My roommate left for the night without saying much—just a half-hearted shrug, the rattle of keys, and a mumbled something about meeting Kayla and crashing at her place. He didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t need one. We weren’t close like that. I heard the door close, then the lock catch, and I was alone. The quiet didn’t bother me. If anything, it was a relief. I flicked off the overheads, brushed my teeth in the glow of the desk lamp, and changed into the same sleep clothes I wore three nights in a row—soft cotton shorts and the gray tank that clung a little too much under the arms. I stood at the edge of my bed longer than necessary, just breathing, staring at the rumpled sheets like they had something to say. Then I climbed in, flipped the pillow, and tugged the blanket over one leg, letting the rest hang free. I had just settled into the stillness—into that in-between space where the body softens but the mind hasn’t followed—when I heard it. A grunt. Not loud, not violent, but close. Under me.
I bolted upright, heart in my throat. For a second, I didn’t move. Just listened. Air vents. The soft whir of the fridge down the hall. And then—another sound. A low shift. Something dragging. My hand moved on instinct, reaching for the light switch on the wall behind my bed, but before my fingers could graze it, a hand shot out from the darkness and grabbed my wrist. Firm. Fast. Familiar. I froze.
“Don’t,” came the voice. Raspy. Grinning. Unmistakable.
My breath caught as he pushed himself up, unfolding from the shadows like some half-feral animal, all sharp lines and sweat and swagger. And there he was. Tate. Andrew fucking Tate Fetterman. Still crouched by the edge of the bed, a ghost half-lit by the ambient streetlight pushing through the blinds. His eyes caught mine, and I swear—just for a moment—it felt like every atom in the room rearranged around him. Of course it was him. It could only ever be him.
There’s a myth around certain people. Not because they try to build one, but because they live in a way that demands it. And Tate? He didn’t just exist in stories. He left them in his wake. Freshman year, he showed up to the team scrimmage with a bruised jaw and a perfect header that made the senior captain look like a traffic cone. He was all fire and instinct, a mess of charm and bruised knuckles, the kind of boy who didn’t smile often but when he did, it felt like getting away with something. He had a laugh you didn’t hear so much as feel in your spine—reckless, defiant, like the world was a joke only he was in on.
Sophomore year, he scored the game-winner in double overtime, then jumped the stadium railing to hug a kid in the crowd. No one asked who the kid was. No one had to. Rumors swirled like they always did: younger brother, foster sibling, a cousin who lived with him after their parents got arrested. No one knew, and Tate never said. That was the thing about him. The more he didn’t speak, the more people filled in the blanks with legend. By junior year, he’d become a brand. A banner. Something you wore on your tongue like it mattered if you’d ever touched him.
Girls wanted him. Boys wanted to be him. Or wanted him, too—they just didn’t say it out loud. Not here. Not at a school where cleats and mascots meant more than confession. But even the straightest guys admitted there was something about Tate. He moved like every hallway belonged to him, like every locker room was his domain. And underneath it all—under the myth, the medals, the photo ops—there was something brittle. Something beautiful. I only ever saw it once, sophomore spring, after his roommate Eddie made varsity and stopped talking to him. Tate came back to the dorm at 2am, drunk and furious, tore his nameplate off the door, and disappeared for three days. When he came back, he’d shaved his head and said nothing. Not a word. Just started over, like it was his thing to do.
We were roommates that year. Freshman fall. They paired us because of alphabetical order and dumb luck. Fetterman and Donnelly. I was the quiet one. The one who kept everything folded. Who double-checked his alarm. Who laminated his syllabi. He was the opposite. Chaos in cleats. But for some reason, he liked me. Not in the obvious way. Not like he was dazzled or needed something. He just… liked that I didn’t flinch. That I saw him before the myth calcified. I think that scared him more than the myth itself.
Now, here he was, crouched at the side of my bed like a memory I hadn’t summoned, looking up at me with those eyes that didn’t ask for permission but expected to be followed.
“Still sleep on the same side, huh?” he said, voice low and laced with amusement.
I swallowed. “You’re insane”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment or a diagnosis?”
I looked at him—really looked—and it hit me like it always does: Tate wasn’t some myth people couldn’t pin down. He was the reason the room tilted. The kind of person who didn’t just show up—he happened to you. He was all noise and nerve and late-night chaos, the guy who once lit a pizza box on fire in the stairwell just to prove a point. The one who made you watch bad movies because he liked narrating over them. Who laughed too hard at things that weren’t funny and sulked for hours when someone cut him off mid-story. He never drifted. He didn’t know how. Tate left scorch marks. And the worst part? Some part of him liked it. Like he wanted the memory to hurt. Like the mess was the point. I didn’t have the language for it back then, but looking at him now—grinning in the dark like he never left—I finally understood: he wasn’t trying to disappear. He was building monuments. Temporary ones. Ones that didn’t last, but made sure you remembered where they stood.
“It’s a fact,” I said finally.
He nodded like he’d take it. Then turned his gaze back to the keys. “So?”
“So what?”
“So are you gonna help me or do I have to break in like some rookie?”
I stared at him. “Tate, what are you even trying to do?”
He didn’t answer. Not directly. Just shrugged like the question didn’t matter. “Call it payback. Performance art. Something worth remembering.”
My heart kicked. “Tate…”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Nobody’s getting hurt.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
He stepped closer. Not crowding. Just enough to test the air. “Then what are you worried about?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I wasn’t sure.
Because part of me already knew I was going to help him.
Because there was something in his eyes I hadn’t seen in years—something reckless and bright and aching.
Because he was still Tate.
And I was still me.
And that had always been the problem.
“You got a Sharpie?” he asked suddenly, eyes flicking to my desk again.
I blinked. “What?”
He walked past me like he belonged here, like it hadn’t been years since he set foot in this room, like the time between us was just an intermission. He dug through the cup on my desk and held one up. Black. Fine tip. The kind you label things with when you’re trying not to lose them.
“This’ll do,” he said, and slid it into the pocket of his jeans.
I watched him, confused and already dizzy. “What’s the Sharpie for?”
He didn’t answer.
He just turned back toward me, grin softer now. “You coming?”
“I’m in boxers.”
“I’ve seen you in less.”
“That was different.”
“Was it?”
I stared.
He smirked.
I sighed.
And then I got out of bed, grabbed my hoodie off the back of the chair, and slid the keycard from the lanyard. He waited by the door, silent, hands in his pockets, like this was something we’d done a thousand times before. Like it wasn’t the start of something we wouldn’t be able to undo.
When I reached him, he nodded once. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For not asking too many questions.”
“I’m asking them in my head,” I said. “Just so we’re clear.”
“Good,” he said. “You’ll need them.”
And then we slipped into the hallway like ghosts.
Because whatever this was—whatever he was about to do—it had already started.
And I was in it.
God help me, I was in it.
Campus was quiet, the kind of quiet that only happens past midnight when the sidewalks feel wider and the streetlights throw shadows too long for comfort. The air was cold enough to make me tuck my hands into my hoodie pocket, but Tate didn’t seem to notice. He walked ahead of me, not fast, but purposeful, like his body already knew the route. Like he’d been planning it longer than he wanted to admit.
I stayed a step behind. Watching him.
His shoulders were tense, jaw tight. Not like he was nervous. More like he was trying not to chew on something he’d already swallowed. I didn’t say anything at first, just listened to our footsteps echo off the pavement and the low whine of the wind cutting through the field behind the gym.
When we turned toward the complex, I finally asked, “Why now?”
He didn’t stop walking. “Because they think they got away with it.”
“Who?”
“The boys.”
He said it like it tasted bitter. Not dramatic. Not theatrical. Just final.
“Brookes Cooper and Rich Steinfield.”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
Tate gave a tight nod, eyes still forward. “Saw me leave the field that day. Heard me on the phone with my brother. Didn’t matter. They told coach I was faking it. Said I bailed on the team.”
I stared at the back of his head, my feet moving on instinct. Brookes and Rich had been his guys—team selfies, birthday posts, inside jokes that lived in the margins of notebooks and locker graffiti. They were always a trio. Always loud and cocky and untouchable. I remembered watching them warm up before games, moving like a single animal. Muscle and motion and confidence. The kind that makes you think nothing could ever touch them.
Tate’s voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. “Coach didn’t ask questions. Just benched me. Told me I was done.”
“Did you explain?”
He laughed once. No humor in it. “You think he wanted the truth? Brookes and Rich handed him a clean story. No loose ends. I was the liability. I made it easy.”
“And Eddie?” He laughed, once. “When coach asked, he didn’t say yes. He just didn’t say no. That was enough.”
We turned the corner past the practice field, gravel crunching under our shoes. The announcer booth loomed ahead, a box of glass and steel and memory.
“I didn’t even care about the benching,” Tate said. “It’s what came after. The whispers. The stories. Amy Griffin ran with it—told half the campus I faked an injury because I was scared to play. Said I cracked under pressure. Said I cried.”
I winced. “Amy’s brutal.”
“She’s a fucking sociopath with lip gloss.” He stopped at the booth door and held out a hand for my keycard. “But she’s not first.”
“What do you mean?”
Tate didn’t answer. Just swiped the card and pushed the door open, the lock releasing with a low, satisfied click.
Inside, the air was stale and electric. The overhead fluorescents stayed off; Tate moved like he knew the space blindfolded, flipping on only the backlights and the console. The glow from the monitors painted soft blue lines across his face and arms, cutting the edges of him sharper than they already were. It wasn’t warm in here, but I felt heat anyway.
He didn’t speak right away. Just moved through the small booth, checking inputs, pulling up the game schedule, prepping the template. I stayed by the door, watching him like someone watching a storm from the window—part awe, part dread. There was something methodical in the way he worked. Not frantic. Not reckless. Like this had all been drafted in his head long before he ever showed up at my bed.
He opened a blank slide.
Didn’t ask me to sit. Didn’t say a word. Just moved toward the console and started typing. The room was quiet except for the rhythmic clack of keys and the occasional soft hum of the system kicking into gear. The cursor blinked on the screen like it was waiting for someone to talk him down.
I stood near the window, keeping one eye on the path below. Nothing moved. The field lights were off. The bleachers empty. Even the vending machine across the quad was dark. It felt like we were the only people awake on campus, the only ones who knew something was about to happen.
“What exactly are you putting on there?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Relax,” Tate muttered, not looking up. “It’s nothing graphic.”
“That’s not comforting.”
He grinned at the monitor. “Brookes and Rich have a tendency to get sloppy when they drink. Not violent. Not loud. Just… uninhibited.”
My stomach turned. “So this is blackmail?”
“Blackmail’s when you want something in return. I don’t want anything.”
I stepped closer. Not enough to read the screen, but enough to hear the slide finalize with a low digital ping. He moved to the upload panel, clicked through his files like he’d already trimmed the image down, formatted the resolution, double-checked the auto-play timing.
“How long’s this been in the works?”
“Couple weeks.”
“Jesus.”
“They earned it.”
I turned toward the hallway window again, heart tight in my throat. “And you’re just going to blast it on the scoreboard? Middle of the game?”
“Noon kickoff. Packed crowd. Homecoming game. Parents, scouts, the works.”
I dragged a hand through my hair. “Tate—”
“They started it, Shea.”
His voice had that edge again. That cooled-over steel. The kind he only used when something really mattered.
You ever been betrayed?” he asked softly.
The question caught me off guard. “What?”
He didn’t repeat it. Just kept going. “Not ghosted. Not dumped. I mean betrayed. Someone who looked you in the eye and made you believe they had your back. Then waited for the perfect moment to stick the knife in.”
I didn’t answer.
“I have.”
His voice was steady now. Low and slow, like he was reading it from somewhere inside his chest.
I didn’t push.
I didn’t ask to see what he’d typed.
I just stood there, watching him line up the detonator with all the quiet care of someone setting a table before the explosion.
Tate stepped back from the console, letting the screen go dark. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just stood there, hands on the edge of the desk, shoulders tense like he was still bracing for something. The air between us felt charged—like the slide he’d just queued up was still hanging there, flickering in the dark even though the monitor had gone black.
Then he spoke.
“You know what pisses me off the most?” he said, voice low. “It’s not that they lied. It’s not even that they let me take the fall. It’s that I trusted them. I let them in. Let them see the real shit. My brother, my headspace, the nights I couldn’t sleep, the mornings I couldn’t eat. They saw all of it. And when the moment came, they chose each other. They picked comfort. Safety. Reputation.”
He turned to face me fully now. Eyes locked on mine. Clearer than they’d been all night.
“Loyalty isn’t about who shows up when things are easy. It’s about who stays when everything turns to shit. When it’s inconvenient. When it’s messy. When it costs them something.”
He took a slow step forward.
“And you?” His voice dropped, soft now. “You’ve always been loyal.”
My chest pulled tight. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
He took another step.
“You could’ve told them about me. Back then. When the rumors started. You could’ve fed into it. Let them laugh. Let them guess. But you didn’t. You never even asked.”
I swallowed. “It wasn’t my business.”
He stopped in front of me. Close enough that I could smell the faint trace of deodorant and sweat and the ghost of something clean, like laundry detergent that had clung to him longer than it was supposed to.
“It was,” he said. “You just respected me enough not to say it.”
We stood there, caught in it. The silence. The gravity. The heat that had been simmering just beneath everything finally rising to the surface.
Then he kissed me.
Not like before.
This one was slower. Full. Intentional.
His hands came up to cradle my jaw, thumbs brushing lightly against my cheekbones, like he was trying to memorize the shape of my face through his fingertips. His mouth was warm and open, and this time it wasn’t about adrenaline. It wasn’t a dare.
It was thanks.
It was sorry.
It was something we didn’t have a name for but had both been circling since the start.
When he finally pulled back, he didn’t say anything.
He didn’t need to.
Neither did I.
THREE YEARS EARLIER
Freshman year, second semester. The nights started getting warmer, but the radiators hadn’t figured that out yet. Our dorm room felt like it was holding its breath. Both windows cracked open, a box fan in the sill humming like white noise we could pretend not to hear.
Tate was on his bed, one sock off, spinning the other lazily in the air with his foot like it was some kind of metronome. I was at my desk, half-watching a dumb action movie and pretending to work on a paper I’d already finished. We hadn’t said much for a while. The kind of silence that only exists between two people who’ve already decided they’re not trying to impress each other anymore.
Then Tate said, “You ever had a handjob?”
My fingers paused on the keyboard.
“What?”
He didn’t look at me. Just stared at the ceiling. “You heard me.”
“I mean… yeah. Once. At a party. It was fine.”
“Just fine?”
“I don’t know, man. It wasn’t a big deal.”
He turned his head toward me. That half-smirk creeping in. “Did she use lotion?”
“Dude.”
“Answer the question.”
I sighed. “No. It was dark and rushed and I was wearing too many layers.”
Tate laughed softly. “Tragic.”
He sat up, legs swinging over the edge of the bed. The sock he’d been playing with hit the floor.
“You ever had one you didn’t see coming?” he asked.
My mouth went dry. “What?”
He stood. Crossed the room in a few steps and grabbed his laptop off the shelf. Opened it. Sat down on my bed, like he’d done it a hundred times. Like my bed was also his, whenever he felt like it.
“Come here,” he said.
I didn’t move.
“I’m not gonna bite.”
I stood. Slowly. Sat beside him, barely leaving any space between us. He pulled up a browser, typed something in, and clicked through a few videos until he found one he liked. He didn’t show me the screen right away—just let the sounds fill the room. Breathy moans. Wet heat. Hands on skin.
I felt my face flush.
“You ever watch stuff like this?” he asked.
“Sometimes,” I said.
“Alone?”
“Obviously.”
He finally turned the screen toward me.
Two guys. One leaning back, head tilted, the other stroking him slow and steady. Intimate. Not performative. No fake sounds. Just pressure and rhythm and skin.
My throat tightened. I couldn’t look away.
Tate leaned in. His arm brushed mine. I felt a tinge of something and I could feel my cock starting to throb.
“I think about it sometimes,” he said quietly. “Not always. Not all the way. But enough to wonder.”
I didn’t say anything.
He glanced over at me. “You trust me?”
“Yes.”
He shifted slightly. “Good.”
His hand moved before I realized what was happening. Tentative at first. Testing. His fingers slid under the waistband of my shorts and wrapped around cock. My breath caught.
“Tate—”
“Shh,” he said.
His hand moved slowly, deliberately, stroking me to the rhythm of the video. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. My body arched toward him on instinct.
I didn’t stop him.
Didn’t want to.
There was nothing casual about it. Nothing forced. He watched my face more than the screen, adjusting as I reacted. Like he was studying me. Like this was a question he didn’t know how to ask out loud, and this was the only language he trusted.
I came too fast. Embarrassingly fast. My whole body seized, jaw clenched, thighs shaking. Tate didn’t flinch. Just let me ride it out, then grabbed a towel from his drawer and handed it to me like this wasn’t new.
We didn’t talk about it afterward.
He didn’t joke or tease.
He just closed the laptop, tossed it onto his bed, and said, “Cool,” before climbing under his own blanket.
But I didn’t sleep for hours.
Not because of the handjob.
Because of the way he’d looked at me.
Like I was the only person in the world who knew him before the wreckage.
PRESENT DAY
We crossed the quad under cover of night, the spray cans rattling inside Tate’s backpack with every step. He didn’t seem nervous. If anything, he looked lighter than he had all night—like the scoreboard wasn’t just revenge, but a release. The first domino tipped.
I kept a few paces behind him, hoodie zipped, hands in my pockets. My head was still buzzing. Not just from the kiss in the booth or what I’d typed—or what I didn’t type. But from the weight of memory, raw and unsorted. The video. The towel. His hand. That night in the dorm had never been a joke, and he’d never made it one. We never talked about it again, but it sat between us every time he looked at me like that.
Like he was looking at me now.
“You good?” he asked, glancing back.
“Yeah,” I said, too fast. “Just… thinking.”
“You do that a lot.”
“Somebody has to.”
He laughed. Low and quiet. Not mocking.
The quad opened in front of us like a stage. The wide path cut clean through the lawn, brick and concrete underfoot, and at the center: the statue of our school’s namesake, arms outstretched like he was proud of every lie this place told. Tate paused by the edge of the grass and pulled the cans from his bag. Lined them up like weapons. Four different colors. One with a custom nozzle.
I looked around. No cameras. No lights. Just us and the dark.
“You sure this is the move?” I asked.
He popped the cap on the red can and tested it against his palm. “You said you trusted me.”
“I do.”
“Then back me up.”
I didn’t move.
He walked toward the center of the quad, slow and easy, like he belonged there. Like this was just another late-night practice drill. He stopped in front of the statue, turned to face the library wall behind it, and lifted the can.
Then paused.
Without turning around, he said, “Watch my back?”
“I am.”
A second later, the first hiss of paint split the air. It was real now.
Whatever came next—there was no walking it back.
Tate wasn’t building a moment.
He was building a monument.
And I was helping him do it.
TO BE CONTINUED…
I'm burning with anticipation!.. This better be epic! 😉😛💯‼️💥
Great start. Tate sounds very intriguing.