Midterm grades came in, and they're a fucking disaster. I didn't have time to study, caught between endless shifts at The Coffee House in Tresidder and classes that barely let me breathe. I forgot the obvious: I need space to prep if I don't want to tank. But it's not all lost. I joined Alpha Centauri, and with the free tutoring that comes with the frat, I'm planning to get back on track next quarter. I'm not letting this semester be a total failure.
I've been working part-time since I talked to Rose. She's still looking for someone to cover the extra shifts, but the café's a madhouse. Things were going okay-ish—until that damn Friday with Noah. I can still see his face on the floor, bleeding, after I decked him. He deserved it, after spilling that his whole plan was to use me for a scholarship because his dad cut him off. Use me like a fucking puppet? What an asshole. Just thinking about it makes my blood boil.
Avoiding him is impossible. We live in the same house. We cross paths at least once a day, though he's doing his part to dodge me too. When we run into each other, I look away. If I meet his eyes, I feel the rage bubbling up, and all I want is to punch him again. Noah Whitman is exactly what I thought: a fucking prick.
Things were relatively fine until this morning when Morgan gathered us to talk about the fallout from the hazing. The dean's pissed because we pulled that stunt mid-semester, and now we're stuck washing cars for the community as "service." It's bullshit, but there's no choice. The worst part? When Morgan said we'd work in pairs, Noah, that idiot, shot his hand up and yelled my name. What the fuck is wrong with him? I'm livid. I don't know what the hell that empty head of his is scheming, but he always finds a way to screw with me. Now I'm stuck washing cars in swim trunks with him.
I storm into my room, slamming the door so hard the whole house probably heard it. I'm fuming, but no one says a word. They know I'm pissed about being paired with Whitman, but there's no way out. I take a deep breath, toss my clothes aside, and dig out my only pair of swim trunks: blue with green stripes. Not bad, they match. I pull them on, check myself in the mirror, and head down to the main room.
The living room's a parade of weird swim trunks. Tristan's rocking one inspired by Demon Slayer, with flame and demon patterns, and I gotta admit, it looks good on him. What surprises me is that, even though everyone knows I'm gay, no one seems uncomfortable. I'm not the type to ogle shirtless guys, I don't give off that vibe. But then he walks in. Fucking Noah.
He strolls in wearing red swim trunks with white stripes, and damn it, they fit him perfectly. His skin makes the color pop, and his body… fuck. Chiseled abs, defined pecs, arms that scream gym hours. I hate admitting it, but he looks incredible. And that pisses me off even more. I hate that I'm into how he looks. I hate him, I really do.
He walks slowly toward me, stopping by my side. I feel his stare, like he wants to say something, but I'm not giving him an inch. Thankfully, Morgan shows up—only one not in swim trunks—and tells us to follow him. Perfect, I'm spared talking to that asshole.
****
Here's the translation of your text into natural, fluent, and uncensored English, preserving the rom-com tone with Ethan's fiery frustration, Noah's earnest apology, and the chaotic, hilarious energy of the car wash scene. The dialogue is sharp and playful, and the narrative captures the shift in Ethan's emotions, the absurdity of the situation, and the budding truce with Noah:
The Stanford parking lot is hell under the sun. The asphalt reeks of burnt rubber, choking the air, and the rays bounce off the cars like they're trying to blind us. A low, decorative fence separates the lot from the main street, where cars roar by, horns blaring, brakes screeching like pissed-off cats. A warm breeze drags dust and distant laughter, while rows of cars gleam like shattered mirrors. The ground's littered with buckets, sponges, and hoses, like someone dumped out a hardware store.
Morgan stands in the center, barking orders like a drill sergeant. "Listen up, you lazy bastards!" he yells. "We're here till the sun goes down, so get your shit together. Girls, guys, nosy old ladies—who knows what's coming. Get wet, show off, flex those muscles, but for fuck's sake, make those cars shine like mirrors. And put on a damn show!"
No one's jumping for joy, but there's no escape. Each pair grabs a bucket, and some hold up makeshift signs with shit like "Sexy Car Wash for $0!" Morgan eggs us on, and Tristan and Nichols start dancing like they're in an '80s disco, shaking their hips with an energy that pulls laughs and whistles from passersby. And it works. Cars start rolling in, and our makeshift car wash turns into a circus.
The first to show up are some girls straight out of a summer movie. They whistle, toss flirty comments, and record us like we're TikTok stars. That fires up the guys. One sprays the car with the hose, another scrubs with a sponge, some grinding against the windows like they're in a raunchy music video. The vibe turns into cheerful chaos. The guys splash each other, turning it into a "who can get wetter" contest. Some of their swim trunks leave nothing to the imagination, and the girls scream like they hit the jackpot.
I'm stiff as a board, scrubbing a sedan like a robot. I'm not here for the clown show. My brothers yell at me to loosen up, but I feel like a fish out of water. Then Noah, king of the assholes, points the hose at me and soaks me head to toe. The water's ice-cold, and my trunks cling to me like a second skin.
"Come on, Bennett, give 'em a show," he says with that smug grin I want to wipe off with another punch.
Rage surges like lava, but I can't make a scene in front of everyone. I take a deep breath, squeezing the sponge until soap drips through my fingers. Noah chuckles under his breath, and I swear, if we weren't surrounded, he'd be on the ground again.
I keep working, silent and rigid. A convertible pulls up with more girls, insisting Noah and I handle it. Fantastic. I scrub the door like I'm trying to rip its soul out, while the others have fun. Suddenly, I feel hands on my waist. It's Noah, snatching the sponge with a confidence that throws me off.
"Let me show you how it's done, rookie," he says with a wink that's either mocking or flirting—I can't tell.
His touch sends a shiver through me, and not the bad kind. A heat hits me, and I swallow hard. I try to ignore it, but Noah hops onto the hood like it's a stage, squeezing the sponge and letting soap slide down his chest. He moves slowly, flexing, and fuck, it's a show. His red trunks hug every muscle in his legs, and even though his pale skin isn't tanned, it glows under the water. He's a damn magnet, and he knows it. The girls scream, and I want to look away, but my eyes betray me.
One of them locks eyes with me. "Why don't you get up there too? You two together would be insane," she says with a grin that spells trouble.
I tense up, but she doesn't quit. She grabs my arm and pulls me toward the car. "Come on, just a little. We'll pay good," she says with a wink.
My face burns, but I start to loosen up, just a bit. I scrub the hood with more energy, and my brothers cheer like I scored a touchdown. "That's it, Ethan, get it!" they yell. Even Noah's grinning, and I don't know if I like or hate that he's enjoying this. Sometimes you've gotta ditch the bitterness and play along, even just for a bit.
Noah moves to the passenger door, winking at the girls. "Like what you see, ladies?" he asks, laughing.
They lose it, some reaching out to touch his abs, his chest, like he's a statue on display. "Hey, those gropes cost extra," he jokes with another shameless wink.
The girls go wild, and I'm caught between nervous and relaxed. They're not pawing at me as much, but the vibe's infectious. Hot girls are hot girls, and a tingle runs through me.
The others don't hold back. Joe climbs onto a hood and yells, "For the first time in history, Alpha Centauri's washing cars! And for a few bucks more, you get this too!" He strikes a model pose, pointing at himself.
The parking lot's a madhouse of laughter, water, and phones recording. Campus guys stop, jaws dropped. Some join in, letting the crowd touch their muscles while laughing. I love that no one's making it weird, that it's just fun.
An SUV pulls up with older women, more hyped than the college girls. While I'm soaping a door, one sneaks up, grabs my waist, and stuffs a bill into my trunks. I freeze, the bill poking out like a flag. I let out a nervous laugh, feeling half-dirty, half-amused.
The car leaves, and Morgan walks over. "Good to see you in the game, Bennett," he says with a restrained smile. "This is your place. Enjoy it."
"This is community service?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
"The dean wanted to humiliate you guys like you humiliated the pledges," he says, a glint in his eye. "Getting a bunch of rich kids to wash cars for regular folks was my idea. They were pissed at first, but now they're having a blast. The dean'll be happy with this punishment."
As we talk, a car rolls up with huge guys—thick beards, long hair, like movie bikers. They stand in front of Joe and Chris. "Come on, little guys, give us a show," they say, their voices booming.
Joe and Chris tense up, but the guys are just messing around, asking them to dance. The lot turns into a festival of laughter, whistles, and more cars pulling in.
We finish another car, and Noah comes over. "I like seeing you laugh with the others," he says, his tone too sincere for my liking.
"Everything was perfect till you opened your mouth," I snap, his voice reigniting my anger. I want to brush him off, but his presence gets under my skin.
"Bennett," he says, grabbing my arm. "Listen, I was an idiot."
"No shit," I reply with a sarcastic laugh.
"For real," he insists, almost whispering. "I know you're pissed, and you've got every right. I tried to use you like a pawn for the scholarship. I fucked up."
"Why am I not surprised?" I shoot back, glaring at him. "For treating me like a toy for your damn scholarship? You have no idea what it's like to fight for one."
"I know," he admits, locking eyes with me. "I realized it when you busted my lip. Seeing you there, furious… I knew I screwed up. I didn't mean to humiliate you."
"Humiliate me?" I say with a bitter laugh. "You offered me sex for a scholarship, Noah. You're a fucking mess."
He goes quiet, like my words hit him hard. "I've always been impulsive," he says, looking down. "My grandpa died because of it, jumping out of a plane with a busted parachute. Sad story, but… I'm desperate. The scholarship's my only way out, but I'm not making excuses. I just want you to forgive me."
I stare at him, unsure what to say. His blue eyes look sincere, and it disarms me. He didn't lie, he's just an impulsive idiot. It hurts, but there's something about him I can't shake.
"I'm sorry for offending you," he continues. "I'm sorry for being the asshole I am with everyone. But I've got some good in me, I think. And you do too, it shows."
"You think?" I ask, crossing my arms.
"For sure," he says with a shy smile. "You were tense all day, but you loosened up. Even the girls were crazy about you."
"They were crazier about you," I say, rolling my eyes.
"Maybe," he teases. "I'm outrageously hot, don't you think?"
"Go fuck yourself," I say, but a laugh slips out.
"Wait, don't go," he says, stepping closer. "Forget my stupid proposal. We can get along, maybe be friends. I don't want to live in Alpha Centauri dodging you out of shame."
"'Sometimes the biggest wars are avoided with a conversation,'" I say, not sure where I pulled that from, but it hits. "I don't want to be pissed at anyone here."
"'Anyone,'" he repeats, grinning. "You're Alpha Centauri now, we're like brothers."
"It's gonna take a lot to see the brotherly side of this," I admit, laughing.
"Chill, we've all got your back," he says. "So, friends?"
I look at him. His eyes have a genuine spark, and as much as it pains me, I've always seen it. He doesn't lie, he just fucks up because he's impulsive. I shake his hand.
"Friends? I don't know," I sigh. "But I forgive you. Maybe we won't hate each other forever."
"That's enough for me," he says, smiling.
We lock eyes, and for a second, the anger fades. Thompson yells from across the lot, "About time you two start getting along!"
Everyone cheers, and I roll my eyes, letting go of his hand. Morgan's smirking from a corner. Then a roar shakes the place. A massive bus pulls into the lot, and a woman steps out with energy that doesn't match her age.
"Hey, boys!" she says with a grin ear to ear.
"Hey!" we reply, exhausted.
"I've got a bus for you," she announces.
"We're done," Joe groans, looking like he's at a funeral.
"Nope, we're not done," Morgan cuts in. "Of course, ma'am. Boys, let's do this."
"Get out, ladies!" the woman shouts, and a swarm of elderly women pours out, giggling like teenagers.
"Put on a good show, boys," she says, stuffing a bill into Morgan's pants.
He freezes, then lets out a laugh that spreads to everyone. Amid whistles and cackles, we attack the bus. The sun's setting, but the lot's floodlights keep the chaos lit. We wash with whatever energy's left, dancing, splashing water like idiots.
"Don't be so stiff!" the woman yells. "These ladies want a show!"
We laugh, letting loose. We sling soap, soak each other, and crack up until our stomachs hurt. One lady smacks Noah's ass so hard it sounds like a whip, and we lose it. He winks at her, cheeky, and she tosses him a bill.
I was pissed this morning, but Noah's apology came just in time. Against all odds, this has been a wild, fun mess. Morgan catches a bucket of soapy water to the face.
"You're not getting out of this, Morgan!" the guys yell, pelting him with sponges. "Time to get dirty!"
Amid laughter, soap, and water, the parking lot's a festival. For the first time in days, I don't want to punch Noah's face. We're not friends, but this… this is a start.
****
For the first time in weeks, I feel like things might actually start to turn around. The car wash two days ago was a circus, but it broke the ice with the Alpha Centauri guys. I don't have to dodge Noah like he's a live grenade anymore. We've even had a couple of chill chats when we run into each other at the house. Nothing deep, just small talk about the weather or how brutal the semester's been. It's weird, but not bad.
The campus is half-dead now that the first quarter's over. Most guys went home or on trips, leaving the frat house like a ghost town. The car wash, which was supposed to be "community service," ended up being a goldmine. Between the girls, the dudes, and those crazy old ladies stuffing bills in our swim trunks, I made a small fortune. I'm not buying a yacht, but at least I won't be eating instant ramen all month. Still, I should get serious about my spending, because my Coffee House paycheck isn't exactly yacht money either.
Speaking of the café, work's been calmer. With fewer students around, the vibe's less chaotic, though the stacks of dirty cups and complicated latte orders never stop. Rose is still running around like a hurricane, but she seems happier. My parents, meanwhile, are off vacationing somewhere, so I decided to stay at Stanford. I talk to them on the phone, but I haven't told them I joined Alpha Centauri. They'll probably love it; they're always saying I'm too serious, that I need friends. I'm not sure the frat guys are "friends" yet, but they're close. Or so I'd like to think.
Julie went to her parents' for a few days, but Jackson stayed for football practice. He's been good company. Lately, he's at the frat house more than his dorm, even crashing in my room some nights. It's not weird to see girls sneaking out of the guys' rooms, but in my case, it's Jackson who shows up. No one cares, and even though I'm gay, Jackson's light-years from that vibe. Or so I think. His chats with Joe make me raise an eyebrow. Joe looks at him like he's a snack, but Jackson seems oblivious. Or maybe he's playing dumb. Either way, they get along great. Too great. Joe's been glued to us like a barnacle, and we've spent a few days together watching games, eating pizza, and laughing at stupid shit. It's not bad.
I'm at the café, wiping down the counter, when Rose storms past like a tornado toward the door. She rips the "Help Wanted" sign off the glass and folds it with a grin that stretches ear to ear.
"Found someone?" I ask, dropping the rag.
"You bet," she says, her eyes sparkling. "They're in my office, getting into uniform."
"Nice," I say, curious. "Who is it?"
"Come see," she says, gesturing toward the office with a dramatic flourish.
I walk over, peek through the door, and my jaw nearly hits the floor. No fucking way. That crooked smile, that messy blond hair, those blue eyes that cut right through you. Noah Whitman, in the café apron, tying it on like he's walking a runway. Holy shit, seriously? You again?
"What's up, Bennett," he says, his voice that infuriating mix of arrogance and amusement, like he knows he just lobbed a grenade my way.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I snap, crossing my arms, trying not to sound as shocked as I am.
"Working, what else?" he says, shrugging. "Rose hired me. Says my 'natural charm' is gonna pack this place with customers."
Rose lets out a chuckle from the doorway. "He's right. This kid's gonna be a tip magnet. And who knows, maybe a heartbreaker too."
"Ha, ha, real funny," I say, rolling my eyes, but a smile sneaks out. Noah laughs, and for a second, I forget that just weeks ago I wanted to punch his face in.
"Get ready, Ethan," he says, winking as he adjusts the apron, which looks stupidly good on him. "We're gonna make this café the hottest spot in Stanford."
"Go fuck yourself," I shoot back, but a laugh escapes. This guy's a disaster, but somehow, he's not as annoying as he used to be. Maybe working together won't be the worst. Or maybe it will. With Noah, you never know.