Part I – The Locker Room
The gates of Haldenridge yawned wide, ivy-wrapped and iron-wrought, like the jaws of something ancient. Luca stood at the threshold with a suitcase in one hand and his skirt catching wind in the other. It fluttered against his legs like a nervous thought.
He stepped through.
Each stone on the path was colder than he imagined. Each window of the school seemed to watch him as if the building itself was sentient—and skeptical. Behind the glass, shadows passed. Heads turned.
He heard the whispers before he reached the dorm.
"Is that a…?"
"No way."
"Bro, I swear to God—"
"Nah, what the hell is he wearing?"
He kept walking. Chin level, but not high. His hazel eyes flicked downward when they met another's too long. He wasn't trying to make a statement. He wasn't here to prove a point.
His mother told him to be polite. Neat. Graceful. "You are not less because you're different," she had whispered that morning while adjusting his collar. "You're more."
But standing in front of a row of lockers, surrounded by loud bodies, coarse language, and the sharp musk of men—Luca didn't feel like more.
He felt like a mistake someone forgot to erase.
"Alright, strip down. Orientation run in twenty."
The coach's voice barked like gravel down his spine.
Luca blinked. "Here?"
A boy nearby laughed. "Where else, skirt-boy? Girls' locker room?"
Laughter rippled. Not cruel. Not kind either. Just a ripple. Luca smiled faintly, instinctively, a reflex.
His hands went to the hem of his sweater. He hesitated.
There were no curtains. No changing stalls. Just rows of metal benches, half-naked bodies, boys who slapped each other's backs and swore in four-letter words. They were all muscle and noise and unashamedness. And they watched him now—some pretending not to. Others not bothering to.
He unbuttoned the sweater.
One. Two.
His breath held on the third.
He felt his pulse in his wrists. His knees. His throat.
By the time he peeled it off, silence had returned.
A weighted, loaded silence.
He could feel it coil around his waist, crawl up his back.
Next was the blouse.
As each button slipped loose, it felt like a thread inside him did too. He wasn't just revealing skin. He was peeling off armor—soft, silken, maternal. Each movement exposed something sacred. Private.
Unprotected.
He paused, fingers resting on the last button. Someone behind him shifted. Another cleared his throat.
Luca realized he'd never undressed in front of a man before.
Not one.
And now—there were twenty.
He slid the blouse from his shoulders. Pale, bare skin met fluorescent light. His spine, delicate. Collarbone etched like fine porcelain. He wasn't muscular—just sculpted in some soft, deliberate way. His waist tapered, the dip of his back framing the curve of his body.
He could hear their silence like a held breath.
"Damn," someone muttered.
Luca's face flushed. Not red—but glowing. Not shame—but something close. His hands shook as they moved to the clasp of his skirt.
You're just changing clothes, he told himself.
But it felt like shedding his soul.
He undid the clasp. Slid the fabric down his hips, thighs, knees. The tights followed, slower. Every second felt like it stretched the room, made space for stares to gather, pile up, weigh down.
He was standing in only his underthings now—modest, delicate, form-fitting. The only part of him that wasn't trembling was his face, carefully blank.
But inside, he was spiraling.
Someone dropped a towel.
Someone's eyes wouldn't leave his thighs.
Is this what they wanted to see?
Is this what makes me matter here?
And then a voice—low, amused, almost a whisper:
"Pretty little thing, isn't he?"
The words burrowed beneath his skin.
He didn't look.
He just nodded once, like a bow.
Better this, he thought. Better wanted, even wrongly, than invisible.
But something inside him—fragile and flickering—shivered.
Chapter One: Soft Steps into Fire
Part II – The Bark and the Bare
Luca stood still, half-dressed in the sterile brightness of the locker room, arms loose at his sides, breath fluttering like bird wings in his chest.
A boy nearby was still watching him—not pretending not to.
The others, maybe, stole glances.
But this one... he devoured.
His build was large—thick, not just tall. Arms carved from weightlifting hours, a square jaw lined with faint stubble, and shoulders like dark oak. His eyes were almost black, hooded, narrowed in study. His name would come later. But the presence of him was already pressing.
He stood like someone who expected to be obeyed.
Luca didn't know why that made his stomach tighten.
The boy stepped closer.
"Why'd you stop?" he asked, voice low but sharp like gravel dragged across a drum. "Go on. You're already halfway there."
Luca blinked, unsure.
"You hard of hearing, pretty-boy?"
The boy leaned forward, breath warm, sour with spice and sweat. "I said strip. All the way. We wanna see the rest."
Laughter sparked in the background—some forced, some entertained, some just relieved it wasn't about them.
Luca's throat tightened.
His hands twitched downward.
He glanced toward the door. The coach was still outside, yelling at some latecomers. No one else said a word.
The boy folded his arms across his broad chest and smirked. "Unless you like teasing. Is that it?"
He didn't wait for an answer. "You put yourself on display in those little skirts, and now you're shy?"
Something in his tone was both cruel and hungry.
Luca's skin flushed. He looked down, and slowly—obediently—hooked his fingers into the waistband of his briefs.
His breath caught.
This wasn't like undressing at home. This wasn't the mirror or the slow ritual of softness his mother taught him.
This was exposure—public, primal, predatory.
He slid them down.
The laughter faded.
No one spoke.
His body—delicate, supple, gleaming in the stark white light—was on full display. The subtle curves, the smoothness, the untouchednsess of him made the room heavier, charged with something unspoken and unnerving.
The broad boy's eyes dragged down and back up again, slow like hands.
"Look at that," he muttered. "You're built like sin."
Luca didn't respond.
He didn't even breathe.
He only stood there, bare as breath, trying not to shrink beneath their stares.
And for a moment, something inside him cracked—and leaked warmth.
Not pleasure. Not quite. But a strange, shame-stained heat.
Was this what it meant to be seen?
Was this how desire felt?
Like fear, and flattery all at once?
He could feel the attention on his thighs, his back, his shape. It wasn't soft. It wasn't safe. But it was something.
Then the coach's voice exploded into the room.
"Let's GO, boys! You should've been outside two minutes ago! Unless someone wants laps for the whole dorm!"
The spell broke.
Luca scrambled for the athletic shorts they'd issued him. Pulled them on too fast. Someone bumped into him on the way out, muttering "freak." Someone else brushed past and laughed softly, too softly.
But the broad boy didn't move.
He leaned close and said one thing as Luca passed:
"Next time… don't wait for me to ask."
Luca's skin prickled.
He didn't even know his name yet.
Chapter One: Soft Steps into Fire
Part III – The Run and the Return
The cold air hit like a slap when they stepped outside. Luca flinched. The damp field, the sharp sky—everything out here felt raw, exposed, like the locker room hadn't ended, just spread out.
The boys stretched, spat, cracked jokes.
Luca stood at the edge, pulling the unfamiliar shorts down lower, self-conscious of how they clung to his skin.
The fabric was thin. Cheap. Everything bounced when he moved. Especially—that.
He jogged forward when the whistle blew.
And immediately felt eyes.
He was near the middle of the pack, running at pace but without confidence. The first few minutes were fine—then came the heat. Sweat beaded on his spine. His breath quickened.
And so did theirs.
Someone behind him muttered something low.
He heard a laugh, tight and breathy. Then another.
He didn't look back.
He just felt it.
The way the fabric clung to him with every step, the way his backside bounced with each stride—it wasn't just in his mind. He'd never run in shorts before. Never like this. Never in front of this many boys.
He was jiggling.
And they were watching.
Some part of him burned with shame.
Another, deeper part—ached with a heat he didn't know how to name.
After the run, drenched in sweat and flushed, he sat alone on the bleachers, head low, legs crossed, chest still rising in shallow breaths.
"Good bounce, skirt," someone called from the field.
More laughter.
He bit the inside of his cheek, hard.
But still—he didn't get up.
He didn't storm off.
He just sat there, seen.
It was awful.
It was addicting.
A shadow fell over him.
"You shouldn't sit out here like that," came the voice. Low. Familiar.
Luca looked up—Marcus.
Up close, he was even more imposing. His tank top was drenched and clinging to him, muscles shifting with each breath. He smelled like salt and testosterone. The same black eyes that studied him earlier now looked softer. Not kind. Just… slower.
"You cold?" Marcus asked. No concern in the tone—more like curiosity.
Luca nodded.
Marcus sat beside him. Didn't ask. Just did.
They were close. Closer than necessary. Shoulder to thigh.
"You always run like that?" he asked, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "Or is that for show?"
Luca blinked. "I wasn't trying to—"
Marcus chuckled. "Relax. You're just different, that's all. Guys notice."
He paused.
"They talk."
Luca's lips parted. Then closed. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know if he wanted them to stop talking… or noticing.
He glanced at Marcus's forearm. The veins. The power. The calm stillness that always came before storms.
And for a flicker of a second, he thought: If I lean into him, will he push me away? Or pull me in?
He did neither.
He just stood up. And said, "Better get back. Wouldn't want anyone thinking you're mine yet."
Yet.
Then he walked off.
Luca's body shivered, but not from the cold.