Chapter 11.

JASON

The Theta Lambda lounge smells like cloyingly sweet caramel popcorn over coconut‑scented tanning oil, a sugar rush of nervous energy bouncing between mirrored trophy cases that reflect distorted images of the pledges. Cate stands at the front, dressed in severe black-on-black, tablet held like a commandment, her ponytail slicing the air with each sharp turn of her head like a metronome. The pledges gather in a horseshoe of beanbags, bare legs folded, arms draped, their laughter riding every pause with a brittle edge.

Parker sits next to me, her thigh pressed flush to mine; a warm, absent-minded anchor in the swirling currents of the room. She squeezes my hand, a quick, electric pressure, and leans in, her eyes shining with an almost feverish brightness.

The earlier tension between us, the unspoken questions from last night, seem to have softened, replaced by a shared, if uneasy, anticipation.

Maybe pride.

Maybe something more dangerous.

Cate’s voice, crisp and cool, cracks through the chatter like a whip. “Alright, everyone! Settle. It’s time for a little accountability. Or, if you’re as ambitious as I hope, a lot.”

She flicks her wrist with theatrical flair, and the wall-mounted TV wakes with a soft whoosh, pulsing the Theta StageLights logo before sliding to a glossy leaderboard: names rendered in flamboyant theatrical gold, numbers climbing and falling in real time, a rainbow of color-coded bars indicating status and heat.

My code.

My interface. Live and public for the first time.

The chains wound tighter.

I feel sick.

Parker’s fingers tighten on mine as the display flickers to life; I glance over and catch her smiling at me, a little spark of genuine excitement, maybe even gratitude, in her eyes.

“Look at that- your code’s famous now,” her breath warm against my ear.

I feel a strange, sick pride and a deep undercurrent of dread as the first scores materialize on the screen with a series of soft, almost seductive chimes.

Cate grins, a flash of white teeth. “Some of you have already made an impression: on donors, on the program, and, most importantly, on each other.”

The leaderboard sparkles, each name a declaration:

A collective gasp, then a ripple of hushed murmurs and stifled laughter. Parker’s cheeks bloom a vibrant pink as she spots her own nickname at the very top – Persephone – her score nearly double anyone else’s.

Her eyes widen, and a small, almost involuntary smile touches her lips. Cate taps the tablet. “Special shoutout to our Persephone for last night’s fearless performance. Topless dare, flawless delivery, crowd engagement. Donors ate it up. That 200-point bonus and the scholarship match? That’s how you win a leading role, ladies.”

Parker’s breath catches. She leans into me as if to hide, her hair brushing my cheek, but her lips are definitely curved with something more potent than embarrassment. She’s glowing, a subtle tremor running through her.

The other girls exchange loaded looks – some envious, some frankly admiring, all sizing her up anew.

At the very bottom: Pirithous. Only ten points.

A few girls snicker, a mean little sound quickly suppressed. Cate just smirks, a private, knowing curl of her lips as she moves on. No one asks who Pirithous is, and she offers no explanation; only a glint of cold, private satisfaction in her eyes as she glances my way for a fraction of a second.

The source of her amusement, that subtle barb, hovers in the air, slightly out of reach, making my skin prickle uneasily.

I shift on the cushion, the cheap fabric rough against my jeans, suddenly less sure of myself, of anything. This whole system – the logic gates I designed, the color-coding that rewards audacity, the little dopamine hits of rising numbers for every bold move – it’s all mine. I built the game Cate’s playing with them. With Parker. With us.

Cate pivots to the group, her voice regaining its commanding edge. “The leaderboard will update live. Every event, every dare, every audition… ambition points up for grabs. Prestige, donor perks, maybe even some… extra privileges for top performers. If you’re not competitive, get comfortable at the bottom.”

Okay, it’s a bit much, I tell myself, trying to create distance, but I just built the display. It’s Cate’s data. I don’t have to endorse the… content.

The rationalization feels thin, like a worn-out t-shirt.

Someone, a girl with wide, nervous eyes, asks how the points work. Cate gestures to me with a flourish. “Ask our resident genius. Jason’s dashboard tracks every action. He’s our secret weapon. Wouldn’t be possible without him and his ‘partnership’ with Persephone.”

She pauses, letting her gaze sweep the room. “That’s what real love looks like, girls! Helping your other half shine, no matter how bright.”

A chorus of awws and teasing wolf whistles erupts. Parker laughs, ducking her head, but she doesn’t let go of my hand; her fingers are almost painfully tight now. She drinks in the looks, the awws, the applause – her shoulders straighter, her eyes brighter, fixed on the glowing screen. Her grip on my hand tightens further, her thumb tracing the bone as she beams at me, her eyes surprisingly damp.

“This helps more than you know,” she sighs, her voice husky with emotion. “I feel like I really belong.”

I try to smile, a weak imitation, even as the unease twists deeper inside me. My dashboard. It’s a scoreboard for who’s boldest, who’s most exposed. With every new dare, every new act of public vulnerability, the points will flash, the bar will climb, and the room will react; eruptions of cheering, teasing, the other girls already craving their own boost. It’s not just code. It’s a measure of skin and risk, live and permanent.

It’s public. It’s forever.

The other girls are already glancing between Parker and the screen, measuring themselves against her point total. Against her body, her risk, her performance. The air is thick with calculation.

Cate closes with a nearly sinister wink. “Don’t forget, that lead isn’t even close to insurmountable, ladies. Next week, audition scenes for bonus points. You never know what kind of boldness will pay off.”

The nervous girl rushes up to the front, practically tugging at Cate’s shirt. I can’t make out her words, but the whine of her tone is clear. The answer comes loud and clear to the entire room. “Earn your points, or stay invisible. It’s up to you.”

The meeting breaks up in a flurry of excited giggles and the relentless pinging of notifications.

Parker is scrolling her phone, her face illuminated by its glow, watching her number rise with each comment and donor heart. A couple of girls cluster by the screen, eyes darting from Parker’s score to their own, whispering urgently. I hear snippets:

“She really did the dare?”

“You think if I went topless next time…”

“I’m going to find a way to get some serious points and put the pressure on her.”

My code is the lab leak.

Across the lounge, I see a pair of unfamiliar freshmen girls gossip and giggle, nervously tugging their sweatshirts lower over their bikini tops before snapping selfies with a defiant look. Almost immediately, the ripple effect.

Parker smiles, her eyes brighter than ever, lost in the digital affirmation. I want to be proud, to share her triumph, but as I watch her name burn gold at the top of the screen, something deep in me sinks, cold and permanent.

Parker’s hand is still in mine, but it feels lighter now, her attention almost entirely on the screen, the crowd, the comments.

My code runs the show. And I can’t turn it off.

Chapter 12.

JASON

Cate’s voice cuts through the Theta lounge; a sudden sharp edge to the low drone of chatter and the ever present scent of tanning oil still lingering from the weekend.

“Alright, ladies. Eyes up. We’ve got business.”

The wall-mounted TV flashes, silencing the room before settling on the poster for the fall drama: The Second Betrayal, the title font dripping in crimson. At the bottom, a headshot of Anya: the one role that isn’t yet cast.

Cate’s heels click sharply on the polished wood floor as she paces in front of the screen, an apex predator surveying her domain, poised and radiating an almost palpable energy.

“The director needs Anya to be unforgettable,” she says, her tone smooth, compelling. “Vocal clarity, presence, real star power. She’s holding the spot for someone who can deliver… Maybe from this very room.”

Every girl in the room seems to sit up straighter, a collective shift of energy. I catch Parker’s quick, needy intake of breath beside me; her knuckles are white where she’s gripping her notebook. I reach for her hand under the flimsy table we’re sharing, giving it a gentle squeeze. She squeezes back – hard – her thumb tracing the edge of my palm, almost like she’s grounding herself against the sudden surge of her own ambition.

Cate’s gaze, cool and assessing, scans the pledges, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. “We’re opening up informal auditions. If you want in, submit your best monologue. You’ll perform during the house livestream. Real audience, real stakes. We’ll take a vote afterward. Daring counts. Presence counts. If you want the stage, you have to make them believe you belong on it.”

Murmurs ripple through the room, all excitement and apprehension. I turn to Parker, brushing my thumb over her knuckles. “You’ve got this,” my voice pitched for her ears only. “You’re going to crush it. I’ve never seen you miss.”

She gives a tiny, nervous smile, her eyes shining with a combustible mix of gratitude and raw nerves. “Will you help me rehearse?” she whispers back, so quietly the words are almost lost in the renewed buzz of the room. I nod instantly. “Always.”

But then Cate swings around, her tablet held like a scepter.

“For bonus points…” she holds up the screen, scrolling through a script with a flick, “I suggest Act 2, scene four. The garden confession. It’s a showstopper. And maybe we raise the bar. Confidence challenge: perform it in your best swimwear. Show you can handle the spotlight. Every angle.”

A sudden, sharp silence slices through the lounge, punctuated by a nervous cough from somewhere in the back. Parker’s face flushes a deep, painful red, but she doesn’t look away from Cate.

Swimwear? The word triggers a flash in my mind – an illicit, unwelcome image of Parker, vulnerable under stage lights, the lines of her body exposed – an image I instantly try to shove down, a wave of self-disgust washing over me. It’s not desire, not really. It’s… something else. Something that makes the back of my neck prickle with dread and a dark, unbidden curiosity that terrifies me.

Her body stiffens beside me, her uncertainty a physical force as her hand grips mine tighter and tighter. “In a bikini?” she manages, her voice small.

Cate shrugs, a perfectly crafted picture of casual indifference, though her smile holds no warmth. “Or whatever makes you feel powerful. Directors remember the ones who take risks.”

Cate pauses then, glancing meaningfully around the room, her tone shifting a notch, acquiring a sharper, warning edge. “Just remember, all this ambition doesn’t matter if you let your grades slide. We’ve already had one scare with a main role on the line this semester. The roles are not guaranteed, ladies. No matter how good your audition is, if you’re not passing, you’re not onstage. Let’s keep the competition fierce, but keep your transcripts clean.”

Her gaze, like a spotlight itself, seems to focus on a few specific faces: first Riley, with a glance toward Parker before returning to everyone at once, holding them all in her calculated regard. “Opportunities only go to those who can handle the whole package.”

She locks eyes with me for a beat, her smile sharpening. “But Persephone has already proven she knows how to win over an audience, and her grades aren’t an issue, so there’s your competition, girls.” The implication stings – bringing me up short.

A shameful part of me, the part that saw that fleeting, unwanted image, recoils from the challenge for entirely the wrong reasons.

Parker looks down, cheeks burning, but I see her jaw set: a flicker of defiance, of pure determination, tightening the soft line of her mouth. “I want the part,” she says quietly, almost to herself, the words a stark contrast to the surrounding whispers. Then, louder, her voice gaining strength: “I’ll do it.”

I turn to her, my voice low and urgent. “You don’t have to, Park. Not if it feels wrong. You’re better than a stunt.”

For a second, I see her waver, her eyes darting to mine, a glimpse of the girl I’ve always known. I seize the opportunity, continuing in a rush, “There are other roles, other-”

My words die in my throat as her gaze flicks to the leaderboard still glowing on the edge of the TV screen – her name, Persephone, burning gold at the top. Something in her steels, a new hardness I haven’t seen before. “NO,” she insists, a little too loud. “It’s not just a stunt,” she says, her voice steadier now. “I need them to see what I can do. This is my shot. Courage is currency.” Perhaps she’s even repeating something Cate fed her. ‘True artists embrace vulnerability, Parker, make them see you.’

Her grip on my hand tightens, her resolve crystallizing in the sudden, fierce pressure of her palm. I open my mouth, a protest forming, a plea, something – but Cate slides between us with precision, that knowing, chilling smile never slipping.

“Let her work with someone who understands seduction, Jason.” Her voice is velvet, but the words are steel. “This isn’t a small-town community theater audition. She needs to be her character. Don’t worry. We’ll make sure she’s ready for her close-up.” There’s an unmistakable edge to her tone: a warning and a dismissal, all in one.

The room erupts in excited chatter – some girls already buzzing with strategies, others looking skeptical or openly envious.

Parker leans close, her voice trembling but fierce, her breath warm against my ear: “It’s just a monologue, right?” Her gaze pleads with me for reassurance, but there’s a dare in it too, challenging me to argue, to doubt her newfound resolve.

In an instant, I see everything flicker through her wide, bright eyes: fear, pride, an almost desperate need. She’s never wanted anything this badly.

I nod, swallowing past the knot in my throat, forcing a smile that feels like a grimace even as unease gnaws at my gut. “Yeah. Just a monologue.”

As the meeting breaks up in a flurry of notification pings and excited giggles, I watch Parker stand taller, her shoulders squared, eyes fixed on the distant glow of the leaderboard. Her hand slips from mine, already reaching for her script, her focus narrowing.

As she steps away, drawn towards a cluster of other pledges already dissecting Cate’s announcement, Parker glances back. One last flicker of what might be gratitude, or maybe even a fleeting apology in her eyes. But she’s already somewhere else, a million miles away, running lines in her head, chasing the part that gleams brighter than anything. There’s a light in her face I haven’t seen before, and it’s got nothing to do with our love… it’s something more than nerves, more than simple excitement…

Ambition, burning like a fever. She’s moving, with or without me.

And Cate’s eyes, I notice, never leave us, cool and assessing, a faint, satisfied smile playing on her lips as if she’s already scripting the next, inevitable act.

Chapter 13.

JASON

The drama building smells like old velvet, hot stage lights, and a trace of sweat that clings to every rack and faded curtain. Cate told me I should come to “tech check,” but I know I’m just here to be managed: a spectator in my own relationship, like some kind of security blanket or prop. Exactly like move-in day, I’m still the guy with the boxes.

From the glass hallway window, I can see the fitting room is madness: garment bags slung over chairs, spotlights propped up on tripods, the room a confusion of mirrors and half-dressed actors. Parker’s behind a folding screen with Dani, the wardrobe girl – her silhouette only partially hidden by the thin partition. For a split second, I glimpse her in a pale lace bra, back to the room, bare shoulders glowing under the fluorescent lights. Dani’s voice is brisk: “No bras, honey, the straps show through.”

I see Parker’s arms reach back, fumbling at the clasp, her laughter strained and thin. She lets the bra slip away, shielding herself with the dress as she turns, but from where I stand, I can’t tell if anyone else in the room can see what I just saw.

She keeps glancing over her shoulder like she might be able to see me through the glass. Is she looking for me? Or just nervous? Her hair is twisted up, neck bare – delicate, exposed, and so vulnerable it hurts to look.

Noah’s there too, for his own fitting, but mostly shirtless in basketball shorts, the fabric riding low on his hips. He’s nonchalant, stretching his arms while Dani checks jacket lengths, abs flexing with every reach. The other girls sneak glances and giggle, even the wardrobe assistant giving him more attention than necessary.

Cate, perched on a stool, flips through a clipboard with a wickedly amused smirk. “We’ll need a chemistry read for act two,” she says, gaze bouncing between Parker and Noah. “Costume fitting’s faster with the cast together. Two birds, one stone.”

Parker emerges in the dress, clutching the bodice to her chest, face red but determined. The silk slides over her hips, clings to her body, the low back dipping nearly to the base of her spine, exposing a scandalous sweep of skin. The side cutouts frame the outer swell of her breast, an eyeful of sideboob that makes my stomach lurch and my face burn.

The dress looks perilously loose, slipping lower on her hips with every breath; one wrong move and the crack of her perfect ass would be fully exposed, nearly peeking out where the fabric gaps. Dani fusses with the straps, but Parker’s hands grip the fabric unbidden.

She laughs, trying for casual. “It’s just wardrobe, right?”

Cate gives her that dry, knowing smile. “Let’s see it zipped, please. Noah. Give her a hand?”

Noah steps forward, all easy confidence, not bothering with a shirt. He moves in right behind Parker, so close his bare chest nearly grazes her exposed back. From where I’m standing, I can’t see the zipper perfectly – but I sure as hell can see the way the dress gapes, the high arch of her spine and the top of her ass, barely covered. With Noah standing there, there’s no way he’s not seeing everything: the small of her back, the faint dimples above the crack, maybe even more. He reaches for the zipper, knuckles gliding up the bare, vulnerable length of Parker’s back. I see her take a sharp breath at the contact.

His hand steadies her hip, the tips of his fingers almost teasing, straightening the fabric with infuriating intimacy. “You’re good,” he insists, voice pitched for her alone. Parker meets his eyes in the mirror, and I watch the flush rise up her neck – a crimson heat that isn’t simple embarrassment.

My blood rushes, deafening. Anger and jealousy darkly twist together with a low, humiliating throb of arousal, deeper and more insistent than the shame-laced fire from the topless dare. It’s getting worse every time, and that wretched desire just won’t let go.

I want to storm in, to yank him away, to zip her up myself, to mark her as mine. But all I can do is watch, fingers locked white around my phone, heart pounding and cock thickening uselessly under my jeans.

Cate’s voice is syrupy-sweet. “You two look like a show poster already. Dani, get a shot for the archive.” The wardrobe girl lifts her phone, snaps a pic. Noah’s hand is on Parker’s waist, their bodies close, Parker’s smile small but real. She glances at him – only for a second, not nerves but curiosity, a spark I’ve never seen before. Not the anxious, hopeful sparkle she’s always had. This was sharper, more appraising. Like Cate’s.

Noah is called over to try on his own jacket; he strips the dress from Parker with the same calm confidence, knuckles grazing her hip as he peels the silk from her body. The dress nearly slips, and for a beat it’s held up only by Parker’s own white-knuckled grip across her chest – her back bare again, the crack of her perfect ass actually peeking out now, her breasts a hair’s breadth from full exposure.

From where I stand, I see her profile, but Noah – there’s no way he isn’t getting a full view. My blood shrieks as I see the front of his thin shorts tenting forward.

Parker hesitates, arms crossed to preserve the last scraps of modesty, cheeks burning as she scurries back behind the screen, clutching the dress to her chest. Dani says something about how good she looked, how “everyone gets used to it.”

Parker only laughs, shaky and breathless, and from where I stand, I don’t know if it’s from embarrassment, excitement, or both. I’m not sure I want to.

As Parker retreats fully behind the folding screen, clutching the dress to her chest, I catch a fragment of Dani’s voice – low, teasing, barely audible beneath the shuffle of fabric and the murmur of the other girls. “-hard not to notice, right? He’s kind of famous for it.” Parker’s answering laugh is soft, shaky, somewhere between mortified and thrilled. I can’t make out the words, just the tone – intimate, conspiratorial, the sort of thing girls share when they think no one else is listening.

Dani giggles, and Parker shushes her, the sound muffled as she fumbles with a hanger. My mind fills in the blanks, ugly and electric: are they really talking about Noah, about what I think they are? Parker’s voice comes again, quieter, edged with disbelief or maybe excitement. I can’t be sure. All I know is my heart is hammering through my ribcage, picturing the things I can’t see, and convincing myself I don’t want to.

As the room empties out, my phone buzzes. A text from Parker:

I stare at the message, thumb hovering. I could text back – something needy, something possessive, something to claw her back to me. But the words knot up. Instead, I swipe and delete.

No reply tonight.

Chapter 14.

JASON

Theta’s study lounge has been transformed into Cate’s latest pop-up wellness seminar: a glowing Himalayan salt lamp on every windowsill, little bowls of sliced lemons for “ionized hydration,” and some ambient chillwave playlist throbbing faintly from a bluetooth speaker. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be learning something or prepping for a spa day, but Parker looks almost blissful as she curls on a high-pile rug, pink-cheeked and loose-limbed, notebook balanced on her knees.

Cate paces in front of the pledges, every move precise, clipboard in hand. “Performance is a full-spectrum thing,” she says, her voice pitched halfway between yoga teacher and cult leader. “You can’t separate body from mind from spirit. Not when you’re gunning for the lead. So today’s focus: Stage fluency, peak presence, total harmony.”

She snaps theatrically and a senior – one of the statuesque, always-smiling full-sisters – passes around a shallow wooden tray. Neatly arranged on doily squares are a handful of lavender-tinted lozenges, each individually wrapped in glossy cellophane. A little sticker reads: Sponsored by TrueWell Wellness Coaches. Custom Formulation: Pre-Performance Micro-Stack.

Parker barely hesitates. She peels the wrapper and pops the lozenge into her mouth, grinning at the taste. “Kind of tingly,” she says, her voice light, a faint shiver working through her shoulders. “Feels like… I don’t know. Lemonade with a buzz?” She laughs, twirling a strand of hair, her energy restless and quick.

Cate flashes an approving smile. “Those are our micro-enhancers. Before you ask, totally legal: trace adaptogens, natural nootropics, nothing scary. Just gives a little edge for clarity, confidence, and stage fluency. TrueWell’s a sponsor now.”

I eye the tray as it’s passed to me. The lozenges glisten in the light, smelling faintly of violets and eucalyptus. I force a casual smile and take one, turning it over in my palm, the wrapper crinkling. I want to be open-minded, supportive – not that guy who gets controlling or suspicious. So I nod, and act like it’s nothing. I slip it into my pocket instead.

Parker’s fingers keep fluttering absently over her ring finger, circling the pale, naked band where her promise ring used to rest – rubbing the imprint as if she can summon it back by touch. Her cheeks flush deeper, her eyes wide and shining, pupils like spilled ink. She scribbles lyrics in the margins of her notebook, humming a wordless tune, her whole body seeming lighter, looser – almost high. I watch her from my spot by the bookshelf, half amused, half uneasy. She looks happy. Genuinely happy. That’s good, right?

But the way she’s letting herself go, the way she leans into this new routine, makes me a little uneasy. I bite my tongue. I want to be supportive, not some overbearing boyfriend. Still, I can’t quite shake the sense that I’m drifting further out of orbit with every new ritual she adopts.

Cate catches my eye from across the rug and offers a subtle wink. “Jason, you should take yours before the analytics meeting. Helps with focus.” Her gaze rests on me, cool and appraising, as if she’s checking to see if I’ll fall in line – or maybe confirming that I already have. She slides another lozenge into my hand, the movement so artificial I almost expect her to wink. “It’s all about the clarity. Trust me.”

I nod, pocketing the second one. I tell myself it’s only a supplement, probably like the B12 spray my mom mails me every semester. No big deal. But when I finally unwrap one during late-night data cleanup – after everyone’s gone, just me, my laptop, and the ghostly pulse of code across the screen – the tingle starts at the edges of my tongue and spreads up, fizzing behind my ears, prickling across my scalp. It’s mild, but real. My thoughts get buzzy, slippery. Colors feel a little brighter. Nothing scary, nothing wild. Just… different. Just enough to make me wonder if there’s more here than I can afford to admit.

I glance at my phone. Parker’s last text:

I’m not really sure if I want her to tell me, or if I just want to pretend everything is fine.

But she’s already asleep, curled up somewhere on Theta’s massive sectional, hair tangled, lips parted, a faint smile still ghosting her face.

I close my laptop and sit in the soft dark, letting the lozenge dissolve and the strange, subtle buzz carry me a little closer to oblivion – or over some other threshold I can’t quite name.

Chapter 15.

JASON

The Theta Lambda parking lot feels like a stage set in purgatory: cracked asphalt gleaming under an ugly row of floodlights, ringed with circling moths. The air is thick with the smell of spilled White Claw, and late-summer sweat. Everyone’s restless, anticipating one last thrill before the night collapses.

Cate’s voice slices through the noise, every syllable crisp, illuminating. “StageLights, final dare of the night. Spin to win! Winner gets Ambition Points and a pass on clean-up.”

The pledges crowd close, forming a loose circle. Parker’s there – barefoot, cheeks flushed a hectic, almost feverish pink under the floodlights, her smile uncertain but her eyes unusually bright, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. She looks at me, searching for reassurance. I try to smile back, my face barren.

Cate holds up her phone: the StageLights wheel glows, each wedge marked with something riskier than the last. She flicks it with a dramatic flourish.

It spins. Slows. Stops:

The crowd explodes in wild whoops and shrieks. My heart slams in my chest. Cate reads the crowd, milking the tension. “Persephone and… Noah! Front and center!”

Parker’s face goes white, then red. She glances at me – one last plea for rescue – but the circle’s already closing in. Cate steps behind her, voice warm, coaxing: “Come on, Parker, it’s only stage work. Let’s see that actress’s bravery. Noah, help her believe it.”

Noah grins, all relaxed confidence, hands loose at his sides. “You ready, Persephone?”

Parker laughs – a nervous, quivery sound – but nods. “Method practice, right?”

Cate shoots me a look. “Jason, you’re on timer. Ten seconds. And make it count.”

My throat closes. I fumble with my phone, thumb hovering over the stopwatch. The screen is slick with sweat. I can’t breathe.

Noah steps in, close enough for their toes to touch. Cate leans in, coaching loud enough for the whole crowd: “Slow. Take your time. Make the audience feel it.”

Noah’s hand lifts to Parker’s cheek, tilting her face. For a heartbeat, Parker’s eyes find mine – wide, frightened, desperate to believe this isn’t real. Then she closes them. I see her silently mouth the words ‘Courage is currency,’ her lips forming the syllables with a strange, fervent intensity, as if drawing strength from some inner, shimmering conviction.

Cate’s voice, soft as velvet, counts them in: “Three… two… one… action.”

Noah kisses her. Not a peck – no, it’s slow, deep, open-mouthed. His lips part hers, their mouths fusing, the kiss pulling Parker forward until her hands find his shoulders, gripping for balance. Her shoulders relax. His other hand settles at her waist, not quite possessive but not innocent either.

The crowd fades. I only hear the blood pounding in my ears. Just as my mind starts to shear, Cate’s voice cuts in, tempered and proprietary. “Jason. The timer. Unless you think 10 seconds isn’t enough?”

My head whirls toward her, and I see it. The silver glint against her throat. Our promise ring, rising and falling with her breath as she presides over the destruction of the very thing it represents. Thumb still frozen, my insides twist – the amalgam of rage, shame, and a sick, forbidden desire forge a toxic alloy in my gut.

Time fractures. Every microsecond lasts forever. I watch Noah trace Parker’s jaw, see her lips part further, her body swaying unconsciously against his. My fist tightens around the phone. I want to shout. I want to run. Instead, jab my thumb at the button and count – each syllable a knife – loud enough for the whole circle to hear:

“One…”

Noah’s tongue slips between her lips. Parker gasps, a sharp, involuntary sound, her back arching with a suddenness that seems too responsive. The crowd is silent, breathless. My cock fills in a sickening pulse – darkly humiliating as jealousy builds. I can’t look away.

“Two… three…”

Parker’s fingers clench in Noah’s shirt. His hand slides lower, splaying over the curve of her ass – maybe an accident, maybe not. Parker moans, so softly I wonder if anyone else heard, a low thrum of sound that feels alien coming from my normally quiet girlfriend in this public glare. Her eyes are still closed.

“Four… five…”

He deepens the kiss, Parker’s shoulders shuddering in surrender. Cate’s encouragement floats past: “Gorgeous, Persephone. Real connection.”

“Six… seven…”

Noah draws her closer, her body molding against his. Her hand flies to his neck, caressing. My vision tunnels, the world shrinking to the lewd bow of her lips, the flash of tongue, the electric tremor in her thighs. I can’t help but picture his cock pressing against her as their bodies merge, and my vision seems to go completely white. I continue counting.

“Eight… nine…”

Noah finally, slowly breaks the kiss. Parker staggers, breathing hard, lips swollen. Her closed eyes flutter briefly before her gaze flicks to me, terrified, thrilled, exposed.

“Ten.”

The crowd erupts. Someone wolf-whistles. Cate applauds. “Now that’s a scene! Parker, you’re a natural.”

Noah steps back, grinning, running a hand through his hair, his chest rising and falling with something more than adrenaline. He wipes his mouth as he briefly glances down, adjusting his pants subtly. Parker wipes hers as well, her hands shaking. She looks at me. I try to meet her eyes, but I’m drowning.

Cate turns to me, voice sly: “See? You even coached them through it. That’s commitment.”

My hand is numb around the phone. Parker mouths “thank you,” like I just saved her, or damned her, or both.

I turn away. My phone buzzes a minute later.

I stare at the screen, then turn my phone off.

The night air tastes like iron and ash. All I can feel is the maw in my chest, the painful pressure in my jeans, and the sensation that something important slipped away for good.

My cock aches with shame and lust, and I hate myself for wanting more. For wanting anything.

Chapter 16.

JASON

I can’t sleep. Haven’t for days, really. Not since the kiss. The dorm feels smaller at night, every noise amplified. My laptop glows on the desk, another tab of analytics open – the leaderboard, donor charts, live comment feeds – anything to drown out the replay in my head: Noah’s hands on Parker, her lips parted under his, my own voice counting out every humiliating second.

It’s past two when Evan shuffles in, reeking of vape and cold hallway air, tossing his backpack in the corner.

He nods at my screen. “Still at it? Don’t you have, like, three versions of that dashboard already?”

I rub my gritty eyes, hands shaking from too much caffeine and not enough sleep. “I need to tweak a couple features. Cate wants a color gradient for the next update. I promised her I’d have it done.”

He throws himself onto his bed, flipping the pillow to the cool side. “You mean she ordered you. Jesus, man. What are you doing?”

I pretend to focus on my screen, ignoring the ache in my jaw. “It’s work. It keeps me busy. If I keep shipping, I don’t have to think.”

Evan sits up, peering at me across the gloom. “Busy, or hiding? You haven’t really talked to Parker since…” He pantomimes an exaggerated make-out, tongue lolling. “You know.”

I freeze. “It was just a dare. I’m not going to blow up her spot. I trust her.”

He shrugs, unsympathetic. “Yeah? Then why are you up all night, coding until your eyes bleed? You can’t debug your way out of this, bro.”

His words sting, but I keep typing, jaw tight. “What am I supposed to do? Freak out? Forbid her from doing anything? That’s exactly what Cate wants. If I make a scene, I lose her.”

He shakes his head, voice low. “I get it. But don’t act like you’re okay just ‘cause you’re quiet about it. Trust is one thing, man. But at some point you gotta draw a line. Or are you just going to keep counting while some other guy puts his hands all over her?”

My fingers hover, frozen above the keys. “It’s only for the fundraiser. It’s acting.”

“Is it?” Evan says, voice unexpectedly gentle. “You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating. You’re working yourself into the ground building her digital pimp, Jase. Don’t wait ‘til you snap.”

He flicks off the lamp and turns away. “Don’t be the guy who counts. You’re better than this.”

I stare at the screen, blurry now, the leaderboard shifting and climbing with every new dare. I want to believe I’m supporting her, building something real, but all that remains is the hollow ache of someone left on the outside – watching, counting, and never saying what he actually wants.

When I finally crawl into bed, the digital clock is blinking 3:34. Sleep doesn’t come. Only the relentless loop of the night’s kiss, the echo of Evan’s warning, and the pale, accusing glow of my own code.

JASON

I’m dead on my feet when I get Parker’s text – “My roommate’s out. Come over? I’ve got a surprise.” I nearly drop my laptop I’m so eager, my body tight with need and with everything I haven’t said all week. When I get to her door, it’s cracked open, an indie folk track beseeching soft and low – the intimate vocal tone yanking my vulnerability straight to the surface. For a second, my nerves almost win, but I step inside.

She’s waiting for me – not under the covers, not in pajamas, but perched at the end of her bed, still in her Theta hoodie and tiny running shorts. The blinds are only open enough for the city lights to shimmer through, painting patterns over her bare legs. Her promise ring, I notice, still isn’t on her finger. Instead, the golden key dangles at her throat, catching the lamplight in a way that makes my stomach flip. The grounding glow of a scented candle beside the bed wafts sandalwood and amber.

“Hey, stranger.” She pats the bed beside her, grinning, but there’s something else in her eyes – nervous, hopeful, and maybe a little performative. “Thought you could use a private encore. Just us.”

I sit, my heart thudding in my throat. Parker leans into me, her thigh pressed against mine, and I realize she’s wearing the yellow bikini top under her open hoodie, the same one from the topless dare, the same barely-there triangles I can’t get out of my head. My lungs freeze. Suddenly every humiliating, arousing second from that night replays behind my eyes. I can see the crowd, the camera, her flushed skin, the way she’d smiled at the screen. The memory slams into me so hard I can’t speak.

She must see my reaction, because she laughs, a low, nervous sound. “Sorry. The laundry situation’s out of control, so…” She tugs the hoodie wider, exposing more of the pastel straps. “It’s comfortable. And I thought you might not mind, even without a hot tub.”

It’s too much. I try to kiss her, but my hands tremble. I run my palm up her thigh, only over her shorts, but my mind is on her bare skin from the photos, the way Noah’s hands slid over her body, the way Cate made her arch and pose. I can’t stop seeing it.

Parker, emboldened, swings a leg over to straddle me, her shorts tight over her ass, the bikini top pressing into my chest. Her hair falls in my face as she leans down, kissing me – tentative at first, then deeper, her hips rolling, grinding against me through layers of cloth. I’m so hard I’m shaking, but there’s a shame building, a desperate, choking pressure.

She sits up a little, giggling nervously, running her hands up my chest – then, almost unconsciously, she takes my jaw in her palm, tilting my face up to hers. Just like Noah did. Just like Cate told her.

Her breath is hot at my ear, her words soft: “You kiss me so much better than Noah did out there. That was just for the role. This… this is us.”

But all I hear is out there. All I can hear is that unabashed moan, so uncharacteristic for her, ringing in my ears. All I can see is Noah’s hands on her hips, her back arching in ways she’s never moved for me, her mouth open and needy under his.

Before I can even respond, I’m already gone – it’s over. My body betraying me, shame flaring white before we’ve even really started.

I gasp, and – humiliation flashes – my body jerks, release hitting me almost instantly, sticky and hot in my jeans before we’ve done anything. Parker freezes, her hands braced on my chest, awkwardly posed. A thick silence. I feel her hands pause – then she tries to keep moving, like nothing happened, but I know she knows.

My face burns. I can’t meet her eyes. “Sorry. I… God, I- ”

Her face acknowledges everything, though she tries to hide it as she absently tucks a strand of air behind her ear, “Oh… Jay? Wow.”

She tries to laugh, tries to be gentle while lightening the mood. “Guess I really am getting better at stage kisses, huh?” Her reassuring smile feels patronizing, though I’m sure she meant every bit of it. “It’s okay, babe. It happens. Just means you really wanted me, right?” She kisses my cheek, but there’s an edge of uncertainty now, her own arousal still simmering, unaddressed.

I try to recover, try to keep going, but when her hand drifts down, all I find is softness and shame. I can’t get hard again. The more I try, the worse it gets. I can feel her hips searching, needy, but I’m not enough for her.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, voice breaking.

Parker tries to salvage it, pulling me close, but my mind’s running a reel of everything she’s done, everything I wasn’t a part of. My anger turns inward, twisting into humiliation.

She settles next to me, silent, her hand on my chest.

As the playlist moves on to ethereal dream pop, I lie motionless on the bed, staring up with gauzy, liminal tendrils twining my eardrums. Counting the cracks on the ceiling.

PARKER

I stay pressed against him, pretending not to care, but inside, I’m throbbing. I want him. I wanted tonight to fix something. But instead, I feel the ache growing, the question I don’t want to ask: What if this is just who we are now?

This is so hard. Why is the applause so much easier?

I close my eyes and try to breathe, wishing I could want less, or that Jason could want more, or that things could go back to how they were before I knew what it was like to be wanted by a roomful of strangers. Before I knew I could be that girl.

I lie beside him, body still thrumming, wanting to shake him or shake myself: anything but this emptiness between us.

He’s already turning away, quiet and ashamed. I reach for him, but he’s gone somewhere I can’t follow.