The footsteps behind Kota were light—too light for Kyle or Edmond, too purposeful for some random junior trying to sneak a peek. He didn't turn around right away. He just kept reaching into his locker, fingers closing around the math notebook he didn't need anymore, the spare truck keys jangling softly against his palm.
"Kota… wait."
Riley's voice was softer than it had been yesterday in the hallway—less cocky thirst-trap energy, more raw, trembling need. Kota finally glanced over his shoulder.
Riley stood maybe five feet back, hands clasped in front of him like he was afraid Kota might bolt if he moved too fast. He'd changed since yesterday: the platinum hair was freshly styled, swept back with product that caught the fluorescent lights; the ripped jeans were swapped for skin-tight black leggings that left absolutely nothing to the imagination—every exaggerated curve of his hips and the impossible swell of his ass on full, shameless display. A cropped baby-blue hoodie rode high enough to show a smooth, flat midriff that gleamed under the lights. No visible hair anywhere. Not a single stray follicle on his arms, his exposed stomach, the dip of his collarbones. He looked polished. Prepared. Like he'd spent the entire afternoon getting ready for this exact moment.
"Hey," Riley said again, taking one careful step closer. "I know you said no yesterday. I get it. I was… intense. Pushy. I'm sorry. I just—" He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. "I couldn't stop thinking about it. About you. All night. I kept replaying that video in my head. Four inches soft. The swing. The veins. I… I prepped. Like, really prepped. For you."
Kota shut his locker with a quiet click. "Riley. I told you—"
"I know!" Riley's voice cracked. He took another step, close enough now that Kota could smell the vanilla body spray mixed with something warmer, muskier underneath. "I know you said no. But please. Just hear me out. One time. Five minutes. The janitor's closet at the end of C hall is empty right now—Mr. Torres left early for his kid's soccer game. Door doesn't even lock properly anymore. No one would know. I swear."
Kota shook his head, already turning toward the exit. "Not interested."
Riley darted forward—fast, desperate—and caught Kota's wrist. Not hard. Not forceful. Just enough to make him pause.
"Please," Riley whispered. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown. "Look at me. Really look. I did everything. Everything I could think of to be perfect for you."
He let go of Kota's wrist and stepped back half a pace, turning slowly so Kota could see the full picture.
"I lasered," Riley said, voice low and urgent. "Everywhere. Chest, pits, arms, legs, pubes, ass—everything. Full Brazilian. Cost me three months' allowance, but it's permanent. Smooth as glass. Feel." He grabbed Kota's hand before he could pull away and pressed it flat against his own stomach. The skin was warm, flawless, not a hint of stubble or shadow. "See? Nothing. Not even peach fuzz. And I bleached too—my hole. Inside and out. Took three sessions. It's so pink now, Kota. Like candy. You wouldn't believe how soft it feels when I finger myself thinking about you."
Kota yanked his hand back, face heating. "Riley—"
"I'm not done," Riley rushed on, words tumbling over each other. "I waxed the rest yesterday afternoon. Fresh. Still a little red, but it's perfect. No ingrowns. And my throat—" He opened his mouth wide, stuck out his tongue, then relaxed it completely. No gag. Nothing. He pushed two fingers all the way back until his knuckles brushed his lips, held them there, eyes watering but steady. Pulled them out with a wet pop. "No reflex anymore. Trained for years. Bananas, dildos, whatever I could find. I can take you to the root, Kota. No choking. No pulling off. Just… all the way down. Warm, wet, tight. You could fuck my face for as long as you want and I'd just moan around you. Swallow every drop. I practiced edging myself all last night thinking about it—three hours, no cumming, just leaking and whimpering your name."
Kota took a step back. "Stop."
Riley's face crumpled, but he didn't back off. "I showered twice today. Scrubbed everywhere. Used the fancy coconut oil lube that warms up on contact. I'm so ready, Kota. My hole's been clenching around a plug since third period—biggest one I own, seven inches, ridged. Took it out right before the bell so I'd still be open, slick, waiting. You could slide in right now and I wouldn't even need fingers first. Just… please. Use me. Own me. I'll do anything. Call me names. Spit in my mouth. Slap my ass till it's red. Breed me raw. I don't care. I just need to feel that monster stretch me. Please."
Kota stared at him for a long second. Part of him—the part that had pinned Theo to the door twenty minutes ago—felt the familiar heat coil low in his gut. Riley looked wrecked already: lips parted, chest rising fast, massive cheeks trembling with every shaky breath. But the other part—the one Khalil had spent eighteen years building—snapped back into place like armor.
"No," Kota said. Flat. Final.
Riley's shoulders sagged. Tears actually spilled over now, tracking down his smooth cheeks. "Kota—"
"I said no." Kota stepped around him, shoulder brushing Riley's as he passed. "Find someone else."
He didn't look back.
The parking lot was already half-empty by the time he pushed through the double doors. Cold January air hit him like a slap—good. Cleared his head a little. Khalil's old Ford F-150 idled at the curb, exhaust puffing white clouds into the gray afternoon. Kota climbed into the passenger seat without a word.
Khalil didn't even glance over. He had his work phone pressed to his ear, free hand drumming on the steering wheel.
"…yeah, 136% over quota this quarter, can you believe it? Ramirez only hit 98, poor bastard's still crying into his coffee about territory overlap. Told him straight—'Bro, you gotta hustle like it's 2023 again.' Nah, nah, listen—my region's up 22% year-over-year. Boss pulled me aside after the Zoom, said, 'Khalil, you're carrying the south side this year.' Damn right I am. Overtime? What overtime? This is just Tuesday for me."
Kota buckled his seatbelt, leaned his head against the window. The glass was cold against his temple. He could still feel the faint tremor in his thighs from earlier—from Theo's throat, from the way the principal had moaned into his palm. Sweat had dried sticky on his lower back. His breathing hadn't quite leveled out yet.
Khalil didn't notice.
"…tell Martinez he can shove his excuses. I closed three commercial accounts solo last month while he was 'networking' at the bar. Networking. Right. More like flirting with the bartender. Anyway, yeah, I'll have the full report on his desk by Friday. No sweat. Talk soon."
He ended the call with a satisfied grunt, tossed the phone onto the dash, and finally looked over.
"You good, son?"
Kota nodded once. "Yeah. Fine."
Khalil studied him for half a second—long enough to notice the flush still high on Kota's cheeks, the way his hoodie clung slightly damp to his shoulders—but he didn't press. Business call adrenaline was still pumping; he just turned the key and pulled away from the curb.
"Good. Long day?"
"Normal," Kota muttered.
Khalil grunted approval and cranked the radio—some old-school R&B station he'd listened to since before the Vanishing. The bass thumped low through the cracked seats as they merged onto the feeder road.
Kota stared out the window at the passing strip malls, fast-food signs, billboards for industrial-grade lube and "premium plug kits—now with vibration settings!" He didn't bother trying to explain anything. Didn't need to. Khalil was too wrapped up in his own victory lap to notice the sweat, the faint tremble in Kota's hands, the way he kept shifting like he could still feel Theo's heat around him.
They pulled into the apartment complex twenty minutes later. Same chain-link balconies. Same faded brick. Same quiet.
Inside, Khalil kicked off his work boots by the door. "I'll heat up the leftovers. You shower first if you want."
Kota nodded again—automatic—and headed straight to his room.
He didn't shower.
Didn't change.
Just dropped his backpack by the bed, flopped onto the mattress face-down, and stared at the wall.
Dinner was quick: reheated rice and beans, leftover grilled chicken from Sunday, a glass of water. Khalil ate standing at the counter, scrolling through emails on his phone, still riding the high of his sales numbers. He didn't ask about school. Didn't ask why Kota looked like he'd run a sprint in jeans.
Kota didn't offer.
After the plates were rinsed and stacked, Khalil clapped him once on the shoulder—firm, proud, oblivious. "Early night tonight. Big meeting tomorrow. You study?"
Kota met his eyes for the first time since getting in the truck.
"Nah," he said quietly. "Don't need to."
Khalil raised an eyebrow.
Kota shrugged. "Got it handled."
A beat of silence. Then Khalil just nodded—once, accepting—and headed to his own room.
Kota stayed in the kitchen a minute longer, staring at the empty sink.
He thought about Riley's pleading eyes.
Thought about Theo's wrecked face, cum dripping from his chin, the way he'd smiled like he'd won something.
Thought about the 4.0 that was already his. The immunity. The power sitting heavy between his legs like it had always been waiting.
He didn't bother opening a textbook.
Never again.
Not when he could just do nothing and still get an A.
He turned off the kitchen light, walked to his room, and shut the door behind him.
(i was SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO pissed writing Kota rejecting riley, dw he will get him back soon)