Theo dragged Kota through the foyer with surprising strength for someone so lanky and flustered. The marble floor echoed under their shoes, the sound bouncing off high ceilings painted with soft gold leaf and intricate frescoes of classical scenes—nymphs and satyrs frozen in eternal revelry. Kota barely had time to register the scale: double-height entry with a chandelier the size of a small car dripping crystals, curved staircases spiraling upward like something out of a museum catalog, walls lined with oil paintings in heavy gilt frames. Theo's grip on his wrist never loosened, fingers digging in just enough to leave faint red marks. Kota let himself be pulled; part of him was still reeling from the twins' ambush, cheeks hot, pulse hammering in a way that felt equal parts embarrassment and adrenaline.
They climbed the main staircase—wide enough for four people abreast—then veered left down a long hallway lined with arched doorways and recessed lighting that cast warm pools on dark hardwood. Theo didn't speak. His breathing came in short, irritated huffs, shoulders rigid, free hand clenched into a fist at his side. Kota could feel the jealousy radiating off him like heat from asphalt in summer. The twins' teasing had clearly struck a nerve.
At the end of the corridor Theo shoved open a set of double doors—carved mahogany, heavy enough that they swung inward with a low groan—and pulled Kota inside before kicking them shut behind them.
The room swallowed them.
It was enormous, easily the size of Kota's entire apartment back home. Neo-Renaissance in every detail: high coffered ceiling painted midnight blue with gold constellations, walls paneled in dark walnut and lined floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves that groaned under leather-bound volumes, first editions, art monographs, and rows of identical red-spined law journals. A massive four-poster bed dominated the far wall, draped in deep burgundy velvet, carved posts rising like ancient columns. Persian rugs in jewel tones overlapped across the floor. A marble fireplace big enough to stand in sat cold and empty opposite a bay window overlooking the infinity pool and the distant treeline. Sunlight poured through leaded glass, painting geometric patterns across a long writing desk cluttered with fountain pens, wax seals, and half-read letters.
Kota opened his mouth—half to comment on the sheer ridiculousness of it all, half to ask what the hell Theo was so pissed about—but Theo cut him off before the first word escaped.
"P-pull down your pants."
The order came out sharp, almost commanding. Theo stood in the middle of the room, hands on hips, chin lifted defiantly. But halfway through the sentence his voice cracked, the tough-guy edge dissolving into familiar stuttering. "P-pull… pull them down. N-now."
He was pouting. Obviously, dramatically. Lower lip jutting out, brows drawn together in an exaggerated frown, cheeks still flushed from the confrontation downstairs. His blue eyes shimmered with something that looked dangerously close to tears, though he blinked them back furiously. The whole performance was so transparent it almost made Kota laugh—almost.
Kota crossed his arms instead, leaning back against the closed door. "You're jealous."
Theo's pout deepened. "I am n-not jealous."
"Bullshit." Kota tilted his head. "You dragged me up here like I stole something. The twins flirt with me for thirty seconds and you turn into a tomato."
Theo's hands flew up, then dropped helplessly. "I d-don't care who you fuck, Kota. I really don't. You can fuck half the school for all I care. I just…" He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. "I just want to be better than all of them. Better than the twins. Better than Riley. Better than anyone else who's ever looked at you like that. I want to be the one you think about when you're hard. The one you come back to. The one who makes you forget everyone else exists."
The confession hung in the air, raw and unguarded. Theo's voice had gone quiet by the end, almost a whisper, the bravado stripped away until only the needy, desperate core remained. He looked small in the middle of his own enormous room—shoulders hunched, fingers twisting together, eyes fixed on Kota's chest like he couldn't bear to meet his gaze.
Kota studied him for a long moment. The jealousy wasn't possessive in the usual way; it was competitive, frantic. Theo didn't want to own him. He wanted to win him. To outshine every other option until Kota had no choice but to choose him every time.
Before Kota could respond—before he could decide whether to tease, reassure, or shut the whole thing down—Theo closed the distance between them in three quick steps.
His hands went straight to Kota's belt.
No hesitation. No asking. Just trembling fingers working the buckle open with practiced urgency. Kota's breath caught. Theo dropped to his knees right there on the Persian rug, not caring that the fabric probably cost more than Khalil's annual salary. He yanked the belt free, popped the button, dragged the zipper down with a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet room.
Kota's jeans and boxers came down together in one rough tug, pooling around his ankles. His cock sprang free—already half-hard from the tension, the dragging, the raw honesty of Theo's words. Thick, veiny, dark against the pale skin of Theo's hands as they wrapped around him.
Theo didn't look up. He just stared at Kota's length for a second, eyes glassy, then started stroking—slow at first, deliberate, but with an undercurrent of pent-up anger that made every movement sharper than it needed to be.
His grip was tight. Almost punishing. Thumb dragging roughly over the head on every upstroke, smearing the bead of precum that welled up immediately. His other hand cupped Kota's balls, rolling them gently in contrast to the firm, almost aggressive pumps along the shaft. Theo's breathing came fast and shallow through his nose, lips parted, cheeks still flushed with that mix of jealousy and determination.
"I'm going to make you forget them," Theo muttered, voice low and shaky. "Every single one. Every boy who's ever begged for you. Every twin who thinks they can flirt and get away with it. You're going to come here and think of me. Only me."
He sped up, hand twisting slightly on each downstroke, the motion slick and relentless. Kota's hips jerked forward involuntarily; the sudden intensity caught him off guard. Theo's jealousy fueled every stroke—anger at the twins, frustration at his own insecurity, raw need to prove something. His free hand slid up Kota's thigh, nails digging in just enough to sting, anchoring himself as he worked.
Kota braced one hand against the door behind him, the wood cool against his palm. His other hand hovered uncertainly, then settled on the back of Theo's head—fingers threading through soft hair, not guiding, just holding. Theo made a small, broken sound at the contact, leaning into it like he'd been starving for permission.
The strokes grew faster, rougher. Theo's pout had vanished, replaced by fierce concentration. His lips hovered inches from the head, breath hot against sensitive skin, but he didn't take it in his mouth—not yet. This was about control, about marking territory with his hands, about making Kota feel every ounce of his frustration and devotion at once.
Kota's thighs tensed. Heat coiled low and tight. Theo's anger wasn't directed at him; it was fuel, pure and desperate, and it translated into something almost overwhelming. Every pump sent sparks up his spine. Every twist of Theo's wrist made his breath hitch.
Theo finally looked up—eyes wet, pupils blown, cheeks streaked with the ghost of earlier embarrassment. "Tell me I'm better," he whispered, voice cracking. "Tell me I'm the best."
Kota exhaled roughly, fingers tightening in Theo's hair. He didn't answer—not with words. But the way his hips rocked forward into Theo's grip said enough.
Theo's hand never slowed. If anything, it moved with renewed purpose—jealous, possessive, determined to erase every other name from Kota's mind until only his remained.