’s supposed to respond.

But before he can say a word, another voice cuts through the air, smooth and confident:

“Did they nail it, or what?”

Henry glances up to see Alex sauntering up, a smug grin on his face, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his jeans. He looks entirely too pleased with himself, as if he’s just masterminded the world’s most elaborate rom-com scene. 

“So, what do you say, Foxy? Will you do me the honor of being my date to Winter Formal?”

Henry lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. He glances at Alberto, who’s looking at him with wide, hopeful eyes, then at the rest of the pledges, who are standing ramrod straight like soldiers awaiting orders.

He turns back to Alex, raising an eyebrow. “This... this is your grand plan, is it?”

Alex just shrugs, his grin widening. “Hey, I had to make you an offer you couldn’t refuse, baby.”

Henry can’t help but laugh, the sound bright and genuine. “Well, with a proposal like that, how could I possibly say otherwise?”

He steps forward to accept the bouquet from Alberto, his eyes widening slightly at the sheer size of it. It’s heavier than it looks, the stems wrapped in a thick ribbon that’s digging into his fingers as he tries to balance the unwieldy arrangement. He shifts the bouquet awkwardly in his grip, the roses swaying dangerously to one side, and he can’t help but let out another small, breathless laugh.

His ridiculous boyfriend, ever the observer, catches the moment immediately. His grin grows even more self-satisfied as he watches Henry struggle to hold the flowers upright. Henry clocks Alex’s expression and rolls his eyes, though he can’t quite manage to keep the smile off his face.

“Trying to make me build some muscle, are we?” Henry quips, still adjusting his grip on the oversized bouquet.

Alex just laughs, clearly delighted with himself. “I had to make sure you got the message, didn’t I? But here, let me get that for you.”

With a flourish, he gestures toward the nearest pledge, who practically springs into action. “Here, Garrett, hold Henry’s bouquet for him, would ya?”

Garrett rushes forward, taking the oversized bouquet with both hands, holding it like it’s a priceless artifact. Before Henry can even process that, Alex points to another pledge. “And Marcus–carry his backpack. Can’t have my sweetheart doing any heavy lifting now, can I?”

Marcus, looking almost absurdly eager, grabs Henry’s bag and slings it over his shoulder, leaving Henry standing there empty-handed and flustered. He glances between Alex and the pledges, utterly bemused, but can’t bring himself to argue. 

It’s too ridiculous, too over-the-top, and too… Alex.

Alex gives him a quick wink and slides an arm around his shoulders, steering him down the path as the pledges trail behind like a very well-dressed, albeit sweaty, entourage. 

“So, lunch, baby? I’m thinking something fancy, like… tacos.”

Henry just laughs, the sound bubbling up despite himself, and leans into Alex’s side. 

He can’t quite believe that this is his life now, but honestly? 

He wouldn’t change a thing.

(Later, as they’re sitting at their favorite taco truck waiting for their orders, sweaty entourage and all, Henry’s phone buzzes with a message from Pez. It’s a link to a TikTok video–grainy, filmed from a distance–and it shows the entire spectacle of the “Formal Proposal,” complete with the pledges reciting Shakespeare and Henry’s flustered reaction. 

Then, another message: I assume the minions are already hard at work on the Save the Dates? Your boy’s proposal skills have gone viral, darling.

Henry watches the video for a second, catching the moment Alex saunters into frame, all swagger and charm, and his own surprised expression as he clutches that oversized bouquet. He groans, shaking his head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Alexander,” he mutters, nudging him under the table with his foot. “We’ve been turned into internet content.”

Alex just grins, completely unbothered. “Good. Now everyone knows you’re mine.”)