Chapter 2
Nick Nelson wants to punch something.
And not in the healthy way, like hitting a punching bag at the gym or pretending a rugby ball is his worst enemy. No, he wants to actually punch someone. Get his hands around something solid, put his knuckles to work, just unload all this pent-up rage sitting in his chest like a goddamn ticking bomb.
But unfortunately, he’s not at a bar. He’s not drunk. It’s Monday, 5 PM, and apparently, society frowns upon just decking people in broad daylight. So instead, he’s suffering.
Which is truly a shame. How dare Nick Nelson suffer through his own day? A day that started off like absolute shit—coffee thrown on him, his favorite Van hoodie ruined, and now he has to walk around smelling like a fucking café special.
And yes, he wants to be mad. He should be mad. And don’t get him wrong—if he ever sees that pencil-figured emo gremlin again, he will have a word. A very strong word. Possibly several.
But beyond that… well. His curiosity got the better of him.
Not in a weird way, okay? He’s straight. He promises he’s straight. But also—he hasn’t been laid in too long, and his brain is getting desperate. That’s all this is. That’s the only explanation.
Because maybe—maybe—the black eyeshadow reminds him of every girl he’s hooked up with, the way it smudges around their eyes, the way it smears a little when they get—nope. Nope. Not thinking about that.
Anyway. His day improved. He showered off in the rugby locker room, washed away the coffee, the annoyance, the stupid lingering thoughts. But he still feels twitchy. His jaw is tight, his fingers are itching, and that restless energy hasn’t gone anywhere.
Nick Nelson still wants to punch something.
Or, failing that—he really needs to get laid.
And he has options. Plenty of options.
He’s Nick fucking Nelson. Captain of the rugby team. The guy with a reputation, the guy who could—if he wanted to—text one of the many, many girls he’s hooked up with in the past and have someone in his dorm in under an hour.
But here’s the thing. Most of the girls at this university have also hooked up with his friends. And while Nick has never been the most morally upright person in the world, he still tries to follow the whole bros before hoes rule. (Which, honestly? He hates that phrase. “Guys before girls”? That sounds better. Less—sexist? But also, what if it’s not guys before girls? What if it’s just—nope. Nope. Not a thought he’s entertaining right now.)
So, what the fuck is he supposed to do with all this energy? With this twitchy, irritated feeling in his skin, like something inside of him is trying to claw its way out? He’s not about to just walk up to some random girl and hook up with her. That’s insane. That’s illegal. That’s not how the world works.
And he could go to a bar, but that would just end with a hangover, and he has a quiz tomorrow he actually can’t get out of (fucking physics).
So instead, Nick does what any repressed, sexually frustrated, deeply confused man would do.
He goes to his dorm, finds some random porn site, and jerks off.
And it’s fine. This is normal. This is what people do when they have too much pent-up energy and nowhere to put it. He is not jerking off to curly hair. Well—he is, but not that curly hair.
No. This woman has curly hair. And also, dimples. And a few freckles.
But that’s it. No similarities at all to the boy with smudged eyeliner and blushing cheeks and the absolute audacity to be both flustered and infuriatingly attractive at the same time.
Nope. Nothing like that at all.
And if, halfway through, Nick finds his brain supplying him with images he definitely wasn’t asking for—ones that involve messy curls pressed against his pillow, flushed skin, a mouth falling open with a gasp—well.
That’s just his imagination betraying him.
Because Nick is straight. He’s just pent up. He’s angry.
And if this jerk-off session happens because of that anger—if this particular release is, in some deeply indirect way, the fault of a certain coffee-throwing emo twink—then, well.
That’s not something Nick is willing to think about.
Not now. Not ever.
And if, when he finally comes, his brain stutters between moaning a name he doesn't know and he has to force himself to imagine it’s a woman’s name, well—
That’s just muscle memory.
When he’s done, though, he doesn’t feel better.
If anything, he feels worse.
And that’s fucking annoying. Because orgasms are supposed to be good. They’re supposed to make him feel relaxed, help him let go of all the pent-up tension clawing at his skin, settle his brain for at least a little while. But instead, he’s just lying there, sticky and uncomfortable and somehow even angrier than before.
Which—why? Why the fuck does he feel like this? He just—he just had a great orgasm. A fantastic one, actually. One of the best he’s had in weeks. So why is his stomach twisted in knots, and why does he feel this weird, sick kind of disgust pooling under his skin?
No, actually, fuck that. There’s no reason to feel like this. No reason to be confused, because he’s not. He likes women.He loves women. He likes boobs. He likes butts. He likes the soft curves, the way their bodies move, the way they feel against him.
He does not like dick.
Nope. No fucking way. That’s not him.
So why does his brain keep circling back to curly hair and flushed cheeks and a sharp little smirk that made something in his chest tighten in a way he really, really didn’t like?
Fuck.
Maybe he’s still just pissed off. That’s gotta be it. He’s not feeling weird because of the stupid coffee boy. He’s still just angry about the whole fucking day. His favorite hoodie is ruined, his morning started like shit, and now, thanks to this, he feels even worse.
Maybe he should just get up. Take another shower. Wash off this whole mess, scrub his skin raw until he doesn’t feel dirty anymore. Maybe he should hit the gym, burn this energy out of his body with push-ups and reps until he’s too exhausted to think.
Or maybe—
Maybe he should track that fucker down.
Not for that, obviously. (Jesus Christ, no.) But just to—find him. Get a name. Have a word with him.
Because Nick doesn’t let people get under his skin like this. He doesn’t let his brain spiral over one stupid interaction. He should be able to let this go, chalk it up to a shitty day, move on.
But he can’t.
And that’s the worst fucking part.
Because for some goddamn reason, his brain keeps throwing out words like talking to—which, sure, fine—and then kissing, which—what the actual fuck?
No. No, no, no. He is not thinking about that. He is not spiraling over some skinny emo dude who looks like he listens to music that would make Nick’s ears bleed.
It was one interaction. An angry one.
He’s gonna let it go.
…Right?
Right. Right. Already gone. He’s not thinking about it. He’s not mad anymore. There’s nothing to be mad about.
Better yet—he’s going to the gym.
Yeah. That’s the move. He’ll lift, he’ll burn out his muscles, and by the time practice rolls around tomorrow, he’ll feel great. He’ll be too sore, too exhausted, too sweaty to think about anything other than rugby and food and the simple, straightforward reality of being Nick Nelson.
So that’s exactly what he does. He throws on a fresh hoodie (because fuck the ruined one, it’s dead to him now), heads to the gym, and lets himself get lost in the rhythm of it. Reps. Push-ups. Bench presses. Weights that strain his arms and make his legs ache. The good kind of pain. The kind that reminds him he’s in control. That his body does exactly what he wants it to do, and there’s nothing complicated about it.
And it’s great. It’s exactly what he needed.
Especially when he meets up with the boys. Harry, Otis, Sebastian. His bros. His people. The ones who clap him on the back, smirk at him, joke around like the world makes sense. They talk about the game, about practice, about some party happening this weekend.
And then, predictably, their attention shifts.
“Look at her,” Harry says, nodding toward a girl doing squats nearby, low and controlled, absolutely killing it. “Jesus, mate. That form? Unreal. Her ass too, Jesus!”
Nick follows their gaze. He grins. Plays along. Throws out a joke, an easy, arrogant little quip about how that’s dedication. They all laugh. Everything is normal.
Except then his brain betrays him.
Because for some godforsaken reason, when he looks at the woman squatting, his mind does not focus on her. No. Instead, his brain—his own brain, the one that is supposed to be on his side—decides to wonder, what would coffee boy look like doing squats?
And that—that—is where Nick officially loses his mind.
Because it’s not in a gay way, okay? It’s not. He’s just curious. Just—scientifically intrigued. Can someone that skinny even lift like that? Would those stupid ripped jeans even let him squat properly, or would they split straight down the middle? Would he—
Nope. Nope. Absolutely fucking not.
Nick clenches his jaw, forces his attention back to the conversation, and makes a decision.
He’s going to go talk to the girl.
Yep. That’s the move. That’s the move. He’s going to walk over, start a conversation, flirt a little, reaffirm to himself and the entire universe that he is a red-blooded, heterosexual man who definitely does not spend time thinking about the accidental coffee boy and his stupid ripped jeans and what his legs might look like if he were—
Nope.
He rolls out his shoulders, cracks his neck, and stands.
He’s going to talk to her.
Nick struts over to the weight rack, casually leaning against it like he’s in some kind of gym commercial. He taps the girl on the shoulder, already crafting some charming opener in his head, something smooth, something easy, something that will remind him—and everyone else—that he is Nick Nelson, the guy who flirts, the guy who gets what he wants, the guy who definitely isn’t thinking about some scrawny emo boy in ripped jeans.
The girl turns, glances at him, then does a double take.
"Oh my god. Nick Nelson?"
Nick blinks. That was… unexpected. He tilts his head, smirking slightly. Recognition? Intrigue? Interest? Great start.
"Uh, yeah. Sorry, do I know you?"
She raises a brow, unimpressed. Not a great start.
"Tara. Uh, Tara? You remember me, right?"
Nick stares. Blanks. Fuck.
"Uh… no? Should I?"
Tara's expression shifts into something deeply unimpressed, and that’s when Nick knows he’s fucked up somehow.
"Oh. Okay. So you really are the asshole. You don’t remember Tara? Thirteen? First kiss?"
And—oh.
Oh, fuck.
Nick’s brain scrambles. Shit. Tara. Right. He did, in fact, kiss a Tara at thirteen. A monumental moment for her, apparently. A complete non-event for him, which, in hindsight, probably makes him sound like a dick. Whoops.
"Oh! Oh my God, yes. Hi. Um, how are you?" He gestures vaguely. "You were, uh, doing really great over there, um, yeah—wait. Did you just call me an asshole?"
Tara crosses her arms. "Nick, everyone knows your reputation. And while some girls may be over here wishing they could fall at your feet, there are others who, quite frankly, would rather spit at them. I am one of those girls."
Nick blinks. Right. That’s—fine. Whatever. Not a big deal. Not like he came over specifically to flirt with her or anything.
"Well, I, uh, actually came over because I was wondering if you would—"
Tara holds up a hand. "Nick Nelson, I am not going to let you flirt with me, you heterosexual asshole. I am a lesbian and I have a partner."
Nick’s mouth opens. And then closes. And then opens again, because what the fuck is happening right now?
"Wait—what?"
"Yeah. A lesbian, Nick. You know, gay? And, fun fact, I actually became a lesbian because your kiss was, well… not great." She tilts her head, faux-thoughtful. "Honestly, it was kind of life-altering. So, thanks for that."
Nick gapes. What the fuck.
"I—okay, first of all, you did not become a lesbian because of me—"
"Oh, I absolutely did."
"Second of all—are you actually a lesbian, or are you just saying that to reject me? Because if you wanted to say no, you could’ve just said no."
Tara stares at him. "Nick. I. Am. A. Lesbian." She enunciates each word like she’s talking to a particularly dumb golden retriever.
"Okay, okay, Jesus." He rubs his face. "Just—fuck, I didn’t come over to harass you, I was just—"
"Coming over to a woman doing squats to flirt with her?" Tara cuts in. "Nick, do you realize how fucking gross that is? How unsafe it makes women feel? Knowing there’s some random heterosexual man staring at their ass and thinking he has a shot?"
Nick opens his mouth, then closes it. He did think he had a shot. He always thinks he has a shot.
But now? Yeah. No.
"Right," he mutters. "Well, um… good to see you, Tara. I, uh—I’m glad you and your girlfriend are… uh… getting it on." He forces a smile. A joking smile. "Anyway, I’m just gonna—yeah. Gonna go back to my workout."
Tara rolls her eyes. "Yeah, you do that."
But then, just as he turns to leave, she calls out again.
"Oh, and Nick?"
He hesitates. Glances back.
She gestures toward his group of bros, standing by the dumbbells, laughing loudly about something deeply unfunny.
"We used to be friends when we were kids," she says, voice softer now, almost… sad. "If you ever wanted to be friends again—like, actual friends—maybe you should think about getting out of that group. Maybe realize that the world doesn’t revolve around you."
Nick stares at her. His jaw tenses.
"Right." He nods once, sharp. "Okay. Yeah. If I—if I decide that, I’ll let you know."
And then he walks away.
Harry claps Nick on the back, grinning like an idiot.
"So, how’d it go? What, you getting it on tonight?"
Nick shrugs him off, barely hiding his irritation. "No, Harry. She’s taken."
Harry whistles low, shaking his head. "Damn shame. Man, I really wish I could get some of that."
Nick forces a nod, trying to ignore the way his stomach twists at that. Not because of Tara—he doesn’t care about Tara—but because suddenly, for some reason, the whole conversation just feels off.
"Do you think if girls thought that about us, we’d be uncomfortable?" he asks before he can stop himself.
Harry frowns, like the thought has never once crossed his brain. "Thought about what? I mean, she’s an attractive woman. I’m not gonna be ashamed of thinking she’s what she is."
Nick exhales sharply. "No, I mean—yeah. No. Never mind. You’re right."
Except, Harry’s not right. The conversation sits wrong in his chest, but Nick pushes it away, locking it up with everything else he doesn’t want to think about. Instead, he sighs and rolls his shoulders.
"Hey, I think I’m actually gonna head back," he says, already grabbing his hoodie off the bench. "I know we have a few more sets, but I’m not feeling great. I haven’t had dinner yet, and I probably should’ve eaten before working out. Yeah, I’m gonna go."
Otis frowns. "Are you sure, mate? You wanna grab something now? We can hit the cafeteria—"
"No, no, you guys go ahead. I just feel like shit. Also, I have a test, and, you know, I never study, but I should at least figure out what fucking module we’re on." He forces a tight smirk. "See you guys later. See you at practice."
He does the round of bro handshakes—quick, rough, impersonal—before heading out, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket, keeping his head low. Headphones in. Blocking out the world.
And sure enough, because this day is a fucking joke, Nick walks straight into someone.
He grits his teeth, ready to cuss them out, but then—of course.
Fucking Coffee Boy.
Nick curses internally, glaring as he yanks out an earbud.
"What the fuck? Are you following me or something?" he snaps. "This is the second time I’ve seen you today. What the fuck is going on?"
Coffee Boy—who still looks as annoyingly pretty as before, stupid curls falling into his face, eyeliner smudged like he’s been doing something Nick doesn’t want to think about—blinks at him, clearly unimpressed.
"Uh, no?" He gestures behind him. "I was just heading to the library, which is that way."
Nick glances back. The library is right next to the gym.
Fuck.
"I am really sorry about the coffee earlier today. I—"
"Don’t talk about the coffee," Nick interrupts, already feeling the phantom stickiness of it all over again. "It’ll just piss me off again."
Coffee Boy rolls his eyes. "Right. Okay. Well, I’m gonna go to the library. Uh, sorry for bumping into you." He pauses, then tilts his head. "Actually—no. I’m not sorry for bumping into you this time. You bumped into me."
Nick narrows his eyes. "Excuse me?"
"Yeah." Coffee Boy folds his arms, leaning back slightly, eyes sharp and amused. "You bumped into me. I shouldn’t have to apologize just because you’re this big, broady guy who thinks everyone should move out of his way."
Nick scoffs, crossing his arms. "Oh, so now I’m intimidating? What, you want me to say sorry instead? Bow down at your feet?"
Coffee Boy smirks, shifting on his heels. "No, but you do act like everyone should bow down to you."
Nick’s jaw clenches. "I don’t act like that."
"Oh, you definitely do," Coffee Boy hums, looking him up and down with slow, deliberate scrutiny that makes something hot crawl under Nick’s skin. "I mean, you walk like you own the place. You glare at people like they should know their place. And you act like anyone who doesn’t worship the ground you walk on is an inconvenience."
Nick bristles, shoulders tensing. "I do not—"
"Mm-hmm." Coffee Boy grins now, sharp and teasing, and fuck, it’s obnoxious.
Nick rolls his eyes, gritting his teeth. "Whatever. I don’t have time for this." He shoves his earbuds back in, fully prepared to storm off and pretend this entire interaction never happened.
Except as he’s walking away, he hears a muttered, "Yeah, run along, Your Highness."
Nick stops.
And then, to his absolute horror, he feels something.
Not rage. Not irritation.
Something worse.
Something thrilling.
Something that makes his brain flash with images of grabbing Coffee Boy by the collar, shoving him against the nearest wall, and—no.
No. No. Absolutely fucking not.
He turns around, glaring.
Coffee Boy just smirks, then winks. Winks.
Nick stops.
He should keep walking. He should let this go. He should not be storming back toward fucking Coffee Boy with a glare sharp enough to cut steel.
And yet, here he is, marching right up to him like an idiot.
"Excuse me," Nick snaps, eyes raking up and down the guy’s frame. "What is it with you and trying to get under my skin? Is this, like, a joke to you?"
Coffee Boy blinks, then grins—smug, lazy, infuriating.
"I mean, I’m not trying to get under your skin," he says, tilting his head. "But I could get under you instead, if you want."
Nick scoffs. Outright scoffs. Then, before he can stop himself, his eyes flick down, scanning the boy’s frame like his brain is trying to calculate logistics.
And then his brain short-circuits because—what the fuck was that thought?
"I’m not fucking gay," Nick spits out, stepping back like the air itself is contaminated. "You fucking twink. What the fuck? I’m not—why the fuck are you flirting with me right now?"
Coffee Boy raises a brow, completely unfazed. "You think that was flirting? Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea."
Nick scowls. His brain refuses to acknowledge the way Coffee Boy just said "sweetheart."
"Okay, well, um, Rugby Lad—because I don’t know your name—"
Nick gawks. "You don’t know my name?"
"Nope." Coffee Boy shrugs. "All I know about you is that you show up for coffee every Monday looking like you’ve either just won a championship or lost a bar fight."
Nick folds his arms. "And why do you know that? Again, are you stalking me? Because this sounds very stalkerish."
"I also go to the coffee shop, genius." Coffee Boy gives him an unimpressed look. "It’s called ‘existing in the same general space.’"
Nick exhales sharply. "Right. And now you were ‘just heading to the library’ when I ‘just happened’ to bump into you again?"
"No, you bumped into me," Coffee Boy corrects, crossing his arms.
Nick’s jaw clenches. "No, you bumped into me."
Coffee Boy groans dramatically, rubbing his temples. "Your Highness—"
Nick flinches. "What did you just call me?"
"Your Highness," Coffee Boy repeats smoothly, smirking. "I’m calling you that now. Sorry, it’s happening. Anyway, Your Highness, you do realize this is a sidewalk, right? I was walking. Reading, actually. Meanwhile, you were looking at the ground like it owed you money, and you bumped into me. So, technically, your fault. I will admit the first coffee-related collision was mine, and for that, I am sorry." He tilts his head. "But this? This one’s on you. And, honestly? I would love an apology. Nice people apologize."
Nick snorts. "Well, I’m not nice."
"Yeah, that much is clear," Coffee Boy sighs, shaking his head. "Which is a shame, really. You’ve got the face of a golden retriever puppy, but now you’re looking at me like you wanna kill me. Please don’t hurt me."
"I’m not going to hurt you," Nick grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I went to the gym because I was already pissed off at you for ruining my hoodie, and now here you are again."
"Yes, I exist," Coffee Boy deadpans. "It’s wild."
Nick rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. "I don’t wanna deal with this. I just needed an excuse to leave, so I said I was hungry, and—ugh."
"Wow. What a deeply tragic story. You should write a memoir."
Nick glares. "I fucking hate you."
"Oh no." Coffee Boy grins, all teeth. "However will I recover?"
Nick swears under his breath. He should walk away. He should forget this conversation ever happened.
But for some reason, he can’t.
Nick crosses his arms, standing firm, glaring down at the smug, insufferable little shit in front of him.
"Okay, so if we’re actually going to have this argument," Nick grits out, "I think I deserve to at least know your name. You—Coffee Boy—or whatever the fuck this is you’re wearing."
And—okay. Okay, calm down. He shouldn’t have looked. He should not have looked. Because now his brain is spiraling—catching on the way Coffee Boy’s jeans are hugging his thighs, the way his shirt is cropped just enough to reveal a sliver of skin, the way that belt is cinched—NOPE.
Nope, nope, nope.
He’s straight. There is no reason for his brain to be wondering what’s under that zipper. Absolutely no reason to be picturing himself unbuckling that belt, sliding those jeans lower, hearing—NOPE.
Nick blinks hard. Refocuses.
Coffee Boy—Charlie—tilts his head, unimpressed. "Charlie."
Nick clenches his jaw. "Okay, Charlie, well, stop bumping into me. You’re really messing up my mood."
Charlie scoffs. "I mess up your mood? Because I bumped into you? You do realize this is a massive university, right? I get bumped into at least five times a day. Do you just have, like, the worst anger issues known to man? Because if so, I dunno, mate, maybe therapy?"
Nick seethes.
"Oh my fucking God, Charlie," he snaps, running a hand through his hair. "Can you please shut the fuck up? We are getting nowhere with this argument, okay?" He throws up his hands. "Here—fine—to please you, I beg, I am so deeply sorry that I bumped into you. I am so sorry that I was mad and staring at the ground because I was thinking about how badly I want to punch you for ruining my hoodie." He places a dramatic hand over his chest. "Will you ever forgive me, Sir Charlie?"
Charlie stares at him, unimpressed, then hums thoughtfully. "Mmm… no. Didn’t like that apology. If you want a real apology, maybe—get down on your knees or something."
Nick chokes.
"Excuse me?!"
Charlie shrugs. "What? If you want me to forgive you, then I want something that actually shows remorse. Not just you putting on some little charade—which, mind you, was nice, but, y’know, not for me."
Nick’s brain short-circuits.
"You want me to get down on my knees?!" His voice jumps half an octave. "I just told you I’m not gay!"
Charlie smirks, shifting his weight onto one foot. "I wasn’t telling you to get on your knees to suck me off, but—" He gestures vaguely. "Hey. You’re the one suggesting it."
Nick blanks out.
His entire brain shuts off.
Because, for half a second, his mind fully betrays him—flashing with an image so vivid, so deeply inappropriate, that his entire body tenses.
Charlie. That smirk turned into something sharper, something needy. Hands tangled in Nick’s hair. Breathless little gasps. Nick on his knees—
NOPE. FUCK. ABORT MISSION. DELETE MEMORY.
"Where the fuck are you from, Charlie?!" Nick blurts, horrified. "What—why—why are you like this?!"
Charlie laughs. Actually fucking laughs.
"Like this? You mean emo? Or hormonal? Because—" he shrugs, grinning, "—I am gay. And I haven’t gotten laid in a while."
Nick gawks. "And that’s why you’re flirting with me?"
Charlie snorts. "I can flirt with you if you want. But, honestly? This isn’t really flirting. Again, I was just heading to the library. You’re the one who stormed back here, all hot and bothered, demanding a fight."
"I’m not hot and bothered—"
"Oh, you definitely are," Charlie teases, eyes flicking down and back up, slow and deliberate.
Nick feels it. Like a physical touch.
He’s going to fucking combust.
"You know what?" Charlie sighs, checking his phone. "I’m actually going to be late to meet some people, so—either get down on your knees and apologize properly, or get down on your knees and suck me off. One of the two."
Nick malfunctions.
Just. Fully. Malfunctions.
His entire face burns. His brain screams. His dick twitches, and he wants to die immediately.
Charlie winks.
And then walks away like he didn’t just ruin Nick’s entire fucking existence.
Who the fuck is this Charlie boy, and why the fuck is Nick so infuriated by him?
But also—why is he interested?
Abort mission. ABORT.
This is not happening. This is not a thing. He just needs to get laid. That’s all this is. He hasn’t had sex in a while, and his brain is malfunctioning. It’s rewiring, short-circuiting, glitching in the absolute worst way possible.
But he can fix this.
Yeah. Yeah.
Friday. The bar. He’s gonna go out, find a beautiful woman, and remind himself of exactly who he is.
Nick Nelson. Straight. A rugby lad. Someone who definitely does not get flustered by smirking twinks with eyeliner and filthy mouths.
Just a few more days. He’ll be fine.
This is just hormones.