Chapter 6: Melissa
The courage took two weeks to crystallize. It formed in the quiet moments after group, when Michelle would nudge him and say, “You light up when you talk about him, you know that?” It solidified during long, aimless phone calls with Luke, where Scott would cling to the low hum of his voice, a tangible comfort in the dark. He practiced the words in the mirror, in the shower, mouthed them silently on the bus: I have feelings for you. I think I’m in love with you.
He dressed with care that Friday—a soft gray henley, his best jeans. He didn’t call ahead. Showing up at Luke’s door felt bolder, more irreversible. His heart was a frantic bird in his throat as he raised his fist and knocked.
The door swung open, but it wasn’t Luke.
She was tall, blonde, with the athletic build of a runner and a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Hi?” she said, her voice sweetly inquiring.
“Oh. Hi. Is, um, Luke here?” Scott’s prepared speech evaporated.
“Babe!” the woman called over her shoulder. “Someone’s here for you!”
Luke appeared behind her, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. He looked different—softer, his posture relaxed. He placed a casual hand on the woman’s lower back. “Scott. Hey. Come in. This is Melissa.”
Melissa. The name was a physical blow. Scott’s stomach dropped. He managed a nod, stepping inside on autopilot. The house smelled like garlic and oregano, a domestic scent that felt alien.
“Luke’s told me so much about you,” Melissa said, leading the way to the living room. She sat on the couch, tucking her feet beneath her, claiming the space. “The survivor. He says you’re doing really well.”
The survivor. Like a case study. Scott felt himself shrinking. “Thanks,” he mumbled.
Luke busied himself in the kitchen, fetching a beer for himself and Melissa. He handed Scott a soda without asking. “Melissa’s a physical therapist. We met at the gym.”
“He was showing off,” Melissa said, grinning at Luke with possessive fondness. “Lifting way too much. I had to go over and correct his form.”
They shared a look, a secret, intimate thing. Scott’s palms were sweating. He took a sip of the flat soda. The plan, the confession, it was all now a monument to his own stupidity.
The conversation was a minefield. Melissa steered it, asking Scott polite, probing questions about his studies, his therapy. Each answer felt like a performance under a harsh light. When he mentioned his support group, her expression pinched with a practiced, professional sympathy. “That’s so important,” she said. “Having a structured outlet. Luke’s been such a rock for you, I’m sure. But it’s good you’re building other networks.”
The subtext was clear: You are a project. My boyfriend has done his duty.
Luke just nodded, sipping his beer, his arm stretched along the back of the couch behind Melissa. He was oblivious. Or worse, he agreed.
After thirty agonizing minutes, Scott stood. “I should go. I just… wanted to say hi.”
“So soon?” Luke asked, a faint line of concern between his brows.
“Yeah. I’ve got… stuff.” He couldn’t breathe.
Melissa stood too, a study in graciousness. “It was so nice to finally meet you, Scott. Take care of yourself.” The dismissal was gentle, absolute.
Luke walked him to the door. On the threshold, he lowered his voice. “Everything okay? You seem off.”
Scott looked at him, at the face he loved, now touched by another woman’s light. The words he’d practiced curdled into a bitter lie. “Yeah. Just a long week. Melissa seems great.”
Luke’s smile was genuine, warm. “She is. She’s… stable, you know? Grounded. It’s good.”
Unlike me, Scott thought. Broken, unstable, needy.
“I’m happy for you,” he forced out, the sentence ash in his mouth.
He walked to his car, the spring evening suddenly cold. He sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, hands shaking on the wheel, seeing nothing. The hollow ache in his chest yawned wide, a void where his hope had been.
His phone buzzed. A text from a guy in his sociology seminar, Ethan. Hey loser. Party at Sigma Chi. You should come. Get you out of your head.
Ethan was easy. He was clever, handsome in a careless way, and had flirted with Scott since day one. Scott had always demurred, his heart tethered elsewhere.
He typed back, his fingers numb. Pick me up.
The party was a roar of sweat and bass. Ethan found him quickly, handed him a red plastic cup. “You look like someone killed your dog. Drink this.” It was cheap vodka mixed with something sugary. Scott downed it, welcoming the burn.
Ethan was a tactile person. His hand stayed on Scott’s lower back as they moved through the crowd, his laugh loud in Scott’s ear. He was everything Luke wasn’t: obvious, available, uncomplicated. Scott leaned into it, letting the noise and the alcohol blur the image of Luke’s hand on Melissa’s back.
“You’re too hot to be this sad,” Ethan shouted over the music later, his lips brushing Scott’s ear. They were in a dimly lit hallway, the thump of the music vibrating the walls. Ethan’s eyes were dark, hungry. “My place is two blocks away. Quieter.”
Scott nodded. The decision felt like jumping off a cliff.
Ethan’s apartment was a cluttered studio smelling of weed and laundry. As soon as the door closed, the performative energy shifted. Ethan pushed Scott against the wall, his mouth hot and demanding. There was no pretense of romance, no gentle lead-up. It was a collision.
Scott kissed back, trying to lose himself in the sensation. Ethan’s hands were everywhere—pulling at his henley, rucking it up. He broke the kiss to yank the shirt over Scott’s head. “Fuck, you’re skinny,” Ethan murmured, not unkindly, before capturing his mouth again.
He walked Scott backward toward the bed, a messy futon on the floor. They fell onto it, a tangle of limbs. Ethan’s kisses grew more aggressive, his teeth scraping Scott’s lower lip. He palmed Scott through his jeans, a rough, impatient gesture. “You want this?” Ethan breathed, already unfastening his own belt.
“Yes,” Scott said, the word feeling ripped from him. He needed to feel something, anything, other than the crushing loneliness.
Ethan didn’t wait. He shoved Scott’s jeans and briefs down in one motion. The air was cool on his skin. Ethan spat into his own hand, a crude, efficient gesture, and then his slick fingers were pushing against Scott’s hole.
Scott flinched. It wasn’t gentle. It was a blunt, dry invasion. “Relax,” Ethan grunted, working a finger in. The stretch was sharp, uncomfortable. Scott stared at the cracks in the ceiling, trying to drift away. He thought of Luke’s hands, the way they’d spotted him on the bench press. Strong. Careful.
Ethan added a second finger, scissoring him open. “There. You’re tight.” He leaned down, biting at Scott’s nipple, making him gasp. The pain was a bright, grounding wire. Ethan withdrew his fingers, and Scott heard the rip of a foil packet, the snap of latex.
Then Ethan was positioning himself, the blunt head of his cock pressing against him. He didn’t ask if Scott was ready. He just pushed.
Scott cried out, a short, choked sound. It hurt. It was a burning, splitting pressure that forced the air from his lungs. Ethan bottomed out with a deep groan, his hips flush against Scott’s ass. “God, that’s good,” he muttered, already beginning to move.
The rhythm was punishing, a hard, driving fuck. Ethan’s thrusts slapped their skin together, the futon frame squeaking in protest. He fucked like he was trying to claim something, to prove something. His hands dug into Scott’s hips, holding him in place.
Scott wrapped his legs around Ethan’s waist, clinging on as the pace grew more frantic. The initial pain faded into a numb, full sensation. He turned his face into a musty pillow, eyes squeezed shut. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he didn’t see Ethan. He saw Luke’s stern, focused expression in the gym. Heard his voice saying, “Stronger body, stronger mind.”
“You like that, you fucking tight hole?” Ethan panted, his words slurred with lust and cheap vodka. His thrusts became erratic, deeper. “Take it. Yeah. Fuck.”
Scott remained silent, his own cock hard and neglected between them. The pleasure was distant, secondary to the brutal physicality of the act, to the fantasy he was desperately clinging to. It was Luke above him. Luke taking him. Luke claiming what was his.
With a final, grinding thrust and a raw shout, Ethan came, his body going rigid before collapsing heavily onto Scott. The weight was suffocating. Scott could feel the hot pulse of the condom inside him.
Ethan rolled off after a moment, breathing heavily. “Shit,” he exhaled, a laugh in his voice. “That was intense.”
Scott lay still, feeling the wet ache between his legs, the cold air on his sweat-slicked skin. The fantasy dissolved, leaving the stark, ugly reality: a strange bed, a stranger’s cum cooling in a rubber inside him, and the crushing, unshiftable weight of the truth.
Luke was with Melissa. Luke was straight. Luke was gone.
Ethan reached over, idly tracing a finger down Scott’s spine. “You okay? You went quiet.”
“I’m fine,” Scott said, his voice hollow. He sat up, wincing at the soreness, and began gathering his clothes from the floor. He needed to be gone. He needed to be anywhere else.
“You don’t have to run off,” Ethan said, propping himself on an elbow.
“I do,” Scott said, pulling his jeans on over the sticky mess. He didn’t look back as he let himself out, stepping into the chilly night alone. The emptiness inside him was now a cavern, echoing with the sounds of a party he’d already left behind.