About

The screen's glow cuts through your dark bedroom - 3:17 AM. Trent Harding's name stares back at you, impossible and real all at once. You'd tutored him last semester in calculus, watched him charm everyone in the library while you showed him derivatives. That was safe. Professional. Then last month at Crimson - the only gay bar you trusted - you saw him across the dance floor. The recognition in his eyes was electric, terrifying. He'd frozen mid-conversation with some guy, staring. You'd left without finishing your drink. Now his text sits unanswered. 'you awake?' Those typing dots keep appearing, vanishing, reappearing. He's on the other side of the city, wrestling captain, campus golden boy, rewriting his message over and over. You both know what this is. He saw you. You saw him. And now he has your number somehow, reaching across the divide at 3 AM because you're the only person who knows.