Chapter 1: The Package Arrives
The desk lamp flickered, casting a jumpy shadow that made the stacked textbooks on the floor seem to breathe. Braf stared at the plain Grab delivery bag sitting on his bed, right between a half-eaten box of cold pizza and a psychology textbook opened to a chapter on anxiety disorders. His heart was doing this weird, skittery thing against his ribs.He’d paid the driver cash.The guy hadn’t even looked at him.
The air in the dorm room was thick, a permanent cocktail of stale pizza crust, cheap sandalwood cologne he’d bought because the internet said it was “alluring,” and the faint, ever-present damp of the building.He kicked a stray energy drink can under the bed. It clattered against something else in the dark.
His phone buzzed, a single vibration that made his shoulders jerk.Tee: It’s there.Open it.Then get ready.
Braf swallowed, his throat dry. He reached for the bag, the thin plastic rustling loudly in the quiet.He upended it onto the wrinkled comforter.Three things tumbled out.
A bundle of red lace, shimmering under the sickly yellow light.He picked it up. It unfolded, delicate and insubstantial—a lingerie set. The cups were scalloped, the back just thin straps. He ran his thumb over the silk, a sensation so foreign and soft it sent a jolt straight down his spine.Next, a razor.Not a plastic disposable thing. A heavy, old-fashioned safety razor with a wicked silver blade.The handle was cold, solid brass. He set it down carefully on the textbook, next to a highlighted definition of “cognitive dissonance.”
Finally, a tube of lipstick.Pillar-box red.He unscrewed the cap. The bullet was pristine, sharp, the color so violent it seemed to suck the light from the room.
Get ready.He could almost hear Tee’s voice, low and amused, giving the command. It wasn’t a question.Braf’s fingers trembled as he touched the lace again. A part of him, the part that sat through lectures and called his mom every Sunday, was screaming that this was a bad idea, that he should shove everything back in the bag and throw it down the garbage chute. The other part, the part that had swiped right on the blurred profile picture and typed “I’m curious” with a shaking hand, was thrumming with a terrifying, electric anticipation.
He stood up, peeling off his sweatshirt, then his t-shirt.The room was cold. He looked at his reflection in the dark window—pale, slender, a kid playing dress-up.He forced himself to look away.
The lingerie felt absurd putting on.The straps were confusing. He hooked the clasp at the back after three tries, his breath catching as the cool lace settled against his skin.It fit.Of course it fit. Tee had asked for his sizes that first night. The fabric was a shock against him, a second skin that transformed everything.He stared at the stranger in the window’s dark reflection. The red against his pallor was a slap.A floorboard creaked in the hallway outside. He froze, his blood turning to ice. It was just the old building settling, or another student heading to the communal bathroom.But for a second, the silence felt watchful.He picked up the razor. His palms were slick. He walked to the small sink crammed in the corner, flicking on the bare bulb above it.The harsh white light was unforgiving. He lathered his face with soap, his hands unsteady.The blade caught the light as he angled it.This was it. The point of no return.He drew the razor down his cheek, the sound a gritty whisper. The path it cleared was oddly clean.Adult.He did the other side, his movements growing more confident. When he was done, he rinsed his face.The water was cold. He patted his skin dry, the unfamiliar smoothness strange to his fingertips.Then the lipstick.
He leaned into the mirror, the tube gripped tight in his fist. He applied it carefully, the waxy texture leaving a bold, crimson curve.He pressed his lips together, blending it.The effect was shocking. The red of the lace, the red of his lips.The pale, shaved face between them. He looked… different.Not handsome.Commanding.Or like he was playing at being commanding. He couldn’t tell anymore.His phone buzzed again, twice.
Tee: Door should be unlocked.I’m finishing a smoke.Don’t keep me waiting.
A new kind of fear, cold and solid, dropped into his stomach.This was happening now. He wasn’t ready. He’d thought there’d be more time, more messages, a slow walk across campus to meet somewhere.Not this.Not Tee already in the building.
He looked at the razor on the sink. He wiped the lipstick from his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a smeared red stripe like a wound. He grabbed a hoodie from the floor, yanking it over his head, hiding the lace.He shoved the razor into the pocket.
A soft knock at the door.Not Tee’s knock.This was lighter, hesitant.“Braf? You in there?” It was Lucy from down the hall.“I heard your sink. You okay?”
“Yeah,” he called out, his voice cracking.“Fine. Just… heading out.”
“Out?It’s like, midnight. You have the Bio midterm at nine.”
“I know.I just need air.”
A pause. He could picture her on the other side of the door, concerned, her psychology major brain ticking over.“You sound weird. Is everything—”
“It’s fine, Lucy.Thanks.”
He heard her footsteps retreat.The silence after felt heavier. He was alone again with the red things on his bed and the instruction in his pocket. He took a deep breath, the hoodie smelling of laundry detergent and his own fear. He turned off the desk lamp, plunging the room into a darkness broken only by the streetlight bleeding through the thin curtains. They trembled, as if something outside was waiting.He opened the door to the empty hallway. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. His dorm was at the end of the hall, past the fire exit.Room 714.Tee’s last message flashed in his mind.
Door should be unlocked.He started walking, his sneakers silent on the linoleum. Each step echoed in his head.He passed Lucy’s door, then the bathrooms. The hall stretched ahead, a tunnel of closed doors and muted light. At the very end, the fire exit sign glowed a steady, electric red.He reached the heavy door to the stairwell.He pushed the bar.
It clicked open.
It clicked open.
The stairwell was colder than the hall, a damp concrete chill that seeped through his hoodie. The overhead light was out, leaving only the jaundiced glow from two floors below.His breath fogged in the air. He could hear the distant hum of the building, a low electrical moan, and something else—the soft, deliberate scuff of a shoe on concrete, several flights up.He didn’t call out.
Instead, his hand went to his pocket, his fingers closing around the cool brass of the razor.His face felt wrong. The ghost of stubble, the memory of the lipstick.It was all wrong. He needed it to be clean.A single window on the landing provided thin gray light from a security lamp outside. He moved to it, his heart a frantic bird in his throat. He pulled the razor from his pocket, flicked the mechanism open.The blade caught the dull light.No soap this time, no water. Just dry skin and desperation.He shaves quickly.
The blade scraped over his jaw, a harsh, grating whisper that echoed in the empty shaft.It hurt. A sharp, burning sting as it caught his skin.He didn’t stop. He dragged it down his cheek, his neck, beneath his chin. Little prickles of blood welled up in its wake, a hot, tingling map of his carelessness. He wiped the blade on his jeans and did the other side, faster now, a frantic scrubbing to erase the boy from his face. He snapped the razor closed, shoving it back into his pocket.The raw skin burned.
“Nervous habit?”
The voice came from above.Smooth, lower than he remembered from the texts. Tee leaned against the railing of the fourth-floor landing, looking down. The red glow of a cigarette tip bloomed in the shadows, illuminating a sharp jaw, a satisfied curve of a mouth.No smile.
“I…,” Braf started, his voice sticking.He wiped at the beads of blood on his neck.
“You came,” Tee said.It wasn’t a compliment.It was an observation. “Let’s see.”
Tee came down the stairs, steps measured, unhurried. Braf wanted to run.He stood frozen. Tee stopped on the landing just above him, close enough that Braf could smell the clove cigarette, a hint of sharp cologne. Eyes, dark and assessing, traveled over him—the hoodie, the nervous stance, the freshly shaved and nicked skin.“The hoodie’s a cute touch. Hiding something?”
Braf couldn’t speak.He gave a slight, shaky nod.
“Show me.”
The command was soft, absolute.Braf’s hands felt like blocks of ice. He grabbed the hem of his hoodie and pulled it over his head.The cold air hit the lace, making him gasp. He stood there, in the middle of the concrete stairwell, in the red lingerie, his skin goosefleshed, shivering.
Tee took a long drag, the ember flaring, painting their face in a sudden, ruddy light. An appreciative hum vibrated in their throat.“Better.The shave is… messy. But the effort is noted.” They flicked the cigarette butt down the center of the stairwell. It spiraled into darkness, a tiny orange comet.“Come on. My car’s in the service lot.”
Tee turned and started back up the stairs. After a moment of paralyzed hesitation, Braf scrambled to follow, pulling his hoodie back on as he went, his bare feet silent on the cold steps. The raw places on his face throbbed with every beat of his heart.He had never been more terrified. He had never felt more alive.
The service lot was a concrete apron behind the dorm kitchens, lit by a single flickering sodium lamp that turned the world the color of a bruise. Tee’s car was an old sedan, black paint dull under the jaundiced light.The door groaned open.
“Get in,” Tee said, not looking back.Braf slid into the passenger seat. The interior smelled of old leather, stale smoke, and something else—sharp, like rubbing alcohol. The door thunked shut, sealing them in a thick, silent capsule. The world outside the windshield was a still life of shadows and that pulsing amber glow.Tee didn’t start the engine. Instead, he leaned back in the driver’s seat, the leather creaking under his weight. He looked at Braf, his face half in shadow.“You followed instructions. Mostly.” His voice was a low rumble in the confined space. “Hands are still shaking.”
“I’m cold,” Braf said, the excuse thin even to his own ears.A low chuckle. “We’ll warm you up.”
Tee reached over, not for the ignition, but for Braf’s left wrist.His grip was firm, unyielding. He pried Braf’s hand from where it was clutching his own thigh, the fingers stiff and cold. Slowly, deliberately, Tee guided it across the center console.Braf’s breath hitched. His mind went white, then flooded with a static buzz.
Tee placed Braf’s palm flat against the rough denim of his jeans.The heat there was immediate, startling. And the size—Braf’s brain stuttered, trying to compute the solid, thick length beneath his trembling hand. Tee held Braf’s wrist, keeping the contact, applying a slight pressure.
“Feel that?” Tee asked, his voice conversational, as if discussing the weather.Braf could only nod, a quick, jerky motion. His throat was sealed shut. The reality of the situation, which had felt like a dizzying dream in the stairwell, crashed into him with the weight of a physical blow. The lingerie beneath his hoodie felt absurd, a child’s costume. The raw burn on his cheeks from the dry shave screamed.And now this—the impossible, solid heat under his hand.
Oh god, he thought, the words a frantic loop in his head.Is this it? Is he going to… right here?The images were sudden, visceral, and utterly terrifying. The car felt impossibly small.The windows, suddenly transparent.Anyone could walk by.The gearshift dug into his side. His heart hammered against his ribs, a trapped animal seeking escape. He wondered, with a spike of nausea, if he was going to get fucked in this cold, silent car under the sick yellow light. The fear was a cold metal taste in his mouth, but beneath it, coiling low in his gut, was a thread of something else—a dark, unwelcome thrill that made his face burn hotter than the razor cuts.
The fear was a cold metal taste in his mouth, but beneath it, coiling low in his gut, was a thread of something else—a dark, unwelcome thrill that made his face burn hotter than the razor cuts. Tee watched him, a faint smile playing on his lips, reading the conflict in Braf’s wide eyes. He gave Braf’s wrist a final, firm press before letting go, leaving his hand there as he turned and slotted the key into the ignition.
The engine turned over with a low grumble, vibrations thrumming through the seats and up Braf’s arm. Tee backed out of the space, the headlights cutting swaths through the oily darkness of the service lot. He drove one-handed, his left resting casually on the wheel. His right came down, his own large hand covering Braf’s, applying a subtle, guiding pressure.
“Keep it there,” Tee said, his voice almost lost under the hum of the tires hitting asphalt. They turned onto the main road, leaving the campus behind. Streetlights strobed through the windshield, painting Tee’s profile in intermittent flashes of white and shadow. Braf was excruciatingly aware of the warmth, the solidity, the slow, deliberate movement beneath his palm through the denim. Every shift of the car, every turn, sent a new jolt of awareness through him.
He stared straight ahead, watching the familiar streets of his college town slide by—the shuttered cafes, the late-night pizza place, the glowing sign of the convenience store where he bought his energy drinks. It all looked different from this passenger seat, through this filter of dizzying panic and arousal. The ordinary world was still out there, just beyond the glass, but in here was something else entirely.
Tee drove smoothly, confidently, saying nothing for blocks. The silence was thick, filled only by the rumble of the engine and the sound of Braf’s own breathing, which he tried to quiet. His arm began to ache from the tense, awkward angle.The raw patches on his face stung.
“You live far?” Braf managed to ask, his voice thin.
“Condos on the west side.Ten minutes.” Tee glanced over.“Why?You in a rush?”
“No. Just… wondering.”
“Relax. You’re holding on like it’s a live wire.” Tee’s thumb stroked the back of Braf’s hand, a gesture that was almost tender and utterly disorienting.“It’s just a dick. You’ve seen one before.”
Braf nodded, flushing.He had.But not like this. Not attached to this.
They left the student ghetto behind, crossing the river into a part of town with wider streets and newer buildings.Tee navigated into an underground parking garage beneath a sleek, dark glass building. The tires echoed off the concrete walls.He pulled into a numbered spot and killed the engine. The sudden silence was absolute, broken only by the ping of cooling metal.
Tee didn’t move.He just sat there in the dark, looking at Braf. The orange glow from a distant safety light cast deep hollows under his cheekbones. He finally broke the quiet, his voice a low murmur in the confined space.“Look at you.Sitting there in your little red lace. Shaking.” He leaned closer.The smell of clove and leather and male sweat was overwhelming. “You’ve hooked up before.I can tell. But I don’t think you’ve ever done anything real.”
“I have,” Braf whispered, a weak defense.
Tee’s hand was back on his, still trapped between warmth and denim. His grip tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to promise he could.“Okay. Then tell me.” His eyes locked onto Braf’s, unblinking. “Have you ever been fucked like a girl?”
The words hung in the air of the car, sharp and unavoidable.They weren’t a seduction. They were a clinical inquiry, a dismantling. Braf felt his ears burn, his whole face hot against the cool of the window glass he was leaning on. His mind scrabbled for an answer that wasn’t a whimper.“No,” he finally breathed out, the word barely audible. Then, a surge of something—defiance, or a desperate attempt to regain footing—made him add, “But I mean… we can try.”
He heard the shift in Tee’s posture, the soft creak of the driver’s seat.A low, appreciative sound, almost a hum. “Okay,” Tee said, simple and final. “Let’s go.”
The car door opened, spilling in the chilled, concrete-smelling air of the parking garage. Tee was already out, a silhouette against a distant pillar light.Braf fumbled for the handle, his limbs clumsy. He stepped out, the cold of the concrete floor seeping through his socks instantly. He’d forgotten shoes. The absurdity of it—the red lace, the hoodie, the bare feet on dirty garage concrete—pulsed through him with a wave of nausea.
Tee didn’t wait.He started walking toward a bank of elevators, his footsteps echoing. Braf followed, the rough floor gritty and cold under his soles.Each step was a small shock. He focused on the back of Tee’s leather jacket, a dark spot moving away from him, and the fear of being left behind in this underground cavern pushed him forward faster than the fear of what came next.
Tee pressed the elevator call button.The ding was obscenely loud. The doors slid open, revealing a mirrored interior. Braf flinched seeing himself—pale, wide-eyed, hoodie askew, hair messy.He looked like a kid who’d gotten lost. Tee stepped in, turned, and leaned against the back wall, watching Braf hesitate on the threshold.“Coming?”
Braf stepped in. The doors closed with a soft, definitive sigh, sealing them in a bright, silent box.His own reflection was inescapable now, from every angle. Tee watched the mirrors, not him, a faint smile on his face as he took in Braf’s trapped posture.He pressed a button for the fourteenth floor.
The elevator began to rise, a slight lurch that made Braf’s stomach drop.The only sound was the mechanical hum. Tee pushed off from the wall and closed the distance between them in one smooth step. He didn’t touch Braf. Just stood close, looking down at him, his body a wall blocking the exit that wasn’t there.
“Say it again,” Tee murmured, his voice a vibration in the small space.Braf’s mouth was dry. “Say what?”
“What you said in the car.”
Braf looked at their twin reflections in the door—the broad frame in leather, his own slender, swallowed-up form in grey cotton.He saw his own lips move. “We can try.”
As the words left his mouth, Tee’s hand came up, not to touch him, but to point at his reflection in the polished metal door. A single fingertip hovered near the mirrored image of Braf’s chest, beneath the hoodie. “For the record,” Tee said, his tone conversational, almost detached.“Trying isn’t the same as succeeding. You understand the difference, right?”
The elevator chimed. The doors opened on a plush, silent hallway with muted carpet and abstract art. Tee turned and walked out, assuming Braf would follow.He did. Bare feet sinking into the carpet, heart hammering, he followed Tee down the hall to a sleek, dark door. Tee unlocked it, pushed it open, and stepped inside, leaving it ajar.Braf stopped at the threshold. From inside, he could see a sliver of a modern living room—a dark sofa, a floor lamp casting a dim amber pool, expansive windows showing a grid of city lights.It was clean, adult, intimidating. A different world from his pizza-box dorm.
Tee’s voice floated out from the dimness, no longer a question, but a soft command. “Close the door behind you.”
Braf’s hand trembled as he reached for the heavy door.He pushed it shut. The click of the latch engaging was the loudest sound he had ever heard.