Kota stared out the passenger window as the Ford F-150 rolled through the last few blocks toward Westfield High. The morning sun cut sharp angles across the dashboard, warming the cab enough that he cracked the window a couple inches. Khalil kept talking steady, proud words about compound interest, scholarship deadlines, how the extra overtime shifts had finally pushed the college fund past the point of worry. Kota nodded at the right moments, murmured "yeah" and "that's great" when needed, but most of his attention stayed fixed on the city sliding past: strip malls still opening, delivery trucks idling at intersections, billboards advertising lube brands with exaggerated cartoon asses that had become as normal as stop signs. The normalcy felt surreal after last night. His body still carried the weight of it muscles heavy, a dull soreness in his hips and lower back but the shower and clean clothes had dulled the worst of it.
The school sign came into view—Westfield High, brick and chain-link, same faded maroon letters that had greeted him every morning since freshman year. Khalil pulled up to the drop-off lane, engine rumbling low. "Here you go, kiddo. Have a good one. Text me if you need anything."
Kota forced a smile, grabbed his backpack and the foil-wrapped shawarma from the center console. "Thanks, Dad. See you tonight."
Khalil gave him a quick once-over proud, appraising—then clapped him on the shoulder. "Proud of you. Keep it up."
Kota hopped out, door thunking shut behind him. The truck pulled away smoothly, exhaust puffing white in the cool air, and disappeared around the corner. He stood on the sidewalk for a second, breathing in the familiar mix of diesel, cut grass, and teenage body spray drifting from the parking lot. Then he turned toward the main entrance.
The moment he stepped through the double doors, the shift was immediate. Heads turned. Conversations stuttered. Eyes followed him down the hallway—not disgusted, not mocking like before the pantsing incident. Lust. Open, shameless, hungry. Juniors by the water fountain paused mid-sip, lips parting slightly. A group of sophomores near the vending machines went quiet, phones lowering as they tracked his stride. Seniors leaning against lockers straightened, hips shifting, cheeks flushing under the fluorescent lights. Kota sighed—long, tired—and pushed forward, shoulders squared, refusing to shrink. He could feel the stares crawling over the compression shirt, tracing the outline of his pecs, the taper of his waist, the way the cargo pants hung low enough to show the waistband of his briefs when he moved. The hallway smelled like fresh wax and cheap cologne, the same as always, but the energy was different now. Electric. Expectant.
He reached his locker, spun the combination with quick flicks of his wrist—19-32-7—and yanked the metal door open. Backpack in, textbooks out. He swapped the shawarma for his math binder, tucked it under his arm, and shut the door.
Behind it stood Riley.
The platinum-haired junior leaned against the neighboring locker, arms crossed, lips curved in a slow, knowing grin. His ripped jeans hugged the dramatic flare of his hips, neon-green jockstrap peeking above the waistband, cropped hoodie riding up just enough to show smooth skin. His eyes raked over Kota from boots to face, lingering shamelessly on the compression shirt before meeting his gaze.
"Sup, cutie."