Chapter 1: A Dangerous Corner
The bass from the living room speakers was a physical thing, a thudding pulse that vibrated through the warped linoleum floor and up into Ryland’s bones. He needed air. The press of bodies in the main room, the shriek of laughter over the music, the way Simon had just looked at him—it was all too much. A sensory overload that short-circuited his usual careful wiring.
He pushed through a door marked by a torn poster, expecting a porch, and found a hallway instead. It was a slick, narrow corridor, a backstage artery to forgotten bedrooms and a locked bathroom. Flickering fluorescent light washed everything in a sickly green. The air was thick with the ghosts of the party: stale beer, the sharp tang of sweat, something metallic lingering underneath it all. Peeling wallpaper curled at the seams.
He leaned against the wall, the cool plaster a relief against his back. He closed his eyes, trying to replay the last five minutes. Simon’s voice, quiet but firm, cutting through the noise. The way his thumb had brushed a fleck of lint from Ryland’s sleeve, a touch so deliberate it felt like a brand. It had left him breathless, a flutter in his chest that was equal parts terror and hope.
“There you are.”
The voice didn’t startle him. It settled in his gut, cold and familiar. He opened his eyes.
Tom Ryder filled the narrow space, his shoulders nearly touching both walls. He wasn’t smiling, not quite. It was that cocky, knowing smirk, all sharp hazel eyes and calculated charm. He’d been drinking, Ryland could smell it on him—whiskey and Coke—but he was steady. Tom was always steady when it mattered.
“Thought you’d vanished.” Tom took a step forward. The hallway shrank.
“Just needed a minute,” Ryland said, his own voice sounding thin.
“From what?” Another step. Tom’s gaze was a searchlight. “From him? The quiet guy in the corner who looks at you like you’re a puzzle he can’t quite solve?”
Ryland said nothing. His heart was doing something erratic against his ribs.
Tom closed the final distance. He didn’t slam Ryland against the wall. It was more predatory than that. A slow, inevitable press, using his body to crowd, to claim the space. His hand found Ryland’s hip, fingers curling, digging in through the thin cotton of his shirt. A reminder. The chill of the plaster was gone, replaced by the furnace heat of Tom’s chest.
“Tom, don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Tom’s mouth was at his ear, his breath hot. The words were a low vibration. “I’m not doing anything. Yet.”
Ryland turned his head away, staring at a water stain on the opposite wall that looked like a forgotten continent. His body betrayed him, a traitorous lean into the solid muscle, into the known quantity. This was the addiction. This was the relapse. The careful wall he’d built since the breakup—since the lies, the other phone, the brutal, casual dismissal—turned to sand.
“You smell different,” Tom murmured, his nose tracing Ryland’s jaw. “You’re nervous.”
“I’m not.”
Tom’s laugh was a soft puff against his skin. “You always were a terrible liar. It’s one of the things I missed.” His other hand came up, not to touch Ryland’s face, but to brace against the wall by his head. Caging him. “You talked to him for twenty minutes. What did you even talk about?”
“None of your business.”
The fingers on his hip tightened, a warning squeeze. “It became my business the second you walked away with him. You know how you get. You give those big, sad eyes and that thoughtful little nod and people think they need to save you.” He pulled back just enough to look Ryland in the face. “He can’t save you from the things you like. He can’t save you from me.”
The words were a poison-tipped arrow, striking true. Ryland felt his resolve splinter. Simon was gentle curiosity, a possible new language. Tom was his mother tongue—harsh, beautiful, and full of landmines.
“Let me go.”
“Why?” Tom challenged, his body pressing harder, eliminating the last sliver of air between them. Ryland could feel every contour, every proof of Tom’s intention. A shudder, unbidden, ran through him. Tom saw it. His smirk widened. “See? Your mouth says one thing. Your body… it remembers everything. The way I know how to touch you. Where you like to be touched. The sound you make when you finally stop thinking.”
Ryland squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s over, Tom. You ended it.”
“I was angry,” Tom said, as if that explained the shattered glass, the screamed insults, the three weeks of silent devastation. “I’m not angry now.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m here. And so are you. In this gross, dark hallway. Remember the last time? My roommate’s closet after his birthday? You were wearing that stupid blue sweater.”
A flash of memory, unbidden: fabric pushed up, frantic heat, the muffled sound of the party just outside the door, Tom’s hand over his mouth. A secret. His secret.
Ryland’s hands came up, landing weakly on Tom’s chest. He meant to push. They rested there, feeling the steady, strong beat beneath his palms.
“That’s it,” Tom coaxed, his voice velvet now. He dipped his head, his lips grazing the sensitive skin just below Ryland’s ear. A place he owned. “Just remember. Forget him. Forget everything that isn’t this.”
For a second, Ryland drowned in it. The familiar scent, the expert touch, the terrifying simplicity of surrender. It would be so easy to turn his head, to meet that mouth, to let the history wash over him and pull him under. It was a tide he knew how to swim in, even if it always dragged him out to sea.
Then, from the far end of the hallway, the bathroom door unlocked with a loud, corroded click.
The spell didn’t break so much as fracture. Light from the brighter room beyond spilled in, and with it, a slice of reality. The distorted bass, a genuine laugh. Ryland’s eyes flew open. Over Tom’s shoulder, he saw Simon step out, wiping his hands on his jeans. Simon looked up, down the dim corridor.
His eyes met Ryland’s.
They held for a fraction of a second—just long enough for Ryland to see the quiet observation there, the lack of surprise, the slight, almost imperceptible nod—before Simon turned and walked back toward the living room, giving no sign he’d seen anything at all. Which was worse.
The shame was instant and icy. It cleared the haze like a slap.
“Get off,” Ryland said, and this time his voice held a fragment of steel.
Tom, sensing the shift, pulled back just an inch. He searched Ryland’s face, his own confidence flickering for the first time. “Ryland.”
“No.” Ryland pushed, now with real force, and Tom, off-balance, took a half-step back. The space between them was suddenly a canyon. “You don’t get to do this anymore. You don’t get to reappear and… and reset me. I’m not your toy you put away when you’re bored and pick up when you’re nostalgic.”
Tom’s face hardened. The charming mask slipped, revealing the cold calculation beneath. “You’ll come back. You always do. You like the way I ruin you.”
Ryland straightened his shirt, his hands trembling. He looked at Tom, really looked at him—the beautiful, broken boy he’d loved so desperately—and felt not the pull of addiction, but the exhaustion of it. The sheer, weary weight of the same old story.
“Maybe I did,” Ryland said, the words leaving him like a final breath. “But I’m tired of the ending.”
He walked. He didn’t shove past Tom; he simply moved forward, and Tom, unexpectedly, let him. The flickering light strobed over them both as Ryland moved down the hallway, toward the noise and the light and the terrifying, quiet possibility of something new.
He didn’t look back. He could feel Tom’s gaze on him, a hot brand between his shoulder blades, all the way until he turned the corner and was swallowed by the crowd.
He could feel Tom’s gaze on him, a hot brand between his shoulder blades, all the way until he turned the corner and was swallowed by the crowd.
The living room was a pulsating organism of its own. Bodies shifted, drinks sloshed, a kaleidoscope of blurry faces shouted to be heard over the synth beat. Ryland pushed through, his heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He scanned the room for Simon’s dark hair, his quieter posture, but saw only strangers and acquaintances locked in their own noisy orbits. The flutter of hope from earlier curdled into a sharp, anxious nausea.
He needed to find him. He needed to explain, though what he would say was a blank static in his mind. Hey, my toxic ex-boyfriend just had me pinned in a hallway, but I walked away. Mostly. It sounded pathetic even in his own head.
A hand clamped around his upper arm. Not gentle. Familiar.
He was spun around.
Tom’s face was inches from his, all pretense of smirking charm gone. His eyes were dark, intense, the hazel turned almost gray under the strobe light. The party noise seemed to drop away, muffled by the sheer force of his focus. “We’re not done.”
“We are.” Ryland tried to pull his arm back, but Tom’s grip was iron.
“You want to have this conversation here?” Tom’s voice was low, a razor wrapped in velvet. He nodded slightly to their left, where a group of Ryland’s classmates from his philosophy seminar were gleefully doing a terrible rendition of the lyrics. “You want to make a scene? I don’t. But I will.”
The threat was clear. Tom had always been better at public performance, at twisting narratives. He could sell concern, a lover’s spat, anything to make Ryland look unstable. Ryland felt the fight drain out of him, replaced by a weary dread. He stopped pulling.
“Good.” Tom’s grip loosened, sliding down to encircle Ryland’s wrist instead. A possessor’s hold. “Back hallway. Now. Or we do this right here.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned, cutting a path through the crowd, leading Ryland like a tugboat pulling a stubborn barge. No one seemed to notice. They were just two more guys moving through the party. Ryland’s face burned. He kept his head down, watching his own feet move, one after the other, following the path of least resistance. It was a habit carved deep into his bones.
The hallway was empty again, quieter, just the distant thump of the bass. Tom didn’t push him against the wall this time. He simply backed him into it, using his body to block the exit, and let go of his wrist. The released skin tingled.
“You humiliated me,” Tom said, his voice chillingly calm.
“I humiliated you?”
“You walked away from me. In front of him.” Tom’s jaw tightened. “That’s my move. You don’t get to pull that.”
The absurdity of it almost sparked Ryland’s anger again. Almost. But then Tom’s hand came up, not in anger, but to brush a strand of hair from Ryland’s forehead. The tenderness was a shock. It was always the whiplash that undid him—the cruelty followed by a glimpse of the boy he’d fallen for.
“You think he wants you?” Tom whispered, stepping closer. The heat returned. “Really wants you? He wants the idea of you. The sweet, sensitive project. He doesn’t want the mess. The nightmares. The way you need to be held down to fall asleep sometimes.” Each word was a precise incision. “He doesn’t know you. I built you. I know every cracked piece.”
Ryland’s eyes stung. He hated that it was true. Simon knew a version of him, a polished surface. Tom knew the rotten foundations.
“I’m not the same,” Ryland whispered, but it sounded like a plea.
“Aren’t you?” Tom’s breath was warm on his lips. His hands settled on Ryland’s hips, thumbs hooking into the belt loops. An old, intimate gesture. “You’re shaking. You always shake when you’re trying to be brave. It’s adorable.”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what? Telling you the truth?” Tom leaned in, his lips brushing the corner of Ryland’s mouth. Not a kiss. A promise. A threat. “You belong to me, Ryland. Even when you hate me. Especially when you hate me. That’s the only real thing you’ve ever had.”
Ryland wanted to argue. He wanted to summon the guy from five minutes ago who walked away. But that guy felt like a fiction now, a character he’d tried on for size. This, the crushing weight of history and want and devastating familiarity, this was real. His body recognized it. Craved it. A hollow ache spread from his stomach to his throat.
He saw the exact moment Tom knew he’d won. A faint, victorious light returned to his eyes. He didn’t smile. He just looked satisfied, like a mathematician who’d finally solved a persistent equation.
“Come on,” Tom said, his voice dropping to that private register, the one that used to curl Ryland’s toes. It still did. “Let’s get out of here. My car’s out back.”
“I can’t just—”
“You can.” Tom finally kissed him, hard and claiming, a hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. It tasted like whiskey and victory and the end of a struggle Ryland was too tired to keep fighting. When he pulled back, Ryland was breathless, his resolve a puddle at his feet. “You’re done here.”
Tom takes him.
He doesn’t drag him. He just turns, confident, and walks toward the fire exit at the end of the hall. He doesn’t look back. He knows.
Ryland stands there for three full seconds, the ghost of the kiss on his lips, the imprint of Tom’s words etching deeper into his psyche. He looks toward the vibrant noise of the party, toward where Simon might be. Then he looks at Tom’s retreating back, the broad shoulders, the sure stride.
His feet move.
He follows him out into the cold, damp night, toward the waiting car, the closed door sealing behind them with a soft, final click. The party beats on, oblivious.