Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dakota crossed one leg over the other, ankle bouncing in quiet protest. The walls of the student conduct office were beige, bland, and offensive. The kind of institutional nothingness that told you hope had died here decades ago.

The office smelled like old sweat and powdered coffee creamer, which Dakota considered an act of violence.

He sat with his legs crossed at the ankle, hands folded neatly in his lap, like he wasn’t the problem everyone was here to fix. The air conditioning whined above him. Two birds were fighting on the windowsill. He identified with the one losing.

The man across from him, Dean Halberd or Halberston or possibly Hallucination, was talking. Dakota wasn’t listening.

“…a pattern of noncompliance, disruption in class, and inappropriate use of the university’s official social media accounts,”

“I said it was a private story,” Dakota cut in, eyes narrowed. “And for the record, the post said ‘allegedly slept with his TA.’ Allegedly. That’s legally airtight.”

Dean Hall-something sighed with the weight of someone underpaid and over-exposed to Dakota’s brand of chaos.

Beside him, a second administrator, a woman in a fitted blazer and the exact haircut Dakota would expect from a Vice Provost, cleared her throat.

“We’re not here to debate your captions,” she said. “We’re here because this is your third formal warning, and frankly, we’ve run out of options.”

Dakota leaned back, smiling like a court jester at his own execution. “Let me guess: expulsion, public flogging, or you make me join a fraternity.”

“Worse,” the Dean said, steepling his fingers. “You’re being assigned to assist Coach Wymack and the Foxes athletic program for the rest of the semester.”

The room went very still.

Dakota blinked. “I’m sorry, did you say sports?”

Wymack. Exy. Sweat. Testosterone. Tragedy. The Foxes, who had actual knife-related incidents on their Wikipedia page. Dakota had once seen one of them growl at a vending machine.

“You’ll be managing travel schedules, organizing press statements, coordinating room assignments for away games, and assisting with academic compliance. Consider it your community service slash internship.” Vice Provost Haircut said crisply.

“Community service implies the community benefits,” Dakota muttered, already mentally drafting a notes app apology for the friends he'd never see again. “This is punishment.”

“It’s either this or a formal disciplinary hearing,” she replied. “Frankly, Coach Wymack is doing you a favor.”

Dakota didn’t like owing people favors. He especially didn’t like being shoved into someone else’s chaos when he’d worked very hard to curate his own.

“I don’t even like sports,” he said weakly.

“We know.”

Dakota narrowed his eyes and uncrossed his legs, as if standing would make any of this negotiable. “So let me get this straight. Because I made one— one, mildly unverified claim about my TA's lack of professional boundaries,”

“And posted it on an account linked to the university’s press outreach.”

“Allegedly linked,” Dakota sniffed. “Aesthetically, maybe.”

Dean Hall-or-Whatever rubbed at his temples like Dakota’s voice was a persistent and expensive migraine. “You have until Monday to check in with Coach Wymack. You’ll be given full clearance and the university’s travel card. Don’t abuse it.”

Dakota perked up slightly. “Define abuse.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Vaurien,” said the Vice Provost, already gathering her things like she’d finally come to terms with the fact that God had abandoned her here.

He stood, smoothing down the front of his immaculate dark jeans, designer, distressed, and already deemed inappropriate in the conduct report, and grabbed his phone from the edge of the chair.

“Oh,” he added, pausing at the door with a practiced flair. “Should I bring a whistle, or is someone else already the emotional referee on that team?”

Neither of them answered.

The moment the office doors shut behind him, he typed out a text to Elise.

to: elise yuna

got court-mandated into the hunger games. apparently i’m a fox now?? send help or something silk-lined xx

Her response was immediate, a selfie from a rooftop in Seoul and a single text:

you’re going to be so hot in team jackets. xx

Chapter Text

Dakota groaned into his palm.

This was it. His fall from grace. From silk sheets to polyester tracksuits. From iced lavender lattes to Gatorade and yelling.

He was going to die surrounded by protein powder and unresolved male rage.

Still, there was something quietly thrilling about the doom of it all. Like walking headfirst into a storm you knew would ruin you, but at least you’d get a dramatic addition to lore out of it.

Dakota knocked twice before letting himself in, because he was raised in a household, not a barn.

The door creaked open into a room that smelled like liniment, burnt coffee, and paperwork that hadn’t been filed since 1990s. The walls were plastered with aging team photos and Post-its threatening violence via passive-aggressive scribbles. A small fan whirred in the corner like it was giving its last confession.

Wymack sat behind a desk that looked like it had survived the Cold War. Across from him, slouched with the attitude of a boy born to win and suffer about it, was Kevin Day.

Dakota’s mouth twitched.

He recognized Kevin. Of course he did. Everyone in the econ building did. The Foxes' golden weapon with the spine of steel and the expression of someone who hadn't been hugged since 2001. They’d shared a handful of classes. Dakota mostly remembered the silence, the graphs, and how Kevin never spoke unless it was to disagree with someone.

They’d never talked. Which was perfect, honestly. He preferred his crushes quiet, unavailable, and emotionally malnourished.

Wymack looked up, brows pinched. “Can I help you?”

Dakota closed the door behind him with a flourish. “That depends. Were you recently told that a poor, misunderstood soul from the economics department would be helping you with travel logistics, press filtering, and the impossible task of keeping your team out of jail?”

Wymack blinked slowly.

“Because congratulations,” Dakota said, stepping forward and extending a hand like he was selling luxury watches, “you’re looking at him.”

Wymack didn’t take the hand. “You’re the one they sent?”

Dakota dropped it with grace. “Don’t sound so excited.”

Kevin, silent so far, looked him up and down. “You’re in McNally’s 9 a.m. lecture.”

Dakota turned to him, arching a brow. “Wow. Acknowledged by Kevin Day. I should call my therapist.”

Kevin didn’t respond. Not even a blink.

Wymack rubbed his eyes. “This is what the administration calls help?”

“Well,” Dakota said, perching neatly on the arm of the empty chair, “after careful review of my behavior, which included alleged misconduct, a meme involving the university president, and a regrettable karaoke incident, they’ve decided I should channel my obvious talents into ‘community service.’” He used air quotes liberally.

“You think this is a joke?”

Dakota crossed one leg over the other. “Coach, I think life is a joke. I’m just here to manage bus seats and talk down reporters when someone gets caught lighting something on fire.”

“That’s never happened,” Kevin said, deadpan.

Dakota turned to him. “Yet.”

Wymack sighed. It sounded like he aged five years just hearing Dakota speak. “Fine. You’re in. I don’t have time to argue with whoever thought this was a good idea. If you screw it up, I’ll make sure you’re escorted out by security.”

“Charming,” Dakota said, standing again. “Where should I start? Room spreadsheets? Scheduling hell? Or would you like me to file restraining orders preemptively?”

Kevin stood too, finally. “Start by taking this seriously.”

Dakota looked at him.

Then he smiled, slow and dazzling, like it was a weapon he’d been sharpening.

“Wow,” he said, “you haven’t even met me yet.”

There was a pause, the sort that didn’t last long but was full of potential threats to Dakota’s peace. Kevin was still glaring at him like Dakota had personally insulted Exy. Dakota returned the stare with a faintly amused smile and the posture of someone who didn’t plan to lift anything heavier than a clipboard all semester.

The door creaked again behind him.

“Coach,” Neil Josten stepped into the room like he belonged there, which, given his reputation and face card, he probably did.

Dakota had seen Neil around campus in that vague, peripheral way he kept tabs on anything pretty and unpredictable. This close, he noticed two things: one, Neil looked like he hadn’t slept in three days but could still run a six-minute mile; two, the bruising on his jaw was either from practice or from pissing someone off in a spectacular way.

“Never mind,” Neil said immediately, eyeing the standoff. “You’re busy.”

“Actually,” Wymack said without missing a beat, “perfect timing. Josten, take Dakota here and show him what he’s going to be dealing with. Travel planning, logistics, what a basic itinerary looks like, whatever.”

Neil blinked once. Then again. “Wait, this is your new…?”

“Chaos sponge,” Dakota offered, stepping toward him with a hand outstretched and the kind of grin that made people check their wallet after shaking it. “Dakota Sébastien de Vaurien. I’ll be ruining your lives with color-coded Google Sheets.”

Neil didn’t take the hand. He looked at Kevin instead, who gave him a slow shrug like he’d just been handed a live grenade and wasn’t sure if he should throw it or keep it as a pet.

Wymack waved them both toward the door. “You’ve got five minutes, Josten. Don’t lose him.”

Kevin let out a breath like he was already regretting his scholarship.

Neil turned on his heel and left the office. Dakota followed, falling into step beside him.

“So,” Neil said after a long silence. “You’re in charge of travel.”

“Don’t sound so hopeful,” Dakota replied. “I’m only here because PSU would rather throw me to the wolves than expel me.”

Neil glanced sideways at him. “You know we’re the Foxes, right?”

“Mm. Wolves have better branding.”

They walked through the stairwell in companionable silence until Neil asked, “Do you actually know what you’re doing?”

Dakota smiled, genuine this time. “Unfortunately for everyone involved, yes. You’ll hate how efficient I am.”

Neil hummed.

They made it halfway across campus before Dakota’s phone buzzed with a notification. He ignored it. His attention was fixed on the slow horror unfolding around him: stadiums, sweating joggers, students in PSU merch that looked like it hadn’t been washed in three presidential administrations.

“Do I need a tetanus shot to be here?” Dakota asked, clutching his iced coffee like a life raft.

Neil didn’t answer. Or maybe that was his answer.

They reached the Fox Tower, a building Dakota had heard about in the way people heard about natural disasters: legendary, vaguely tragic, and not somewhere you voluntarily went unless you had a death wish or were sleeping with someone on the team.

“Coach said to show you what travel looks like,” Neil said, punching in the code for the door. “But I need to grab something first.”

“Of course,” Dakota drawled, following him inside. “Why wouldn’t my punishment include entering the belly of the beast?”

The door shut behind them with a clang. The hallway inside smelled like a gym locker, wet shoes, and testosterone. Dakota made a face like he was inhaling toxic waste.

“I am going to file an olfactory assault complaint,” he said flatly. “I’m pretty sure this scent violates the Geneva Convention.”

“Don’t touch anything,” Neil muttered. “It only encourages us.”

He led Dakota up the stairs and down a short hallway to the common room. Inside, Nicky was stretched out on the couch in a hoodie that said SLEEP, GAME, REPEAT, eating microwave popcorn directly from the bag. Across the room, Andrew was seated in the armchair, legs sprawled out, knife in hand as he cleaned his nails like it was a perfectly normal thing to do at 2 p.m.

“Nicky,” Neil said.

Nicky looked up, grinned, and immediately bolted off the couch. “Dakota! I thought you were too good for this hellhole.”

“I am,” Dakota said, letting Nicky pull him into a one-armed hug. “Yet here I am. Consequence of making too many jokes about tenured professors on the internet.”

Nicky laughed. “Did you finally get banned from posting thirst traps in the library stacks?”

“Worse,” Dakota said, stepping back and giving the room a once-over like it might give him a rash. “I’ve been sentenced to logistics duty for your little murder ball club.”

Nicky’s eyes widened. “You’re joining the Foxes?”

“Let’s not use that word,” Dakota said quickly. “I’m an administrative burden, not a team mascot.”

Andrew didn’t say anything. He looked up from his knife only long enough to give Dakota a slow, unreadable once-over, then went back to whatever he was doing.

Dakota frowned. That was Andrew Minyard. He didn’t need Neil to say it. The blonde hair, the dead-eyed calm, the unmistakable vibe of someone who knew exactly how long it took to make a body disappear, it all screamed Andrew.

“Cool,” Dakota said eventually. “I love meeting people who could kill me with kitchenware.”

“That’s not a kitchen knife,” Andrew said without looking up.

Neil stepped past them and into the room he shared with Andrew, clearly unbothered.

Dakota turned to Nicky. “He’s kidding, right?”

Nicky just grinned. “You’ll get used to him.”

“I’d rather not.”

From the back room, Neil called, “Dakota, come here. I’ll show you the schedules.”

Dakota sighed and waved dramatically at Nicky. “If I don’t return, tell the university I died doing charity for something dramatic. Like sick puppies.”

He followed Neil down the hall, muttering under his breath. “This place smells like Axe body spray.”

The room was a glorified shoebox with four bunk beds crammed together like a bad hostel situation, except one of the bottom bunks was clearly unused, buried in travel duffels, protein powder tubs, and what looked suspiciously like a broken Exy stick.

It didn’t take long for Dakota to piece together the room’s occupants. Neil dropped his duffel onto the mattress closest to the door and began fishing out flyers and schedules from the crevice between his pillow and the wall. That bunk was his, no doubt. Lived in, messy but not gross, the kind of organized chaos that belonged to someone used to constant movement.

The bunk above Neil was… a situation. Cigarette butts lined the railing like trophies. A half-crushed Gatorade bottle was wedged into the bedframe like someone had tried to throw it away and given up halfway. A single sticky note, scrawled in messy block letters, PRACTICE AT 12, clung to the metal bars like a warning. Dakota doubted Andrew Minyard had written it. No, it reeked of a threat. Passive-aggressive ink, sharp corners, the energy of someone who’d do it again just to prove a point.

The top bunk across from it was a stark contrast. Clean, curated, and undeniably intense. Postcards from major cities papered the wall beside it. Posters of championship wins, laminated photos from press releases, and neatly pinned clippings from newspaper columns gave it away. One headline said “Ravens Sweep Again” above a picture of a short dark haired guy holding his helmet like a crown. The final clue was the PSU jersey draped casually over the railing, 02 in bold white print.

Dakota whistled low. “You’re sharing a dorm with Day,” he said, drawing out the name like it was something foul. His lip curled in mock revulsion. “Does it smell like ego, or is that just the protein farts?”

Neil handed him a schedule, completely unfazed. “You get used to it.”

“I don’t want to get used to it,” Dakota replied, eyeing the list of away games, bus call times, and hotel assignments with a theatrical shudder. “Is this… is this real? You people travel this much?”

“You’ll need to know the drill,” Neil said, walking past him toward the common area again. “Pack light. Don't expect sleep. Always know where your ID is. If anyone starts bleeding, assume it’s fine unless they pass out.”

Dakota trailed after him, schedule in hand. “That sounds like a cult.”

“It is,” Nicky called from the couch. “A very stabby cult. Welcome!”

“I need a hazmat suit,” Dakota muttered.

Back in the hallway, Neil slowed his pace just enough for Dakota to catch up. “You're not here to play. Just handle logistics. That’s what Coach said.”

“Right,” Dakota said, clutching the paper like a fragile contract with the gods. “Because nothing says 'future success' like babysitting a team with more disciplinary files than GPA points.”

Neil stopped at the stairwell. “We’re not that bad.”

Dakota blinked at him. “You almost got killed twice on the court.”

Neil didn’t even blink. “That was a year ago.”

“...Sure. And trauma has an expiration date now?”

Neil gave him a sideways glance, just shy of a smirk. “You’ll survive.”

“Big talk for someone who lives in a war crime of a dorm room.”

Neil turned back toward the stairs. “Come on. We’ll go over the travel checklist in the locker room.”

Dakota groaned. “I swear to God, if something in there smells like old jockstrap, I’m staging a walkout.”

“Noted,” Neil said without looking back. “But you’re still going.”

────────────

Franklin rolled off him with a grunt and a half-hearted breath. No kiss. No hand in his hair. Just the sound of the bedsprings creaking and the low hum of his PC booting back to life.

Dakota stared at the ceiling, still catching his breath. One arm flung above his head, fingers splayed across the cheap dorm pillow like he was waiting for someone to lace theirs through his. No one did.

Franklin was already reaching for his headset, dragging it down over damp, sweaty hair, tapping a few keys. His back was to Dakota, as always.

Dakota’s chest rose and fell. Then again. Then slower. The room was quiet, save for the faint clicking of a mouse and Franklin muttering into the mic, like Dakota had already left.

Which, in all the ways that counted, he had.

Dakota turned onto his side, pulled the comforter over his waist. The sheets were scratchy. The bed still smelled like detergent and boy. Not his boy, though. Just…boy.

He traced a pattern onto the pillow with the tip of one finger. A spiral. A loop. A mess.

“GG,” Franklin muttered to someone, laughing low. “He’s so fucking mad, man.”

Dakota’s gaze flicked to the edge of the desk, where an unopened water bottle sat. Next to it was the cheap little candle he’d bought Franklin as a joke. Mahogany Teakwood. For the illusion of effort. Still untouched.

He sat up, pulling his knees to his chest.

“I think I left my eye pencil here last week,” he said. Voice too flat. Too quiet.

Franklin didn’t hear him, or didn’t care. His chair squeaked as he leaned forward, fingers flying across the keyboard. “Push left,” he barked. “He’s camping the crate.”

Dakota stood, slow and deliberate. He gathered his shirt from the floor. It had a wrinkle down the middle from where Franklin had crushed it under his foot.

Franklin still hadn’t looked at him.

Dakota tugged the shirt over his head, not bothering to smooth the collar. He caught a glimpse of himself in the dark mirror above the dresser. Tousled hair. Red around the mouth. Bite mark on his collarbone, probably.

He looked like someone had touched him. He didn’t feel like it.

Franklin swore into the mic. Slammed his palm on the desk. “Dude. Trash. Get out of the queue if you’re gonna suck.”

Dakota sat back down on the edge of the bed, quietly pulling on his socks. One of them had a hole. He hadn’t noticed before.

Outside, a car alarm went off and died. The hallway was silent.

Dakota chewed the inside of his cheek. Thought about just leaving. He’d done that before. Slipped out without a word, like a ghost in designer jeans. But this time, he sat still.

Arms crossed. Leg bouncing.

“I got assigned something,” he said finally, voice light, like it didn’t matter. Like it hadn’t been hanging in his chest for hours.

Franklin didn’t pause his game. “Hold on,left flank, left,god, you’re trash, Liam.”

Dakota stared at the side of his face. Waited. Eventually, Franklin leaned back a little, eyes flicking toward him. “What?”

“I’m working for the Foxes now.”

Franklin paused just long enough for Dakota to catch it. “...What does that mean?”

“Wymack needs someone to handle travel stuff. Logistics, PR, paperwork. I’m that someone. Temporary punishment, apparently. Since I abused the social media.”

Franklin scoffed. “Jesus.”

“Yeah. Apparently charming old men with shots doesn’t win you any favors.” Dakota stretched his legs out in front of him, toeing at the frayed edge of the carpet. “So now I get to babysit athletes with emotional issues and possible anger disorders. It’s very ‘community service chic.’”

Franklin twisted in his chair. “You’re gonna be around them? Like... regularly?”

Dakota raised a brow. “That’s what a job is, sweetie.”

“You’re gonna be around Kevin Day?”

Dakota laughed, dry and flat. “Yeah, because he just can’t wait to pounce on my tragically underpaid ass.”

Franklin’s jaw clenched. “I don’t like it.”

Dakota gave a sarcastic little smile. “Didn’t ask you to.”

Franklin didn’t laugh. Just kept looking at him with that unreadable expression,half blank, half something darker.

“You flirt when you’re bored,” Franklin said.

“And you ignore me when you’re not. So I guess we’re both consistent.”

“Text me when you’re done being an asshole.”

Dakota’s mouth twitched. He smiled, brittle. “Sure. Right after you learn how to look someone in the eyes when they’re naked in your bed.”

Franklin made a show of turning back to his game like nothing happened. The glow of the monitor lit up his jaw, his stupid neck tattoo, the blank look on his face. Dakota’s smile faded, soft and slow, until it became something more familiar,something he always seemed to wear when he was with Franklin. Tight at the corners. Shiny and hollow.

Dakota liked to claim he didn’t do relationships. He’d say it with a wink, all faux confidence and pretty deflection. Too messy, too hard. He was used to taking his pants off the second a boy said something sweet and forgetting about them before breakfast.

And yet,he’d been with Franklin for over a year. Still wasn’t sure why.

Franklin had seemed perfect at first. That right balance of jealous and gentle that made Dakota’s stomach twist in a way he mistook for affection. It was flattering when Franklin side-eyed his classmates, when he wanted to know where Dakota was going and with who. Cute, even.

Until it wasn’t.

Until Franklin started calling him a whore whenever he went out with guy friends. Until Dakota wasn’t allowed to wear certain clothes,cropped tees, short shorts, anything with heels,unless Franklin was with him. And then? Then Franklin practically begged him to wear them. Wanted him dolled up like a toy, all legs and glitter, just to show him off to his gross, undersexed computer science friends.

Dakota liked it at first. The attention. The feeling of being wanted, even in that weird possessive way.

Then he hated it.

Franklin was tall. Buzzcut. Smooth dark skin and a jawline that made Dakota want to forget how awful he could be. But even good looks could only distract you for so long.

You can only ignore the pit in your stomach for so many nights before you start to dread seeing the person who’s supposed to make you feel safe.

Dakota always liked his men hot and smart. Franklin was one of those. Or… he looked smart. CS major, coding all the time, surrounded by blinking screens and half-finished energy drinks. But deep down? Franklin was fucking stupid.

No dates. No plans. No effort. Talking to him felt like having a conversation with drywall. And any time Dakota tried to bring that up, Franklin blamed his childhood. His parents. Said he wasn’t taught how to be romantic.

Dakota didn’t think he was asking for a lot.

A kiss now and then. A text that said “thinking of you.” A dinner where Franklin didn’t spend the whole time scrolling through Reddit. A phone call just to ask how his day was.

Something. Anything.

But there was nothing. Just a label slapped over a fuck-buddy situation and a weird kind of codependency.

And to be fair,Dakota was making it sound worse than it always was. There were good moments. Mostly in the beginning. When Franklin still looked at him like he mattered.

Lately, Dakota wasn’t sure if he even wanted this anymore. Half his heart was already out the door. But the other half?

The other half clung to the routine. The habit of being wanted, even if it was just for sex. The glimmer of affection Franklin would sometimes toss his way, like scraps off a table.

Every cuddle turned into something else. A hand down his pants. A quick fuck bent over the mattress. Franklin didn’t ask if Dakota was okay, or if he wanted slow. He didn’t look at him, not really.

But he still reached for him at night. Wrapped arms around him like Dakota was something worth keeping warm.

Maybe that’s what love is.

Loneliness, mixed with heat. Silence, dressed up like routine.

Or maybe Dakota had just forgotten what the real thing looked like.

────────────

It was Friday evening, and Chelsea Cox was a fucking parasite.

Dakota had decided to drown his sorrows,both the Fox babysitting gig from hell and his glorified situationship with Franklin,in the most tragic of college traditions: a dorm party. You know the kind. The hallway reeked of weed and fruity vodka, some sophomore with a Bluetooth speaker thought they were a DJ, and someone had already cried in the bathroom by 9:30.

But none of that was the problem.

No, the problem was Chelsea fucking Cox, and her goddamn barnacle grip on his arm all night like they were soulbound by trauma or something.

There are two things people should know about Dakota Sébastien de Vaurien:

1. He was actually kind of a nice person.
2. He deeply, viscerally, hated being perceived as a bitch.

Which meant that instead of telling Chelsea to fuck off and find someone else to trauma-dump on, he kept smiling like his life depended on it, even as she pulled him into every boring, sugar-high conversation she could find. Her laugh was loud enough to puncture drywall. Her stories had no plot. She mispronounced "Foucault" twice.

And of course, she had him in a headlock,again,as she introduced him to some guy from her business ethics class as “the funniest person everrrrrr,” while he stood there like a hostage, clutching his Solo cup like it was a loaded gun.

Chelsea Cox had been trying to merge their identities since freshman year. She’d latched onto him in one history seminar, and Dakota, being tragically polite, hadn’t shut it down fast enough. Then came the slow horror: she cut her hair to match his wolfcut. Took the same electives. Started tagging him in memes that weren’t even funny. And the final sin? Copying his Instagram poses,down to the hand-on-chin tilt.

Dakota had every reason to hate her.

“Alright,” he said, laughing with more teeth than joy, gently pulling his arm free. “I’m going to grab another drink before my soul leaves my body.”

Chelsea pouted. “Wait, come dance with me!”

“I would, but the spirit of Beyoncé told me to sit this one out.” He slipped away before she could recover, weaving through the crowd like a rat escaping a sinking ship.

The kitchen was just as loud, just as tragic, but mercifully Chelsea-free. Dakota rummaged through the melting ice in the sink until he found a mostly full bottle of mango-flavored vodka that looked like it had been opened by teeth. Whatever. He took a swig straight from the bottle and winced. It tasted like battery acid and artificial happiness.

God, he needed to get laid. Or drunk. Or possibly both. Preferably not by Franklin.

Dakota turned, letting the burn of the vodka settle in his throat, when he felt a sharp tug on the back of his mesh shirt.

“Tell me that wasn’t Chelsea I just saw clinging to you like a Victorian ghost bride,” Nicky Hemmick said, appearing from the hallway like a hallucination in floral print and tight jeans.

Dakota tilted his head back and groaned. “She’s multiplying. Like mold.”

“I knew I should’ve brought holy water.”

Dakota shoved the vodka into Nicky’s hands. “Exorcise me, bitch.”

Nicky took a swig without question and hissed dramatically. “Why does this taste like regret and teen pregnancy?”

“Because it is,” Dakota said. “The girl who brought this has glitter in her eyelids and a failed nose ring infection.”

Nicky nearly choked. “Incredible. I love this cursed energy. And I love you, but you look like you’re about three minutes from throwing yourself out the nearest window.”

Dakota leaned against the counter, arms crossed, lip gloss slightly smudged. “It’s been a day.”

“Franklin?”

Dakota didn’t answer. He tilted his head and gave Nicky a look that said Do Not Start With Me, Nicholas.

Nicky raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. No emotional wellness check tonight. But just so you know, if you ever want to push him down a flight of stairs, I will hold your handbag and your earrings.”

“I don’t wear earrings.”

“You would if I got you the cute snake-shaped ones.”

Dakota laughed under his breath, which was rare lately, and Nicky lit up like a Christmas tree. “There’s my cryptid little gossip demon,” he said proudly. “God, you are so brave for showing up to this hellhole dressed like that and not immediately committing murder.”

Dakota rolled his eyes, but he preened a little. He was in a low-cut fishnet top under a harness and black cargo pants with silver buckles, face beat like a fallen angel. He knew he looked good,he always looked good,but tonight it didn’t land the way it usually did. He didn’t feel good. He felt… itchy. Off. Like his skin didn’t fit right.

Dakota leaned his head back against the cabinets, closing his eyes. “What are you even doing here? I thought you were busy corralling Exy’s golden retrievers tonight.”

Nicky huffed, then passed the bottle back. “I was. The Foxes are getting drunk at the girls dorm right now. Someone found a karaoke machine. Someone else challenged Aaron to a handstand contest. It got weird fast.”

Dakota cracked one eye open. “So you ran?”

“So I escaped. I needed to breathe in some morally ambiguous air for once. Maybe even blackout without a group therapy circle forming around me. You know.” He waved a hand vaguely around them. “College.”

Dakota raised an eyebrow. “You chose this party? Of all places?”

“I heard a rumor about jello shots and emotional damage, and I thought,ah yes, my natural habitat.”

Dakota snorted. “You’re such a trash raccoon.”

Nicky grinned. “And yet here we are, scuttling through chaos together like destiny’s drunkest mistake.”

Dakota took another sip of the vodka, wincing again but less dramatically. The taste was still vile, but Nicky’s presence made it go down easier. Less sharp around the edges.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

There was yelling down the hall. Someone screamed-laughed. The music hiccupped into a remix that didn’t match the vibe at all. It all felt strangely far away.

Nicky reached over, gently bumping Dakota’s shoulder. “You wanna bail? Go somewhere less tragic?”

Dakota hesitated.

The answer was yes. Of course it was yes. He wanted to leave this party and its sticky floors and fluorescent heartbreaks. He wanted to climb out of his own skin for a while. But he didn’t say it.

Instead, he looked over at Nicky and shrugged. “Let’s just… stay for a bit. I need to suffer more before I earn the moral high ground.”

Nicky chuckled and slid down to sit on the kitchen floor, legs out, back against the cabinets. “Fine. But if Chelsea finds us again, I will fake a seizure to distract her.”

Dakota slid down beside him. “Promise?”

“Scout’s honor.”

They sat like that for a while,two glittering mistakes in a room full of other ones. Dakota let his head loll to the side, resting it lightly on Nicky’s shoulder. Just for a second. Just long enough to remember he wasn’t alone in the godawful mess of things.

Eventually, after more shots and more buzzing music, Dakota’s mind dulled into that familiar, floaty hush he liked best. The kind of silence that didn’t scream. The kind that loosened his spine and made his fingers stop twitching. The kind that settled into his bones like warmth from a fever,uncomfortable, but manageable. Manageable was good. He could live in manageable.

The party had blurred around the edges. Bodies pulsed in and out of his periphery, laughter spiked and faded like static. Someone dropped a drink near the hallway and someone else shrieked, but it all felt underwater to him now. Distant. Harmless.

Nicky was next to him, half-sitting on the edge of the counter and chatting animatedly on the phone, gesturing like the person on the other end could see him. Probably Erik. Or maybe one of the Foxes. Dakota wasn’t really listening.

His fingers curled around one of Nicky’s many bracelets,thin, beaded, a garish pink-and-gold thing that clashed beautifully with his floral shirt. Dakota didn’t even realize he was fiddling with it until the elastic rolled under his thumb. He didn’t stop.

It wasn’t like he needed something to do with his hands. Not really. But sometimes stillness made him anxious. Like if he stood too still, he might vanish, or worse,be seen.

The bracelet snapped back against Nicky’s wrist with a quiet snap, and Nicky glanced down for half a second before smiling and continuing his call.

Dakota’s head tilted against the cabinet behind him. His eyes fell shut, just for a breath. Or a second. Or longer.

He wondered, in that soft, fuzzy stillness, if all of it had meant something. The jobs. The half-lives. The cities he ran through like a tourist trying to outrun memory. The godawful people who thought wanting him was enough to deserve him. The nights he felt so hollowed out that he mistook numbness for healing.

Maybe it was all building to something.

Maybe this was the ugly middle part,the place between breaking and becoming.

Or maybe not. Maybe he wasn’t becoming anything. Maybe he was just… suspended. Stuck in a different flavor of cage. He’d swapped one set of rules for another: fewer velvet curtains, more fluorescent dorm lights. Same silence, different echo.

Shouldn’t he feel free by now?

Shouldn’t this have fixed something?

Maybe it would. Eventually. If he kept his head down. If he played nice. If he smiled the right way at the right time. If he proved himself useful, funny, good.

Maybe freedom just had a really long loading screen.

Or maybe he’d already fucked it up beyond repair. Maybe he’d made so many wrong turns that all the roads looped back to this: cheap vodka, sticky tile floors, and a low-grade ache in his chest that no one else could feel.

That thought didn't sting as much as it used to.

He blinked slowly, reached for the bottle, and swallowed another mouthful. It burned less this time. Almost pleasant. Like punishment softened into ritual.

Nicky’s voice floated back into focus,still cheerful, still loud, still Nicky,and for a moment, Dakota let himself pretend it was enough.

Just for now.

Chapter Text

The flight to Michigan left Dakota wound tigt, nerves buzzing like a bad radio signal, and so over-caffeinated he could practically feel his pulse in his teeth. It was his first official trip helping Wymack plan, which meant he got to experience firsthand the joy of being blamed for things that were definitely not his fault.

The bus ride to the airport had been its own special brand of hell, already filled with muttering, side-eyes, and the occasional passive-aggressive sigh over room assignments. Apparently, Dakota was supposed to be some sort of psychic when it came to roommate politics.

Nicky had told him, cheerfully, like it was the easiest thing in the world, that as long as he split them up by gender, it would be fine. Spoiler: nothing was fine.

The biggest disaster came in the form of the twins. Dakota had, very reasonably, put them in the same room. They were twins. Siblings. It made sense. But Aaron acted like Dakota had just suggested they share a coffin. He complained the entire ride until Wymack finally waved a hand and told them to just switch with someone if it mattered that much.

In the end, the final lineup looked like this: Nicky with Aaron (poor Nicky), Andrew with Neil, Kevin with Matt, and Jack lucked into a solo room. Allison and Renee somehow agreed to share a twin bed, God only knew what sorcery had made that possible, while Dan bunked with Robin and Sheena.

Dakota got stuck in the staff room with Wymack, which he tried to tell himself was better than rooming with a Fox, and Abby was with Betsy. Theoretically, everyone should have been happy.

Theoretically.

He still felt like he was just waiting for the whole thing to explode in his face. Wymack and Neil had both warned him, without a shred of sympathy, that this team specialized in implosions. It was only a matter of time.

When they finally landed around 8 p.m., jet-lagged and running on fumes, the hotel offered dinner in a little banquet room off the lobby. Dakota had never been around so many starving athletes before, and it was… horrifying.

Plates piled higher than the laws of gravity should allow. Forks moving like weapons. Bread baskets stripped bare within seconds.

Neil, for some reason, seemed hell-bent on treating the buffet like an Olympic sport,going back for seconds, thirds, maybe even fourths,while Kevin’s plate looked like someone had raided a vegetable garden in the dark and called it a meal. Not a carb in sight.

Andrew ignored the actual food entirely and went straight for dessert,some kind of cold, frosted pudding,like it was the only edible thing in the room. He ate it slowly, almost smugly, as if daring someone to comment.

Dakota sat at the little staff table in the corner, watching the chaos unfold with the fork halfway to his mouth, frozen in equal parts horror and fascination. It was like witnessing a wildlife documentary in real time, only no one had told him the predators could also hold conversations.

Somewhere across the table, Wymack sipped his drink without looking up and muttered, “You get used to it.”

Dakota doubted that very much.

Abby followed Wymack’s comment with a wry smile. “You know, you don’t have to hide over here with us. You could sit with them.”

Dakota blinked at her. “Sit with them? Why? So I can lose a limb in the bread roll stampede? No, thank you.”

“They don’t bite,” Betsy offered lightly.

“Mm,” Dakota said, stabbing at his food. “I’ve seen the way Aaron looks at people. He bites.”

That earned him a snort from Wymack, but Abby persisted. “It might help you get to know them. You’d probably enjoy yourself.”

“Enjoy myself?” Dakota echoed, glancing toward the Foxes’ table like it was a crime scene. Neil was shoving food into his mouth between rapid-fire sentences, Matt was laughing loud enough to rattle the cutlery, Kevin was dissecting a piece of broccoli like it had personally wronged him, and Andrew was slowly demolishing a second dessert without once breaking eye contact with Neil.

Dakota looked back at Abby. “I’m not a Fox.”

No one at the staff table argued with him.

“I like my meals without screaming matches, death glares, or public displays of homicidal intent,” he continued. “Call me old-fashioned.”

Wymack smirked. “Give it a week.”

“Not happening,” Dakota said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m Switzerland. I’m here for the paycheck, the hotel coffee, and the schadenfreude. That’s it.”

“You don’t get paid,” Wymack pointed out, deadpan.

“Exactly,” Dakota said, gesturing with his fork like it was a microphone. “Free labor. Which means there’s a limit to how much you can torture me before it becomes a human rights violation. Sitting with them would cross that line.”

"Good. Glad we agree," Wymack replied, raising his glass to his lips.

────────────

Dakota had seen a court up close before,more than a few times, actually. Mostly back in his spectacularly bad freshman year, when he’d been enrolled at a college in LA for all of five chaotic months before bailing.

The locker rooms there had smelled like sweat and disinfectant, the floors always slick no matter how many “wet floor” signs someone set out. He remembered the rhythms,the stretches, the lazy warm-up jogs, the sound of sneakers squeaking as drills began. Not because he’d ever played, of course. Dakota’s relationship with sports began and ended with the people who played them.

And back then… well, he’d slept with enough athletes to learn the routine by osmosis.

Switching to PSU halfway through his first year had been less of a decision and more of an escape. He’d moved from California to Palmetto almost overnight, packing everything he owned into two suitcases and catching a flight on a one-way ticket. A friend,he still didn’t say their name,had fronted him the money and told him to get out while he still could. He had, and he’d never looked back.

Now he stood on Michigan’s court, leaning against the wall while the Foxes got ready for practice. The place was bigger than the courts he remembered, colder too, the polished floor reflecting the overhead lights like glass.

Neil was already stretching, headphones in, focused like he was trying to psych himself into a fight. Kevin was in the middle of lecturing Jack about… something footwork-related, judging by the increasingly agitated hand gestures. Matt was tossing a ball to himself in lazy arcs, while Nicky sat cross-legged on the floor tying and retying his shoes like he was avoiding doing anything useful.

Andrew, of course, was leaning against the bench like gravity was an optional suggestion.

Dakota crossed his arms and stayed by the wall. He wasn’t here to participate. He was here to observe. Big difference.

Eventually, the Foxes split into pairs or went solo, jogging slow laps around the stadium to warm up. Dakota leaned back against the wall, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, and watched them with the same flat silence he used to survive boring lectures.

It wasn’t interesting, exactly. Just… athletes doing athlete things. Running in circles. Sweating. Breathing hard.

And wearing those tight Exy shorts that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

He didn’t mean to look. It was just muscle memory,his eyes automatically lowering for whoever passed him, scanning the scene like it was his civic duty.

Nicky had a great ass. Obviously. Nicky’s entire existence was an advertisement for gym mirrors.

Neil, though… Neil was a close second in Dakota’s mental ranking. The guy had solid thighs,built like he could kick through drywall without breaking stride. Dakota figured that had to be useful in Exy, though he didn’t exactly care about the technical details.

Andrew, on the other hand, was a no-go zone. Not because Dakota doubted the view,he wasn’t blind,but because Dakota had a deeply ingrained sense of self-preservation. Some cliffs you just didn’t walk off.

The girls didn’t get so much as a glance. Not out of disrespect, just… not his lane.

Matt was a surprise disappointment,bigger build, solid muscle everywhere else, but from behind… flat. Dakota didn’t know why that felt like a betrayal, but it did.

And then there was Kevin Day. Kevin’s ass was,annoyingly,fantastic. Distractingly so. It even had a slight bounce to it with each step. Or maybe that was just his imagination. Or maybe it was a sign from the universe to stop mentally cataloging the team’s butts before it became a full-blown hobby.

Dakota dragged his gaze upward, fixing it somewhere safely above waist level.

Unfortunately, that so-called “safe zone” upward shift in his gaze landed him squarely on Kevin Day.

Kevin had a permanent frown, on the court, off the court, probably even in his sleep,like his entire existence was a cosmic inconvenience. The man radiated the kind of energy that said, I didn’t choose this life, the universe shoved it at me and now you’re all going to suffer alongside me.

Dakota didn’t know much about Exy (and cared even less), but he knew about Day. Hard not to, especially after last year’s soap opera that was Neil Josten, Riko Moriyama, and the whole “assassination-slash-suicide” circus that clogged up every sports headline for months. You didn’t even have to follow the story; it just found you, like glitter or a cold.

Kevin handled the public fallout with all the grace of a man who’d been media-trained within an inch of his life,polite smile, steady voice, and that flat, dead-eyed calm you only pull out for interviews you don’t want to be doing. Dakota had seen it in person more than once in their shared classes. Kevin would be trying to eat or open his laptop, and there’d be some girl,always a different one,leaning over his desk, batting her eyelashes and “just wondering” about something from practice or the press. Kevin would answer every time, voice low and measured, but half the time it was so vague it might as well have been in Morse code.

On court, Kevin was just as intense. Dakota’s eyes wandered over occasionally,not because he was impressed, but because Kevin moved like he thought every drill was the Olympic finals. Currently, Day was swinging his racquet in that precise, mechanical way, hooking ball after ball into the net like his life depended on it. It was… fine. Athletic. Whatever. Not fascinating enough to keep Dakota’s full attention, so he sank deeper into the bench and pulled out his phone.

No texts from Franklin for the last week. Probably a silent protest over Dakota “hanging out” with athletes,as if he’d volunteered for this gig. Like, yes, Franklin, clearly Dakota had plotted to spend his afternoons freezing his ass off watching people run laps.

Nicky jogged past, sweat dripping, and still managed a thumbs-up when Dakota’s gaze flicked upward.

“Keep running, Hemmick,” Dakota drawled, loud enough for it to carry.

Nicky made a strangled noise,half groan, half laugh,but didn’t waste the oxygen to reply. His pace dropped to something between a jog and a shuffle, which Dakota decided counted as a moral victory.

He glanced back at the court. Neil and Kevin were in the middle of what looked like a Very Serious Conversation, Kevin’s racquet gesturing toward the far goal where Andrew was leaning on his stick, idly knocking it against the metal frame like he was seconds away from walking out. Kevin’s mouth moved rapidly, Neil nodded, and then,for some inexplicable reason,Day’s gaze slid toward the bleachers, landing square and fair on Dakota.

Direct, unblinking, instant heart-hiccup kind of eye contact.

It was like being caught shoplifting, except instead of candy, Dakota had been stealing glances at Kevin’s very annoyingly symmetrical face. His brain spat static, his chest did a weird little stutter, and for half a second he forgot how to look like a normal person.

Kevin, of course, just turned back to Neil like nothing happened.

Dakota snapped his eyes back to his phone so fast he almost gave himself whiplash, sliding lower on the bench like maybe, if he committed, he could just ooze into the wood and cease to exist entirely.

────────────

Nicky appeared first, hair damp, a towel thrown around his neck like a fashion statement.

“So, whatcha thinking?” Nicky asked, sidling up like he was about to be let in on some big secret.

“Very entertaining,” Dakota said flatly.

Nicky raised an eyebrow. “Entertaining how? Because I saw you watching half the time like you were at a zoo exhibit.”

“I mean, you all do run around in little pens, so…” Dakota shrugged. “Same vibe.”

Nicky gasped. “Wow. Years of hard work and discipline, reduced to ‘zoo animals’ by a guy in a bomber jacket.”

Dakota grinned. “If it helps, you were the most enthusiastic zoo animal.”

“Damn right I was.” Nicky puffed up a little. “What’d you think of the drills?”

“Half of them looked like you were just running in circles. The other half looked like someone was going to die.”

“That’s… actually pretty accurate.”

“And whoever designed those shorts clearly had evil intentions.”

Nicky cackled. “Ah, so you were paying attention.”

“Only enough to know that if I ever get on that court, I’m suing for indecent exposure.”

“You’d look great in them,” Nicky said, smirking.

Dakota rolled his eyes, pushing his phone into his pocket. “Yeah, keep dreaming, Hemmick.”

“So,” Nicky said, sidling up with the casual menace of a man who lived for gossip, “who’s your hottest pick?”

Dakota didn’t look up. “My what?”

“On the team. Who’s your hottest pick? Everyone’s got one. Or two. Or three if you’re fun.”

Dakota glanced over, unimpressed.

“I have to know where your taste falls on the quality spectrum. Don’t embarrass me.”

“I’m not answering that,” Dakota said.

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” Nicky repeated, like they were in preschool.

Dakota finally lowered his phone, giving him a flat stare. “And what are you going to do with this sacred information? Whisper it to the walls?”

“Commit it to memory,” Nicky said. “Maybe use it for matchmaking purposes if the opportunity arises.”

Dakota snorted. “Because what I need is to be set up by you.”

“Exactly. I’m a professional,” Nicky said. “Now, who is it? Don’t tell me you’ve been on this trip for days and haven’t been mentally ranking people.”

Dakota shrugged like it was obvious. “Maybe I’m just not a creep.”

“Please,” Nicky scoffed. “You were staring so hard during practice, I thought you were trying to memorize their birthmarks.”

Dakota made a face. “Gross.”

Nicky narrowed his eyes, tilting his head. “You’re avoiding answering, which means you do have someone in mind. And you’re trying not to say it because,”

“Because ranking people is shallow and dehumanizing,” Dakota interrupted smoothly.

“Uh-huh. And totally not because you’d get flustered if you said their name out loud.”

Dakota’s lips twitched, betraying the smallest flicker of a smile. “Flustered? Me? That’s adorable.”

“Oh my god, you so would,” Nicky said, delighted. “Look at you, you’re already getting shy. I didn’t think it was possible.”

“I’m not shy,” Dakota muttered, suddenly finding the far wall very interesting.

Nicky pointed at him like he’d just spotted Bigfoot. “You are! Oh, this is amazing. I’m going to cherish this forever.”

“Go away,” Dakota said, shoving at him halfheartedly.

“Oh, come on!” Nicky groaned dramatically, like Dakota was the one being unreasonable. “Alright, listen. Neil is a safe pick,he’s pretty, kind of a mess, but pretty. Just… don’t stare too long at him if Andrew’s there.”

“Andrew?” Dakota asked with a small frown, rifling through his mental Rolodex of faces. Then something clicked. “Oh. That makes so much sense why Andrew was glaring at me like he wanted to bite my head off when I jokingly said Neil would look good in skinny jeans.”

Nicky barked a laugh. “Yeah, that’ll do it. Just… don’t rub it in their faces, and definitely don’t say anything out loud. Trust me, we had a whole era where we couldn’t stop ourselves from calling them something mushy. They hated it. Still hate it. But they also claim they hate each other, so, y’know.”

Dakota lifted an eyebrow. “That sounds healthy.”

“Oh, please,” Nicky waved it off. “Anyway, then we have Kevin,”

“Ugh,” Dakota groaned immediately.

Nicky stopped in his tracks, hand on his chest. “Okay, pause. You can’t tell me Kevin is not hot. He’s literally number three on my celebrity list!”

“Celebrity list?” Dakota scoffed, resuming his walk toward the bus. “He’s not the worst looking, but number three?”

“You just haven’t seen him in all the sweaty glory in the showers,” Nicky said, grinning like he was revealing the secret to immortality.

“Gross,” Dakota deadpanned, even though an uninvited image did flicker through his brain.

Nicky caught it instantly. “Oh my god, you just pictured it.”

“I did not,” Dakota said, voice a shade too quick.

“You so did. Your face literally twitched.”

“That was a muscle spasm.”

“Mm-hm,” Nicky hummed, clearly not believing a word.. “Okay, moving on,Matt. Human golden retriever. Tall, built, genuinely nice, and has that whole effortless athlete charm.”

Dakota made a face like he was assessing a questionable piece of fruit at the market. “Mm… too straight.”

Nicky gasped. “Too straight? That’s not even,okay, fine, but admit he’s objectively good-looking.”

“I admit he’s… symmetrical,” Dakota said, drawing out the pause just to annoy him.

Nicky squinted at him. “That’s the gayest insult I’ve ever heard.”

“Not an insult. Just an observation.”

“Uh-huh.” Nicky rolled his eyes, then brightened. “Dan,”

“She’s cool,” Dakota interrupted before he could get too poetic. “But girl hotness doesn’t count. Different grading system.”

Nicky nodded in mock solemnity. “Right, right. Separate categories. Still, if you ever did swing the other way, Dan would be the one to make you question your life choices.”

“That’s nice for her.”

“Renee,” Nicky continued, ignoring the deadpan. “She has this quiet, angelic thing going on, but she’s also terrifying. Like, she could kill you politely.”

“She’s very polite,” Dakota agreed. “Wouldn’t work for me. I’d feel bad corrupting her.”

“See, that implies you want to corrupt people.”

Dakota shrugged. “I like a challenge.”

Nicky’s grin turned wicked. “Speaking of challenges,back to Kevin,”

“No,” Dakota cut in instantly.

“Yes,” Nicky sing-songed. “You’re avoiding him like he’s the plague, which tells me everything. You can’t even rank him because your brain short-circuits.”

“It’s called not feeding your delusions,” Dakota said, though there was a faint pink at the tips of his ears.

“Oh, honey, my delusions are well-fed. They’re practically thriving.”

“Good for them,” Dakota muttered.

“Good for you,” Nicky countered. “Because I’m gonna get you to admit it one day. And when you do, I’m telling literally everyone.”

Dakota gave him a flat look, but Nicky just continued.

“Okay, I don’t want to hear about Andrew and Aaron, that’ll be too weird for me,”

“Good. Blondes aren’t my type.”

“Okay, Neil we covered. Kevin we’re still debating. That leaves…”

“Yourself,” Dakota interrupted with a smirk.

“Ohhh, don’t think I’m not on my own list,” Nicky said proudly. “Top five, obviously.”

Dakota gave him a slow, exaggerated once-over, then pursed his lips. “Eh. Maybe six.”

Nicky gasped like he’d been mortally wounded. “You wound me, Dakota.”

“I could make it seven if you keep talking,” Dakota warned.

The bus smelled like every locker room disaster rolled into one,sweat, disinfectant wipes, and the faint crinkle of fast-food bags someone had smuggled in. Dakota didn’t even pretend he wanted a seat with the Foxes; he knew better. Instead, he slid into one of the quieter front rows, the unofficial territory for staff and hangers-on, where the noise blurred into background static.

From here, he could listen without joining. Behind him, Matt and Neil were arguing about some play as if they weren’t already sweating through their shirts over it an hour ago. Dan was laughing, loud and unrestrained, while Renee’s voice threaded calmly in between. Nicky was still high on gossip and endorphins, filling the gaps with commentary that had at least two first-years wheezing with laughter. And Andrew, well, Andrew looked like he could set the bus on fire just by existing, so no change there.

Then there was Kevin.

Dakota hadn’t meant to look, but his eyes found him anyway. Maybe because Kevin was the only one not adding to the noise. He was folded into his seat by the window, limbs arranged with soldier-straight precision, arms locked across his chest like a barricade. His expression was the same it always was: carved out of stone, frown etched so deep it looked permanent.

The guy didn’t just look serious, he looked trapped.

And maybe that was the part that annoyed Dakota the most. Because wasn’t this the guy? Kevin Day, national star, prodigy, his face plastered across news feeds, commentary reels, every single history lesson they shared together whispered about by at least half the class? People still whispered about his comeback like it was biblical. His name carried weight, even in places where Exy was just a word people mispronounced.

So why did he look like someone had chained him to his own shadow?

Dakota tilted his head against the window, letting the cold glass press into his temple. He knew enough about fame to know it wasn’t some golden ticket. You didn’t just “arrive” and suddenly get to enjoy it, no matter what it looked like from the outside. People expected things of you, more than you could ever actually give. And sometimes… sometimes that pressure was the only thing keeping you upright, the only thing you knew how to breathe in.

The thing about being handed the spotlight, Dakota thought, was that it was never really yours. You either burned under it, or you learned how to fake the glow.

Kevin, apparently, was still deciding which one he wanted to be.

Dakota forced himself to look down at his phone, screen lighting up with a whole lot of nothing. Franklin still hadn’t texted back.

So maybe it was easier to glance back, just once more, at someone else’s silence. Kevin’s misery was loud enough to fill the entire bus, even if he hadn’t said a word. And for reasons Dakota couldn’t quite name, he got it.

Not that he’d ever admit that out loud. Not to Nicky, not to Franklin, and definitely not to Kevin Fucking Day.

Dakota pulled his hoodie tighter around his shoulders and slouched deeper in the seat. If he was careful, maybe he could merge with the vinyl and no one would notice he was watching.

Behind him, Nicky’s laugh cracked the air again. “You guys, tell me I’m wrong, but that backwards pass was sexy. Don’t lie.”

────────────

Back at the hotel, Dakota had just kicked his shoes off when Wymack flagged him down in the hallway.

“Do rounds,” Wymack said, sounding like he’d already had enough of everyone. “Remind them: bus leaves at 7 a.m. sharp. I’m not waiting on stragglers. They’re adults; they can wake themselves up. But if they don’t show, they can stay behind.”

Dakota raised his brows. “What a touching display of tough love.”

Wymack gave him a look that said don’t test me tonight, and Dakota held up his hands. “Fine. Babysitting duty. On it.”

So he did exactly that. A knock, a door cracked open, a muttered, bus at seven, don’t be late, and usually he got nothing but an eyeroll or silence in response. The girls were at least polite,“Thanks, Dakota,” “Goodnight, Dakota”,but the rest acted like he was an unwelcome solicitor.

He was halfway down the hall when he opened another door and stopped, because apparently this one was a clown car. Four of them, crammed into two beds: Nicky, Kevin, Neil, and Andrew. Two laptops glowed faintly, phones were out, and in the middle of it all, Andrew with a beer dangling from his fingers and Kevin with an entire bottle of vodka like it was Poland Spring.

Dakota blinked. “...You know, when I knock, you’re supposed to say come in, not host a whole frat party.”

No one reacted. Neil barely glanced up. Andrew didn’t move at all. Nicky waved vaguely like Dakota was just part of the décor. Kevin didn’t even lift his head.

“Right,” Dakota sighed, leaning on the doorframe. “Anyway. Wymack says bus leaves at seven. If you’re not there, we’re leaving you to rot in this lovely two-star.”

“Seven?!” Nicky groaned theatrically. Neil just nodded. Andrew and Kevin remained perfectly, stubbornly uninterested.

Dakota’s eyes lingered on the bottles. He should’ve just left, but instead he found himself asking, “How old is everybody here?”

“Kevin turns twenty-one this winter,” Nicky piped up immediately, like he was proud of it. Kevin’s only contribution was another swig, eyes fixed somewhere that wasn’t Dakota.

“Cool. So technically none of you are legally allowed to drink,” Dakota muttered. Nicky grinned. Neil didn’t even blink. And that was enough for Dakota to decide.

He crossed the room in three steps, plucked the beer clean out of Andrew’s hand, and,before Kevin could blink,wrested the vodka out of his grip.

“Hey, what the fuck?” Kevin snapped, finally looking up, brows drawn tight.

“Exactly my question,” Dakota shot back, holding the bottle high above his head as Kevin reached for it. “None of you are legally allowed to drink. Nicky doesn’t count. And you’ve got a game tomorrow, don’t you?”

“It’s pregame ritual,” Nicky offered from the bed, grinning like a cat. “We keep Kevin sedated on vodka so he doesn’t have a meltdown.”

“Uh-huh,” Dakota muttered, unimpressed, and started toward the kitchenette.

Kevin was on his feet in an instant, moving faster than Dakota expected. He grabbed the bottom of the bottle, trying to yank it down, but Dakota had a firm grip on the neck and lifted it even higher.

“Let go,” Kevin scoffed, sharp and clipped, his voice as flat as his expression.

“You first,” Dakota returned evenly, standing his ground. He wasn’t big, but he was 5’10 and the kind of stubbornness that was good for exactly this.

Kevin’s eyes narrowed. For a second, Dakota thought he’d actually try to fight him for it. He could practically feel the frustration radiating off the guy, all that cold, coiled energy that came out in perfect drills and relentless obsession. It wasn’t really about the vodka,Dakota knew that much. This was about control.

And god did Kevin Day reek of it.

Dakota held his stare, expression unreadable, though his pulse was a little faster than he liked. Kevin was one of the only people on this team who managed to make him quiet. He wasn’t sure if it was because Kevin was impossible to rattle or because there was something too familiar in the misery he carried like armor.

“Newsflash,” Dakota said finally, voice dry. “Getting blackout drunk isn’t a ritual, it’s self-sabotage. You want to tank your game tomorrow, be my guest. But not on my watch.”

Behind them, Nicky laughed. “Oh my god, you sound like a dad.”

“Shut up, Nicky,” Dakota and Kevin snapped at the same time, which only made Nicky laugh harder.

Dakota didn’t wait for Kevin’s response. He turned on his heel, stalked to the bathroom, and twisted the vodka cap loose. Kevin was right behind him, close enough that Dakota felt the heat of his glare between his shoulder blades.

Without hesitation, Dakota tipped the bottle over the sink. The sharp, chemical smell filled the air as clear liquid splashed down the drain.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Kevin’s voice cracked like a whip.

“Performing an exorcism,” Dakota deadpanned, keeping his grip steady as he drained more of the bottle.

“Are you insane? That’s—” Kevin cut himself off, jaw tight, like he didn’t want to admit how important this was to him. He lunged forward, trying to grab the bottle back, but Dakota leaned his hip against the counter for leverage.

“Relax, Day. You’ll live,” Dakota said. Then, in a moment of pettiness, or maybe curiosity,he raised the bottle to his lips and took a quick sip before dumping the rest. It burned sharp down his throat, and he hissed through his teeth. “Christ. Tastes like paint thinner.”

Kevin’s eyes widened in outrage. “You just said no one’s old enough,”

“I am old enough.” Dakota cut him off smoothly, shoving the now-empty bottle into Kevin’s chest. “Perks of being twenty-three, sweetheart. Sorry to shatter your delusion.”

Kevin looked like Dakota had just personally spit on the Exy court. “That wasn’t your decision to make.”

“Sure it was. You were about to pickle your liver before tomorrow’s game. Someone has to be the adult in the room.” Dakota shrugged, sauntering back toward the door like he wasn’t entirely aware of Kevin’s murderous glare drilling into his back.

Behind them, Nicky was choking on his laughter, face buried in his pillow. Neil barely looked up, like this was just another Tuesday night circus.

Kevin, however, followed Dakota halfway across the room, still fuming. “You don’t get to walk in here and decide what I can or can’t do.”

Dakota spun back on his heel, arching a brow. “Oh, I do when Wymack’s the one who’s going to bite my head off if his golden boy shows up hungover tomorrow. You want to pick that fight, be my guest. But until then? I’m your least favorite babysitter.”

Kevin’s jaw clenched, knuckles white around the empty glass bottle. For a second, Dakota thought he might actually hurl it at him.

But instead, Kevin scoffed, sharp and disdainful. “You’re an idiot.”

“Takes one to know one,” Dakota fired back without missing a beat, but his tone was lighter this time,teasing, almost amused.

For once, Kevin didn’t have a retort. He just glared, turned on his heel, and dropped heavily back onto the bed, muttering something under his breath.

Dakota lingered by the door, arms crossed, trying not to look as smug as he felt. He didn’t know why he even cared,why Kevin, specifically, made him push harder, bite sharper, but also quieter. Around everyone else, Dakota had no problem being loud, bratty, impossible. But with Kevin? He found himself biting back more than he let out, like Kevin carried a gravity that pulled the words out of him differently.

He didn’t linger on that thought. Not yet.

“Goodnight, children,” he said instead, voice sugary sweet as he opened the door. “Try not to throw a kegger while I’m gone.”

“Fuck off,” Kevin muttered flatly from the bed.

Dakota’s grin sharpened. “Love you too, Day.”

And with that, he let the door swing shut behind him.

────────────

The gym was already buzzing with early fans filing into the bleachers, a low hum of voices bouncing off the rafters. The Foxes were on court stretching and running light drills, orange jerseys a blur of motion. Dakota sat at the sideline like always,arms crossed, posture loose, face set in a mask of detached boredom.

He’d barely gotten comfortable before Kevin made it clear he was not over last night.

It started when Kevin called for water during warmups. He looked right past Neil, right past Matt, and locked onto Dakota like he was staff. “Water,” Kevin barked, pointing to the cooler behind Dakota’s chair.

Dakota raised his brows slowly. “Mm, no. Wrong job description. I do babysitting, not servant work.”

Kevin’s glare could’ve cracked concrete. He jogged over, grabbed his own bottle without another word, and muttered, just loud enough for Dakota to hear, “At least vodka does what it’s supposed to.”

“Oh my god. You’re still sulking?”

Kevin didn’t respond, just tipped the water back like it was a pointed insult.

Dakota pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “Unbelievable. The great Kevin Day, reduced to a toddler throwing a tantrum over cheap vodka.”

Neil jogging by looked like he was desperately trying not to laugh.

But Kevin wasn’t finished. During passing drills, when a ball went out of bounds, Kevin didn’t just grab it himself. No, he let it roll until it bumped against Dakota’s foot. Again.

Dakota sighed dramatically, bent down, and picked it up. He didn’t throw it back immediately. Instead, he spun it once on his palm, smirking faintly. “Careful, Day. Keep this up and people might think you’re obsessed with me.”

Kevin stalked over, hand outstretched. His voice was razor-sharp, low enough that only Dakota caught it. “If you’re trying to make up for last night, you’re doing a terrible job.”

Dakota shoved the ball into his chest, harder than necessary. “Trust me, vodka-thief wasn’t on my résumé either. I’ll live with the stain on my record.”

Kevin’s eyes narrowed, like he wanted to come up with something worse, but then he turned on his heel and went back to drills, ignoring him.

Dakota slouched deeper into his chair, jaw tight. He told himself it was just annoyance, nothing else. Kevin Day was unbearable, that was all. It had nothing to do with the way Kevin had looked at him when he’d said it, like every word was a blade meant to stick.

“A miserable idiot,” Dakota muttered under his breath, fiddling with the bracelet at his wrist.

But when Kevin scored on an impossibly clean shot a few minutes later and immediately,immediately,looked to the sideline like he wanted Dakota to see it, Dakota had to glance away, heat rising up his neck.

God, he hated petty people.

The other team was called something corny, Michigan’s Wolverines,which Dakota found extremely fitting once they walked out on the court. They looked twice the size of the Foxes, twice as hairy too, like someone had raided a lumberjack convention and shoved the results into uniforms. Dakota tucked himself deeper into his chair, knees pulled up to his chest, chin propped on them as he surveyed the chaos.

He wasn’t about to ask Wymack to explain rotations or strategy,he refused to give the man the satisfaction of knowing he was curious,but his gaze followed the movement anyway. Michigan had what looked like an entire army lined up to sub in and out. Meanwhile, the Foxes looked like they’d been thrown to the wolves without backup. Neil barely left the court, sprinting until Dakota swore he’d collapse. And Matt? Matt picked up a yellow card within the first ten minutes for shoving a Wolverine into the plexiglass hard enough to rattle the boards.

Dakota snorted into his sleeve. “Cute. Real subtle,” he muttered, half to himself.

Still, his eyes kept tracking the ball, his focus drawn again and again to Kevin. For all his dramatics off the court,his vodka tantrum, his holier-than-thou routine,on the court Kevin moved like something machine-cut. Sharp. Clean. Every strike of his racquet was controlled, ruthless, like he was trying to remind everyone why his name carried weight outside these small college games.

The annoying part? It was working.

Halfway through the first half, Kevin jogged off the line for a water break. He didn’t go to the cooler on the bench. No, he veered left, right toward Dakota’s chair.

Dakota’s stomach did something irritating, like it had skipped a step. He forced his expression into the picture of sarcasm and laziness as Kevin stopped in front of him, holding out a hand like Dakota was his personal butler.

“Water,” Kevin said flatly.

Dakota stared at him. “I’m sorry, you must’ve mistaken me for someone who cares.”

Kevin didn’t even blink. He just flicked his fingers toward the cooler behind Dakota, like the demand alone should be enough.

Dakota rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt, grabbed a bottle, and shoved it against Kevin’s chest. “You’re welcome, Your Majesty.”

Kevin cracked it open without looking at him, tilting his head back for a long swallow. Then, lowering the bottle, he caught Dakota watching him.

“You’re good out there,” Dakota said before he could stop himself, the words sliding out more honest than intended. He coughed, forcing a smirk back onto his face. “You know, in a soulless robot kind of way.”

Kevin’s mouth twitched,not quite a smile, more like satisfaction curling around the edges. “Of course I am.” He tipped the bottle back again like it was punctuation.

Dakota snorted, flopping back in his chair. “Cocky.”

Kevin didn’t argue. He just jogged back onto the court, shoulders squared, every step like a statement.

Dakota tried to glue his gaze elsewhere, to follow Matt or Neil, hell, even one of the Wolverines, but his eyes kept drifting back to number two. To the clean arcs of motion, the relentless focus, and the way Kevin carried himself like being anything less than perfect wasn’t an option.

Chapter Text

The game went surprisingly well. The Foxes scraped a win—9 to 7, and Dakota found himself eating his earlier thoughts about them being hopeless. Neil and Kevin in particular were absurd together: speed and precision braided into something almost elegant. Andrew was an iron wall in goal, making it impossible for Michigan to slip much through. And Nicky, of all people, turned out to be annoyingly good, running his lungs out and sending passes like he had something to prove.

Dakota hated admitting it but he’d underestimated them.

He expected a victory parade after, shots lined up, hotel walls rattling with bass—but the Foxes weren’t like other teams. No drunken mob, no neon glow spilling from under locked doors. Just a handful of interviews that Dakota stood through with Wymack and then like clockwork, everyone scattered back to the hotel.

He lingered in the hallway long enough to wish the girls goodnight, tossed a half-serious “don’t do anything stupid” at Nicky, and finally retreated to the room he was stuck sharing with Wymack. It was empty. Abby, too, seemed to be out. Betsy’s door was open, and he caught sight of her reading in the corner, glasses perched on her nose.

Dakota laid on his bed, flipping his phone mindlessly, half-waiting for something to happen. It took almost thirty minutes before he heard it: muffled voices, laughter, the unmistakable thump of someone bumping furniture. He frowned, rolled to his feet, and padded across the hall.

The noise was coming from Aaron and Nicky’s room. He pushed the door open without knocking.

Aaron was nowhere in sight, but everyone else was packed in: Neil on the edge of the bed, Andrew propped against the wall, the girls squeezed onto whatever space was left, even Robin quiet as ever in the corner. And Kevin. Kevin sat cross-legged on the floor, back braced against the couch, with a fresh bottle hugged to his chest like a prized possession.

Dakota’s eyes narrowed. Of course.

Kevin noticed him first. Their gazes caught, Kevin’s brow furrowed immediately, grip tightening around the bottle like Dakota was about to lunge for it. He cradled it closer, half-daring him.

Dakota exhaled, slow and annoyed, before slipping inside and closing the door behind him.

“I thought you guys didn’t party,” he muttered, crouching down beside Kevin like he’d cornered a particularly defiant child, his eyes flicked from the bottle to Kevin’s face.

“You thought wrong,” Kevin said coolly, his voice sharpened by leftover spite from the night before.

“I can’t tell if you’re celebrating the win or auditioning for an AA pamphlet.”

Kevin’s jaw twitched, but he lifted the bottle anyway, as if to prove a point.

Dakota leaned his elbows on his knees, watching him with equal parts irritation and curiosity. God help him, he wasn’t even sure which one was winning.

"Celebrating," Kevin said flatly, his voice low and dry. He didn’t blink, didn’t look away as he tipped the bottle back and drank, his throat working as every drop slid down.

Dakota just sat there, staring, caught in the unwavering challenge of Kevin’s gaze. It was ridiculous. Day was the drunk one, yet somehow Dakota felt like he was the one losing.

Around them, the Foxes shifted. A couple of curious glances darted their way, a tension in the air like everyone was waiting for Dakota to smart off and Kevin to snap.

“Were you also celebrating yesterday?” Dakota finally asked, tilting his head like a cat poking at something dangerous. “After practice?”

"Yes." Kevin leaned back against the couch with deliberate carelessness, his head tipped up as though daring Dakota to press further. "It helps."

Dakota could’ve rolled his eyes, could’ve tossed some lazy, bratty remark back. But the words hung sharp between them. Helps. Not fixed, not solved. Just barely kept together.

He was halfway to pushing further when movement from the bed caught his attention. Andrew. He didn’t say a word, didn’t lift a finger, just met Kevin’s gaze with a split-second look that made something shift in the air.

Kevin exhaled sharply, shoved himself upright in one smooth motion, and Dakota had to lean back to avoid colliding with him.

"Enough," Kevin said, dropping the bottle onto the side table with a sharp thunk. He didn’t even look at Dakota as he turned and strode for the door.

Dakota blinked. “What—” But Andrew’s flat, unreadable stare cut him off. Dakota’s mouth shut with a click. The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by a couple muffled snickers.

Dakota sighed, rolled his eyes for show, and snatched up the bottle before slipping out after Kevin.

Kevin was already halfway down the hall, strides purposeful and stiff. He wasn’t staggering, wasn’t slurring. If anything, he looked too controlled, like the tight coil of a spring stretched too far.

“Day, wait—” Dakota jogged to catch up, but Kevin ignored him.

They rounded a corner, and Kevin shoved open the stairwell door with enough force to send it crashing against the wall. He didn’t slow down, taking the steps two at a time, his breath steady, his focus locked somewhere above them.

By the time Dakota made it onto the roof, he was panting, leaning against the door. “Christ, you walk like a man with a hit list.”

Kevin didn’t answer. He was already at the railing, staring out at the city below like he wanted to burn it into memory. The night was clear and cold, stars pricked across the dark sky.

Dakota hovered, half-ready to lunge if Kevin leaned too far. The thought made his skin crawl, confused. Why the roof, out of all places?

“You’re going to lecture me,” Kevin said coldly, not even glancing back. “Get it over with.”

“I’m not,” Dakota mumbled, twisting the bottle cap between his fingers.

Kevin turned, one brow arching in pure skepticism.

“No lecture about coping mechanisms? No health class speech? Not going to tell me I’m setting a bad example and ruining the brand?”

“I don’t know,” Dakota muttered. “You admitting it’s kind of a problem?”

“Does it matter if I admit it? Everyone already thinks they know what’s best for me.”

“And you don’t agree?”

Kevin laughed, short, harsh, almost like a bark. “Would I be drinking if I did?”

He scrubbed a hand down his face, the sound rough, tired, almost. But from what, Dakota didn’t know. “Everyone’s got their version of Kevin Day. Their plan. Their rules. And none of them ever ask me what I think. I’m not—” His hand dropped, and for a moment, the anger flickered into something rawer. “I’m not a fucking puppet.”

Dakota frowned, shifting his weight. “I didn’t say you were. I’m just saying maybe don’t drink like…” he waved the bottle weakly. “like a toddler with candy. It’s just… not great for you.”

Kevin’s jaw flexed, green eyes narrowing like Dakota had struck a nerve. “Do you think I want this? Do you think I like waking up with my head splitting and my stomach in knots?” He stepped closer, sudden enough that Dakota’s chest tightened. His hands were balled into fists, his shoulders taut. “You don’t know a damn thing about me. None of you do.”

Dakota blinked up at him, throat dry. “Sorry.”

The word surprised even him.

Kevin froze, anger faltering for just a second. He let out a rough exhale, shoulders slumping like the exhaustion finally won. His hands went up into his hair, tugging through the mess like he could wring the tension out of himself. The night wind was cutting sharp between them, making Dakotas hair whip into his face and prickling his eyes. Finally, Kevin’s eyes flicked toward the bottle in Dakota’s hand, his chin jerking in demand. “Hand it over.”

Dakota frowned at it, thumb tracing the glass. He didn’t know why he grabbed it, didn’t know why he’d chased after Kevin at all. Slowly, he twisted the cap off, lifted it, and took a long sip himself before shoving it into Kevin’s chest. Then he leaned against the railing beside him, eyes on the horizon.

“Michigan is cold as fuck.”

Kevin watched him take a swig, something like surprise flashing across his face. He caught the bottle when it was handed over, eyeing it for a moment before raising it to his own lips and taking a drink himself. He leaned against the railing, his gaze drifting out over the city again.

"Michigan's nothing," he said, his tone more subdued now without the sharp edge of anger. "Try Maine in the winter. It's like a damn refrigerator."

“You’ve been to Maine?” Dakota asked curiosly, leaning against the railing. “I heard it’s really pretty up there.”

"Yeah, I have. It's beautiful. Pine forests, rocky cliffs, and a whole damn lot of snow. The summers are nice too, with all the lakes. You've never been?"

“I’m from LA. Didn’t travel much in the states. Never even been to Michigan before now.”

"LA, huh?" He looked the boy up and down, sizing him up anew. "Yeah, I can see it. You've got that California vibe to you." He took another drink, his gaze roaming lazily over Dakota's features. "What brought you all the way to Palmetto then? Can't imagine you're a fan."

Dakota snorted, turning so his back rested against the railing, face tilted toward the sky. “Change of scenery. Wanted distance. Friend said PSU was decent, so I transferred halfway through freshman year.”

“Well, you got your distance. This place is a dump compared to LA.” He tilted the bottle up, throat working as he swallowed. “Do you miss it?”

“Not really.” It wasn’t the truth, not completely, but it was easier than unpacking everything. “Palmetto’s dull, sure, but here? I can start over. No one knows me. LA’s smaller than it looks—tight circles, no way to escape them.”

“Yeah, Palmetto’s dull all right.” Kevins gaze slid sideways, studying Dakota with unnerving precision. “You’re running from something. No one just uproots their life and moves across the country for a change of scenery unless they're trying to escape something."

“You tell me, did you run from something when you moved from Edgar Allan to Palmetto?”

Kevin’s expression darkened instantly, his fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle. For a second, Dakota thought he might actually throw it off the balcony.

"Yeah," Kevin said after a beat. "But I don't talk about it."

He took one last long drink before handing the bottle back to Dakota, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Point taken though," Kevin muttered. "Just don't expect me not to notice when someone else is doing it."

Dakota tilted his head back, staring at the scatter of stars above them. He usually didn’t care about the sky. Tonight it just made him miss driving—fast highways, loud music, freedom. Except freedom didn’t come with twenty bucks in your savings account.

“I didn’t plan it,” Dakota said finally. “Moving. Just saw an opening and took it. Happened fast.”

“Sounds reckless,” Kevin muttered, half-mocking, half-approving. “No plan. No backup.”

Dakota huffed a laugh, grabbing the bottle for another burn of vodka. “Not reckless. Just… stuff happened. Didn’t wanna stick around.”

“Stuff.” Kevin raised an eyebrow. “Mysterious.” He leaned against the railing, his dark hair a mess as it whipped over his features. “You gonna explain, or do I get to fill in the blanks?”

Dakota smirked. “Gotta keep you interested.”

Kevin snorted. “That what you think keeps me interested?” He took the bottle back, a lazy sip, then shoved it into Dakota’s hand again. “Try harder.”

“I think it’s working.” Dakota shrugged, drinking. “But next time, no vodka. Something lighter.”

“What, can’t handle it?” Kevin grinned. “Or scared I’ll outdrink you?”

“I’m not entertaining you.”

Kevin laughed, actually laughed. A sharp sound, quick and unexpected. “Too late. You already are.”

Dakota frowned at the bottle, voice suddenly quieter. “I don’t like drunks. Parties are fine. But when people start drinking every time something goes wrong?” He shook his head. “That’s different.”

Kevin’s grin slipped. His jaw worked through something, eyes flicking to the bottle in Dakota’s hand, then back up.

“I’m not—” he hesitated, voice low. “I don’t need it every time. I’m not addicted.”

“Okay,” Dakota murmured, glancing sideways at him. “Still want you sober if I’m gonna share all my secrets.”

Kevin’s brows lifted, somewhere between annoyed and amused. “Are you negotiating with me?”

“Maybe.”

A pause, then Kevin sighed and leaned back against the railing. “…Fine.”

“Fine,” Dakota echoed, victorious. “When we’re back at Palmetto.”

Kevin huffed, almost a laugh. “Yeah. When we’re back.” He shot Dakota a sidelong glance, quick but deliberate, before pushing off the railing toward the exit. “You better not be boring sober.”

Dakota snorted, following. “I’m a delight when I’m sober, Day. You just don’t know it yet.”

Kevin didn’t turn around, just shoved the door open with a dry, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

The stairwell swallowed his voice, his footsteps echoing against concrete. Easy. That was the strange part… it was starting to feel easy.

────────────

After surviving his first trip with the Foxes, Dakota was frozen in the doorway of his dorm. The opposite side of the room was stripped bare: no sheets, no books, no clutter. Nate, his roommate, was just… gone. Nate had been fine, studied physics, mostly kept to himself, spent a lot of nights at his girlfriend’s place. They weren’t friends, just two guys stuck in the same space. Still, the total absence hit harder than it should have. Not even a text. Hey, I switched rooms with a buddy. Hey, I dropped out. Anything would’ve been better than silence.

Scoffing, Dakota kicked the door shut, dropped his bag, and faceplanted into his bed. The room felt bigger now, emptier, no matter how many posters and photos he’d taped to his wall.

That’s when his phone buzzed. A text from Franklin:

r u back?

Dakota stared at it, his stomach twisting. He knew how he was supposed to feel, boyfriends were supposed to light up at the thought of seeing each other again. He should’ve been grinning, already typing back an invite, maybe bragging about his new solo dorm. But nothing in him wanted to. The only thing he felt was guilt curdling into anxiety. His body was already telling him what his mind refused to admit.

So he looked away from the screen, back at Nate’s empty side of the room. Maybe he’d rearrange the beds, give himself more space. Move the desk to the wardrobe, shift the mirror closer to the bathroom. Hell, he could turn that desk into a shrine for a coffee machine.

Dakota rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling fan as it wobbled slightly with each turn. The silence pressed in on him, too heavy, too sharp. He’d always bragged about how much he valued his own space, how independence was his greatest weapon. But the truth was quieter, uglier: he hated being left with nothing but himself.

The emptiness in the dorm felt like it was watching him. Nate hadn’t been great company, but he’d been there, a body to fill the space, footsteps in the background, the occasional annoyed sigh over textbooks. Now, without him, the silence made Dakota’s skin itch.

He sat up and unlocked his phone, scrolling through old messages he didn’t even want to read. Franklin. His sister. Class group chats. He wanted someone to say something first, anything to tether him back to reality. He didn’t want to be the one reaching out, because that made it too obvious. Too desperate.

His fingers hovered over Franklin’s name before he shoved the phone under his pillow and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He wasn’t going to answer. He didn’t want to. He kept repeating that like it was a prayer, like it might drown out the fact that all he wanted was someone’s presence.

Maybe he’d go rearrange the furniture now. It was something to do. Dragging the desk across the floor, shifting the bedframe, putting the mirror somewhere impractical just for the sake of change. If he reshaped the room, maybe he could trick himself into believing he wasn’t stuck in the same empty space, with the same empty thoughts.

And maybe later he’d cave and text someone, anyone, because Dakota wasn’t built for silence. He could act as independent as he wanted, but when the world got too quiet, it always gave him away.

Dakota eventually decided the silence wasn’t going to kill him if he killed it first. He pulled his laptop from his bag, yanked out a thick textbook that smelled faintly of dust and printer ink, and flopped it open on the desk. Tomorrow’s seminar was on colonialism and global trade, something about mercantile systems feeding into early capitalism. Normally, he liked this stuff. There was something almost comforting about history: the patterns, the inevitability, the way greed dressed itself up in new costumes but always looked the same.

He started scribbling notes, his pen moving faster than his brain. “Colonial monopolies as proto-cartels,” he muttered to himself, underlining it twice. “Commodities turned people into currency. Sugar, coffee, tobacco… the holy trinity of exploitation.” His handwriting was messy but legible enough, the kind of notes that would make sense to nobody but him.

For a moment, he got lost in the work. It was easy to disappear into centuries-old trade routes, into the neat cruelty of balance sheets that counted human lives as losses or gains. The past didn’t care if he answered Franklin’s text. The past didn’t care if he was alone. It was already over, already written.

His focus slipped eventually. Words started to blur together, paragraphs blending until he caught himself rereading the same sentence three times without absorbing a thing. He rubbed his face, yawned, and propped his chin in his palm, forcing himself to keep going. “Dutch East India Company, 1602…” he read aloud, but his voice was already trailing off. His eyelids were too heavy.

By the time he noticed, his pen had slipped from his fingers, rolling across the desk. His head tipped forward, cheek pressed against the wide open textbook. The paper felt cool under his skin, ink faintly smudging against his jaw as his breathing evened out.

When Dakota finally gave in to sleep, he didn’t look independent, or put-together, or in control. He just looked like someone who couldn’t outrun exhaustion forever.

────────────

Kevin was in his Colonialism and Global Trade class. How he’d managed to justify it as an elective, Dakota didn’t know. Something about “strategic perspective.” Kevin Day could probably turn basket weaving into a tactical exercise if given the chance.

They’d seen each other in passing before, always a row or two apart. Dakota usually claimed a spot by the window, second row, because he liked the light. Kevin always anchored himself near the door, first row, because of course he did. So how they both ended up in the third row, middle seats, was divine punishment. Or maybe just bad luck and the fact that Dakota had overslept, missed breakfast, and was racing against the laws of time.

Kevin was already seated, notes laid out with surgical precision, pen tapping an irritated rhythm on the desk. His posture alone screamed: don’t bother me, I’m busy winning life.

He didn’t even glance up when Dakota slid into the empty seat beside him, hair still a mess, shirt only half tucked. But after a long beat, Kevin muttered without moving his gaze:

“You’re late.”

Not good morning, not hey, just that flat verdict like Dakota had committed a crime against punctuality.

“The class is early,” Dakota shot back, resting his chin in his hands. “What happened to you being too good for the peasants in row three? Did someone stage a coup in the front row?”

Kevin turned his head just enough to glare, pen frozen mid tap.

“Not all of us have the luxury of wandering in whenever we feel like it,” he said. Then, almost as an afterthought: “You should be up front. God knows you need it more than I do.”

“Excuse me?” Dakota scoffed, straightening in his chair. “I get straight A’s, thank you very much. Meanwhile, you’re in a class you don’t even need. What, looking for extra credit in colonial domination?”

The professor walked in before Kevin could bite back, which was probably for the best. He slumped back in his chair with a sigh, shooting Kevin a sidelong look. I could take him in a fight, Dakota thought. He’s all Exy muscles, arms built to swing a racket, not throw a punch. Though, annoyingly, even holding a pen made his biceps flex.

The dark shirt clung unfairly, and Dakota thought, unhelpfully, that he wouldn’t mind clinging to that tanned skin too.

He shook his head hard enough to give himself whiplash and forced his attention to the lecture.

The professor launched into a discussion on monopolies, mercantile trade, and the beginnings of capitalism. Kevin’s pen flew across the page like he was transcribing scripture, handwriting neat enough to be printed. Dakota’s notes, by contrast, started structured, key terms underlined, a few arrows connecting ideas. But soon his margin filled with half formed doodles, sarcastic asides, and one scrawled line: Kevin Day could run the East India Company with his bare hands.

Kevin leaned slightly toward him without looking.

“Is the lecture too hard for that small brain of yours? You’ll fall behind.”

Dakota raised his brows. “Bold of you to assume I’m not already two chapters ahead.”

Kevin gave the faintest snort, so quiet Dakota almost thought he imagined it, before scowling it back into annoyance. Then Kevin turned back to his notes, jaw set, posture sharp, as if nothing in the world could distract him from trade routes and mercantile monopolies.

“Now…” the professor said, pacing slowly at the front, “can anyone explain how the monopoly structures of the seventeenth century influenced modern global trade patterns?”

A pause settled over the room, the kind where students avoid eye contact, praying not to be called on. Kevin’s hand shot up instantly. No hesitation, no mercy. He was practically vibrating with the need to answer. But Dakota, who had actually done the reading in a caffeine deprived haze last night, raised his hand too. His arm wasn’t as rigid as Kevin’s, more of a lazy lift, but he leaned just far enough forward that the professor couldn’t ignore him.

The professor’s brows lifted. “Ah, looks like we have two volunteers.”

Kevin’s jaw tightened. His hand remained upright, fingers stretched like he could will the professor into choosing him. Dakota, meanwhile, gave a little wiggle of his fingers, smirking sideways.

“I’ll… start with you,” the professor decided, nodding to Dakota.

Kevin’s pen stopped tapping. Dakota could feel Kevins gaze burning holes through his skull.

“Thank you, professor,” Dakota said smoothly, fighting a grin. “The monopoly systems, like the Dutch East India Company, weren’t just about controlling commodities, but about shaping global dependency. They created infrastructure that made certain regions reliant on European trade, setting the stage for modern multinationals. You can draw a straight line from those companies to today’s corporate giants.”

The professor nodded. “Good. And Mr. Day?”

Kevin’s hand hadn’t budged. He spoke quickly, clipped, like he’d been rehearsing while Dakota talked. “What Mr. de Vaurien is missing is the way those monopolies functioned as early instruments of state power. The companies weren’t just private actors, they were militarized, authorized to wage war, sign treaties, and govern colonies. That merger of corporate and national interest is what laid the groundwork for globalization as we know it.”

Dakota’s smirk faltered, but only for a second. Kevin sat ramrod straight, pen poised again, the smug aura rolling off him like heat.

“Excellent points from both of you,” the professor said. “It’s refreshing to see such enthusiasm.”

Kevin didn’t look at Dakota, but the corner of his mouth twitched, just enough that it could have been the beginnings of a smirk.

Dakota leaned back in his chair, muttering just loud enough for Kevin to hear:

“Enjoy it while it lasts, Day. Next question’s mine.”

Kevin finally glanced sideways, eyes sparkling.

“We’ll see.”

────────────

When the lecture finally ended, Kevin stacked his notes aligning the corners like his GPA depended on symmetry. Dakota, meanwhile, shoved his papers into his bag like they’d wronged him personally.

“You always write like the professor’s going to grade your notebook,” Dakota said, slinging his bag over his shoulder as they filed out with the rest of the students.

Kevin didn’t even glance at him. “It’s called discipline. You might try it sometime.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t have discipline.”

“You doodled an anatomically questionable ship in the margins halfway through.”

“That was a historically accurate Dutch East India Company galleon, thank you very much. Culture. Art. Ever heard of it?”

Kevin exhaled through his nose like even responding to that was beneath him, but he didn’t walk faster to shake Dakota off. He kept pace, long strides but enough for them both to fall into the same pace.

“You’re insufferable,” Kevin muttered eventually.

“And yet,” Dakota said, bumping his shoulder against Kevin’s with practiced nonchalance, “you’re still talking to me. Tragic.”

Kevin gave him a withering look. Which meant something. At least, to Dakota it did.

They hit the main hallway, students peeling off in every direction. Kevin adjusted the strap of his bag, eyes fixed ahead. “We’re going to California next week,” he said, voice clipped but even. “Away game against USC.”

Dakota’s step faltered. Just half a second, but he caught himself quickly, plastering on a grin. “Wow. Sun, sand, Exy bloodbath. Sounds delightful.”

Kevin’s eyes flicked toward him. “You don’t have to come.”

The words landed heavier than they should’ve. Blunt, delivered with all the grace of a brick, but Dakota caught something underneath. Hesitation. Concern. A softness Kevin clearly didn’t know how to hide.

Weird, Dakota thought. Kevin was stranger than he originally seemed. For a moment, he didn’t answer. Just shoved his hands into his pockets and kept walking, letting the silence stretch.

“Pretty sure it’s mandatory for me to go,” Dakota said finally, forcing a huff of a laugh. “Besides, it’s just California. I won’t suddenly implode the moment we land.”

“You told me you were running away from something.” His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “Why would you go back to a place that made you run away in the first place?”

Dakota blinked, caught off guard by the memory. He’d tossed that detail out like nothing, half a joke, not expecting Kevin Day of all people to remember. “Because I’ve got responsibilities,” Dakota said after a beat. He shrugged, trying for careless. “And sometimes you do things you don’t want to in life, Kev. That’s adulthood. But I’m fine with going, promise.”

Kevin didn’t look convinced. Not even close. His green eyes locked on Dakota’s mismatched ones, sharp and relentless, like he was analyzing a play and waiting for Dakota to slip up. Dakota held the stare, raising his brows in challenge.

And then, unexpectedly, Kevin’s gaze shifted. Downward, almost shy, before flicking back ahead. He adjusted his bag again, as if to fill the silence. “If it… gets bad,” he said, the words awkward and stilted, “you don’t have to stay.”

Dakota’s brain short-circuited. For a second, the hallway blurred. Because Kevin Day, Mr. I-Hate-Small-Talk, Mr. Everything-Is-A-Strategy, had just offered him an out. A lifeline. They barely knew each other, and Kevin swore up and down that he hated him, but here he was, making room for Dakota’s comfort in the middle of his rigid world.

“You’re scaring me,” Dakota huffed, half a joke, half truth. “Don’t be nice to me, it’s freaky. Like, the bad freaky.”

Kevin gave him an unamused side glare. “Fine. Suffer.” He mouthed the word so dramatically it pulled a snort out of Dakota before he could stop it.

“God, you’re unbearable,” Dakota muttered, but he was still grinning.

“You started this conversation,” Kevin pointed out flatly, adjusting the strap of his bag.

“Yeah, well, sue me for wanting a little human interaction. Sorry I didn’t know you were allergic to it.”

Dakota caught the way Kevin fought off a grin and filed the victory away.

They split at the east wing with a casual see you later, like that was just… normal now. Like talking to Kevin Day had become part of Dakota’s routine. Which was ridiculous. And exciting. He’d gone from staring at Kevin’s ass in practice to actual conversations, mouth to mouth, words exchanged. Progress, he thought smugly. And, yeah, maybe he was already looking forward to tonight at the Fox Tower with Wymack.

That thought scattered the second he spotted a tall, boyfriend-shaped shadow in the hall. His stomach sank. Whatever good mood he had evaporated. With Franklin, Dakota never had to do anything wrong to feel like he’d messed up anyway.

“Why didn’t you text me?” was Franklin’s opener. No hug, no kiss. Just accusation. Dakota had stopped expecting more a long time ago. Stopped expecting it to hurt, too.

“Sorry. We landed late yesterday, and I passed out the second I got back,” Dakota said. He even tried to sound sheepish.

Franklin’s eyes narrowed, like he was scanning every syllable for a lie. He always did.

Dakota already knew what came next, knew it in the pit of his chest.

“You know this isn’t working because of you, right? You don’t put in the effort. You disappear for days, you prioritize them over me, and then you show up with excuses. It’s always an excuse.”

The words hit harder than Dakota wanted to admit. Because of you. Of course. Always him.

“I’m literally here every week,” Dakota pushed back, his frown pulling deeper. “I show up. I try. When do you ever-”

“Don’t,” Franklin cut him off, jaw tight. “Don’t flip this on me. I’m the one who has to put up with your attitude, your schedule, your… whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely at Dakota, like he was some abstract mess instead of a person. “And you can’t even send a text? That’s basic. That’s the bare minimum.”

Dakota bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. Because Franklin made it sound so simple, so black-and-white, like it really was his fault. Like all the hollow nights, the lack of touches, the way Dakota always had to ask for a kiss.. it was just him being needy, unreasonable.

Still, his pulse thrummed with anger. “You make it sound like I don’t care,” Dakota said. “Like I don’t put anything into this.”

“Do you?” Franklin asked, and the question was so sharp it left Dakota momentarily speechless.

Because he did. God, he did. He bent himself in knots for this relationship, and Franklin still acted like he wasn’t enough.

Sometimes Dakota wondered if Franklin was ashamed of him. He never said it out loud (God forbid he give Franklin more ammunition) but the thought was there, crawling around in the back of his head every time Franklin shoved his hand away or angled his body so they didn’t look too close. Franklin would just laugh if Dakota brought it up. Call him dramatic. Sensitive. Too much.

And maybe he was too much. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Too loud, too bright, too obvious. Dakota had never been the type you could shove in a box and lock away, not even when his parents tried. He dressed how he wanted, spoke how he wanted, wore his heart on his sleeve like it wasn’t embarrassing. Franklin hated that. Franklin wanted small. Safe. Invisible. Someone he could fold up and hide in his pocket until it was convenient.

But Dakota wasn’t small. He wasn’t invisible. So instead, he was Franklin’s liability. The embarrassing boyfriend no one was supposed to notice.

It was stupid, because Franklin had told his close friends about them. He wasn’t completely closeted. But then again, that was worse somehow. Franklin could be brave in carefully curated rooms, could wear the label when it didn’t risk anything. And yet the second Dakota reached for him in a hallway, or at a party, or even walking down the damn street, Franklin’s whole body stiffened like Dakota had just pulled a knife.

Every time it happened, Dakota told himself he was fine with it. That maybe it was better this way. Franklin didn’t want the world staring, didn’t want questions, didn’t want the weight of it. Dakota could live with that. He could be patient. He could wait. But deep down, it felt like being someone’s dirty secret. Like he was only good in the dark, in closed rooms with the blinds drawn, where Franklin didn’t have to risk being seen. Like all he was allowed to be was something Franklin used, not someone Franklin chose. Franklin wanted the idea of him. He wanted someone pretty enough to show off in the right rooms, someone who wouldn’t drag attention Franklin didn’t want. Dakota was safe because Dakota was attractive, and that was it.

Pretty enough for people not to bully him. Pretty enough to make Franklin look good in private. Pretty enough to keep around until Franklin got bored.

And what was he beyond that? What else did he have to offer? Dakota didn’t think it was much. He wasn’t smart like Kevin, he wasn’t strong like the rest of the Foxes. He didn’t have a future mapped out, a shining goal on the horizon. He was just Dakota, too much and somehow never enough. Too loud for his family, too dramatic for Franklin, too spoiled for strangers, too empty under it all.

If Franklin ever looked past the surface, if he peeled away the glitter and the pretty face, what would he see? Dakota didn’t want to know. He was terrified of it. Terrified that Franklin would realize there was nothing there worth loving.

So he held on, even though it was breaking him. Because being with Franklin, even like this, was better than being alone.

Wasn’t it?

He wasn’t sure anymore.

It left him hollow. All that energy burned on arguments that went nowhere, on getting angry at Franklin for never giving him the bare minimum, and angrier still when Franklin flipped it back on him. Like he was the problem. Like it was Dakota’s fault for not fitting into Franklin’s tiny idea of what a boyfriend should be.

But Dakota was good. He shut his mouth, leaned against the wall, let Franklin call him names in the echo of the hallway. And then, like flipping a switch, Franklin muttered, come over tonight. As if nothing had happened. As if Dakota was supposed to be grateful for scraps. As if control was the same thing as love.

Dakota didn’t answer. Didn’t nod, didn’t play along. He just turned on his heel and walked, the sound of his boots sharp against the floor. Away from Franklin. Away from classes. Away from the comfort of his fucked-up life.

“Dax, what the fuck?” Franklin’s voice cracked behind him, too loud in the sterile corridor.

Dakota didn’t look back. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. He took the stairs two at a time, the climb practiced, mechanical, until he shoved himself into his dorm with a sharp slam of the door. Bag down, helmet up. Black, scuffed, with stickers so sun-bleached you couldn’t tell what they used to be. He turned the lock, shoved his keys into his pocket, and bolted.

Fuck Franklin and his stupid face.

Fuck the relationships Dakota let himself settle into just because he was scared of his own silence.

Fuck Wymack and the job that cut through every part of his personal life like barbed wire.

Fuck the Foxes every single one of them clinically insane and too stubborn to get therapy.

Fuck Kevin and how perfect his life seemed to be for a guy that hated himself more than anything.

Fuck everybody.

He jogged the long route to the lot, hoodie hanging loose, helmet tucked under his arm like a secret. The underground parking was chained off for guests, a place of confiscations and warnings. Which was perfect, since technically, his ride was supposed to be off-limits. Collecting dust, like him.

Dakota found it where he left it. The cover was wrinkled and cheap, doing nothing to hide the shape he knew by heart. His chest tightened as he pulled it off in one smooth motion. The familiar curves, the weight of chrome dulled with grime, the battered seat, his pulse finally steadied.

He swung a leg over the motorcycle and fit the helmet over his head, muffling the world.

Finally. Somewhere Franklin couldn’t touch him.

The engine roared to life, low and hungry, vibrating through his bones like it had been waiting for him. It always felt like that, like the bike was the only thing that actually wanted him back.

Dakota rolled out of the lot slow, careful, until the tires hit open road. Then he twisted the throttle hard and let the speed punch through him. Wind tore past, stinging his face even through the helmet, and the campus shrank behind him like something he could outrun.

He didn’t ride safe. He never had. He darted into the gaps, wove through traffic like the lanes were built for him alone. Horns flared, someone shouted, but Dakota was already gone. Lean left, lean right, cut between two cars with inches to spare. It was easy. Too easy. He’d been doing this since he was a teenager, back when racing for cash in empty streets felt like the only way to prove he was worth anything.

Now it was just muscle memory. And anger.

Fuck Franklin and his why didn’t you text me voice. Fuck the way his chest still burned with shame every time Franklin looked at him like he was disposable. Fuck the way Dakota still wanted him anyway.

He pressed the throttle harder, like speed could peel all of that off his skin. Like maybe if he went fast enough, the past wouldn’t cling.

But underneath the rage was something worse: nothing. That numbness that crept in when he was tired of fighting, tired of being too much and not enough at the same time. The cold little thought that whispered you could let go right here. One bad turn. No one would even care.

Dakota hated that thought. Hated how familiar it was.

So he did what he always did, he sped up. Leaned into it. Focused on the burn of rubber on asphalt, on the clean snap of his body moving with the machine. Focused on the one place he didn’t feel useless: behind the handlebars, when every move was life or death and his body just knew what to do.

Dakota shifted gears, engine screaming higher, and the bike surged forward like it was daring him. His grip tightened, then, suddenly, loosened.

He let go.

For a heartbeat, two, maybe three, his arms stretched wide, palms open to the wind. The world rushed against him, brutal and cold, tearing at his jacket, rattling his bones. It felt like flying. Like being weightless, untethered, finally out of reach of Franklin, his family, the Foxes, all of it.

The handlebars wobbled under him, but the bike held straight. He tilted his face up into the night air, chest burning with something between rage and relief. The wind whipped through him, filling the hollow places until he almost felt whole.

Almost.

Then instinct screamed, and he caught the grips again before the front wheel betrayed him. The bike steadied, and his lungs did too, though every breath still hurt.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. He just breathed hard inside the helmet and thought: Maybe this is the closest I get to freedom. A couple seconds with my hands off, pretending I’m not crashing anyway.

The city lights blurred beneath his wheels, and Dakota leaned back down over the bike, twisting the throttle like if he just kept going fast enough, he’d never have to land.

────────────

Dakota rolled into the Fox Tower parking lot, the rumble of the engine cutting off sharper than he meant it to. By the time the silence swallowed him, the sky was already sinking into indigo. Way too late. He was supposed to be here three hours ago, Wymack waiting with his endless lists and his gravel-voiced expectations.

Now? He’d blown it.

The second the kickstand hit concrete, the guilt hit harder. If Wymack cut him from this internship, that was it. No extra credits, no leverage, no shield to wave at the administration when they asked what he was even doing here. He’d be a walking failure. He’d be another dropout with nothing but a pretty face and a family that didn’t even want him.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

His phone was still in his dorm, but the hands on his watch were merciless.. half past eight. Too late to salvage. No excuse sounded good enough. Late flight? He hadn’t flown anywhere. A migraine? Wymack didn’t strike him as the “oh poor baby” type. Franklin? God forbid he even used Franklin as an excuse; the man already stole enough of him.

The lot was almost empty. Just a sleek black Maserati by the curb, someone leaning against it with a cigarette glowing in the dark. Dakota squinted. No contacts, just blurry shapes. But then Neil walked out, beelining for the smoker. Dakota put it together. That had to be Andrew.

Another figure slipped out after Neil, gesturing sharply with his hand as he spoke. Kevin.

Of course. Of course the universe was staging a whole Foxes-reunion vignette right here while he sat like a coward on his bike.

He looked down, noticed the white knuckle grip he had strangling the handlebars. His palms hurt. His stomach hurt. He couldn’t even make himself move.

If practice was already over (and it had to be) then Wymack was long gone. Long pissed. Probably already rehearsing the lecture that would tear Dakota apart the next time he showed his face.

And what would he even say? That he got caught up in another fight with Franklin? That he wasted the whole evening blowing smoke into the wind on a bike that technically wasn’t even his?

The door to Fox Tower banged open. Dakota tensed, eyes flicking up.

Nicky Hemmick.

Who spotted Dakota instantly, stopped halfway down the steps, and broke into a grin like he’d just seen a ghost. “No fucking way. Dax?”

Dakota felt his whole body lock up. He could’ve lied, pretended he was someone else, helmet still up. But Nicky was already jogging closer, his eyes wide and lit up in that way that left no room for denial.

Nicky slapped the side of his bike like it was a long-lost friend. “You- god, you still ride? I thought you gave that shit up years ago!”

Dakota forced a crooked smile, pulling off his helmet and shaking his hair free like it was all part of a show. “Surprise. Try not to faint, Nicky, your heart can’t take it.”

Nicky laughed, shoving his hands in his jacket. “Man, I thought you were dead, or, I don’t know, hiding in Paris with sugar daddies. But this?” He gestured broadly at the bike. “This is classic. Nobody else knows, right?”

“Yeah, well.” Dakota swung one leg over and leaned against the seat, his smirk sliding into place like old armor. “Not exactly the kind of hobby you brag about to Wymack. Or anyone, really.”

Kevin had turned his head at the sound of voices. He was still standing with Neil and Andrew, half in the shadows by the Maserati. His sharp gaze found Dakota immediately, lingered on the helmet in his hands, then on his face.

Kevin’s stare sharpened into something less curious, more cutting. He muttered something short to Neil and Andrew, who only shrugged, then broke away from the group. His strides were quick, determined, like he was marching into battle.

Nicky groaned under his breath. “Oh god, here we go. Kevin Day versus horsepower.”

Dakota tilted his chin up, helmet dangling off his fingers like bait. He didn’t bother to brace. Kevin stopped right in front of him, looking more severe than a parking lot deserved.

“That,” Kevin said flatly, pointing at the bike like it had personally offended him, “is reckless.”

Dakota raised his brows, feigning shock. “What, me? Reckless? Shocking.”

Kevin ignored the joke. “You could break your neck. You could lose your hands, your reflexes, your life. Do you have any idea how easily people get killed on-”

“Motorcycles?” Dakota supplied, his smile sharp as glass. “Yeah, Kev, I’m aware. That’s kind of the point.”

Kevin’s mouth pressed into a harder line. His hands flexed like he wanted to strangle sense into Dakota, but instead he took one sharp breath through his nose.

Dakota tilted his head, let his smirk soften into something more playful. “Relax, Day. I’m good at it. Really good.” He spun the helmet lazily by the strap. “Tell you what, next time, you can ride with me. I’ll show you what control looks like.”

Kevin’s composure cracked. Just barely. His eyes flicked from the bike to Dakota’s grin, then away, the faintest flush creeping up his neck. He muttered, “That’s not funny,” but his voice had lost its usual bite.

Dakota laughed. “Didn’t say it was.”

Kevin worked his jaw, the muscle there ticking, that permanent frown between his eyebrows carved deeper with every passing second. It looked kind of cute, Dakota thought — annoyingly so. He stood close enough that he could reach out, hook one finger into the belt loop of Kevin’s jeans, and tug him forward until Kevin had no choice but to lean, awkward and stiff, against the side of the bike.

Nicky’s gasp cut through the lot. “Oh my god. Did that just happen? Did you just-”

Dakota flashed him a lazy grin, like it was no big deal. “See? Perfectly safe. Old bike, doesn’t even go that fast anymore.”

Kevin went rigid. His whole body locked up like Dakota had forced him into a bear trap. Up this close, Dakota could feel it, the way Kevin’s shoulders pulled so tight they nearly kissed his ears, the perfect soldier-straight posture that made Dakota feel like he was permanently slouching in comparison.

“You’re ridiculous,” Kevin sputtered finally, voice sharp and defensive. He waved Dakota off, but not before Dakota’s fingers slid higher, catching the sleeve of Kevin’s hoodie. Just to anchor him there a little longer.

“Can we talk?” Dakota asked. It came out before he could overthink it, too quick, too raw.

That made Kevin pause. His arms crossed slowly over his chest, guarded, but his eyes flickered over Dakota’s face with something less hostile. Less annoyed. Curiosity, maybe. Or exhaustion. Hard to tell with Kevin Day, who always looked like he was carrying the weight of an entire world league on his back.

Behind them, Nicky’s mouth was hanging open, darting his gaze between the two of them like he missed the memo. Dakota leveled him with a glare sharp enough to cut. Piss off.

Nicky threw his hands up in surrender. “Right. But just so you know, when I see you again, I demand to know when this—” he gestured between them with wild flapping hands, “—became a thing.” Then he jogged back across the lot toward Neil and Andrew, who were standing by the car, both watching Kevin with unnerving intensity.

The moment Nicky was out of earshot, Dakota let his hand drop from Kevin’s sleeve. The hoodie’s fabric slipped away. Kevin’s gaze followed the movement like he couldn’t stop himself, before blinking it away so quickly it might as well have been nothing.

“Is Wymack mad?”

Kevin tilted his head, expression unreadable. “Mad? No. But you were supposed to be there.”

“Yeah.” Dakota turned the helmet over in his hands, thumbs worrying at a scratch on the visor. His eyes stayed fixed on the bike, anywhere but Kevin. “Think he’s gonna ditch me?”

“Ditch you?” Kevin frowned.

“The internship.” Dakota’s laugh was too brittle to pass as real. “I mean, I didn’t show up today.”

“You didn’t show up once,” Kevin corrected instantly. There was no softness in the words, but no judgment either, just fact. “Sure, he might be annoyed with you, but I don’t think he would ditch you.”

Dakota bit down on the inside of his cheek. Don’t think wasn’t the same as won’t. And Kevin, with all his order and discipline, couldn’t understand how quickly people decided you weren’t worth their time. One slip-up. One missed appointment. One mistake too many.

He forced a crooked smile, lifting the helmet like a bad joke. “Guess I should try being on time once in my life, huh?”

Kevin didn’t laugh. He studied him, green eyes sharp in the dim lot, searching for something Dakota didn’t want to hand over. And for a second, just a second, Dakota hated how much he wanted to be seen anyway.

Kevin took a step closer, until he was so close that Dakota could feel the heat of him. It made him dizzy. Focus. He focused on the way Kevin’s eyes traced over his face, like he could read the truth if he looked hard enough.

Kevin’s frown was still there, but now it looked more like concern, and that was worse. Concern didn’t belong on Kevin’s face. It made him look too human.

"Next time," he said flatly, "if you're going to be late—text him." His voice was firm, like this was some kind of obvious exy strategy that Dakota had just forgotten.

He hesitated for half a second before adding, almost awkwardly, "And stop acting like Wymack's gonna drop you over one screw-up. That man has literally adopted strays off the street." The sarcasm didn't quite land right, but the point did.

Then Kevin stepped back slightly, crossing his arms again defensively, like he'd said too much or cared too obviously. But his eyes stayed locked onto Dakota's face as if daring him to argue otherwise.

"Yeah," Dakota fidgetted with the helmed again, fingers tracing the edge of the visor a few times until he was satisfied. "It's not because I don't care, you know. About this whole internship thing.”

Kevin watched him for a second, really watched him, that sharp gaze boring into the side of Dakota’s face like he could read every word left unspoken.

Then, in classic Kevin Day fashion, he scoffed.

"Of course you care," he muttered with an exasperated shake of his head, like this was the most obvious fact in the world. "You don’t half-ass anything when it comes to Foxes business." He gestured vaguely toward the tower with one hand before letting it drop back to his side. "So just show up next time and stop acting like you're disposable."

Dakota nearly laughed, except the sound caught somewhere in his throat.

He shoved the helmet under his arm and forced a crooked grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess that’s the pep talk version of a love letter coming from you, huh?”

Kevin’s ears went red instantly. His lips parted like he wanted to snap back, but no words came out. He clamped his jaw shut again and looked away, jaw working. Dakota let the silence hang, the ache of it threading between them. He leaned forward on the bike, elbows on the handlebars, helmet cradled against his ribs.

“You could always ride with me, you know. If you’re that worried about me crashing.”

That got Kevin’s eyes snapping back to him, glare sharp and immediate. “Absolutely not.” But his voice caught on the not, tripping just enough that it didn’t sound nearly as convincing as it should have.

Dakota’s grin widened, tired but real this time. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Kevin muttered something under his breath, low enough that Dakota couldn’t catch it, and looked away again, like maybe the whole conversation had been a mistake.

Maybe Kevin was right. Maybe skipping out once wasn’t the end of the world. Wymack wasn’t his father, wasn’t Franklin, wasn’t anyone else who’d decided he wasn’t worth the trouble. Wymack had chosen him, same as he chose all the others. Tomorrow, Dakota told himself, I’ll talk to him. Clear it up before he decides I’m dead weight. It wasn’t a promise exactly, but it was close enough, and for once, he almost believed he could keep it.

Chapter Text

Dakota sat in Wymack’s office like a kid waiting outside the principal’s door—spine straight, hands pressed to his knees, trying to look smaller than he was. Wymack didn’t look up right away, just flipped through a stack of papers like Dakota wasn’t even there. No hello, no good morning. Just silence and that permanent frown carved into his face. The same frown Kevin wore, only heavier, sharper.

Dakota’s throat worked around a dozen half-formed words, a joke maybe, something to lighten it, but before he could open his mouth Wymack slid a paper across the desk. Dakota’s breath caught.

“…Are you firing me?”

That finally got Wymack’s eyes on him, brows pulled together in genuine confusion. “What?”

“I wasn’t here yesterday.” Dakota forced the words out. His heart thudded. “That’s a good enough reason, right?”

Wymack stared at him for a beat, then tapped his pen against the desk, sharp little clicks that made Dakota’s stomach twist. Finally: “New helmets come in today. Two boxes. You’ll sign for them, make sure the team gets fitted. Dan, Neil, or Kevin need to check them first. Write me a report on what’s different about this batch.”

Dakota blinked. “You’re… not firing me.” The relief slipped out in a shaky exhale.

Wymack’s frown deepened, and he flicked his pen at Dakota’s forehead. The hollow thwack made Dakota flinch.

“You don’t get paid, kid. I’d be an idiot to get rid of free labor.” His tone was flat, dismissive, but not cruel. He didn’t explain himself, didn’t offer Dakota the reassurance he wanted, but he also hadn’t thrown him out. That was… something.

Dakota mumbled a quick “thanks,” already reaching for the stack of papers he was supposed to file, when another plink hit his head—Wymack’s pen bouncing uselessly to the floor.

“Since I need you on the court during practice, take that.” Wymack jerked his chin toward the chair by the wall. A plain black hoodie sat draped over the backrest, still smelling faintly of plastic and packaging.

Dakota picked it up, turned it in his hands. Nothing special. Just cotton and thread. Except for the blocky white letters stamped across the back:

STAFF.

His chest went tight. For a second, he couldn’t tell if it was pride or panic.

Dakota had never kept a job. Not once. Even the dumb, mindless ones—the mall kiosk selling phone cases, the coffee shop where he burned his hands more than he served lattes, the summer gig where his uncle “let him” do manual labor for beer money—he always lasted a month, maybe two, before something fell apart. He’d quit or get fired, whichever came first. And it was always the same cycle: too much, not enough, never right.

This wasn’t even a job—Wymack reminded him often enough that he didn’t get paid—but still. It felt like more than that. It felt official, like he was stitched into something bigger than himself. Not just as a passenger, not just because he had to, but because he was actually good at it. He cared.

He cared enough to call Wymack at two in the morning when he got off the phone with a hotel manager in Utah. He cared enough to argue about menu options so the athletes wouldn’t get stuck eating garbage that slowed them down on the court. He cared enough to track down transportation, balancing between affordable and decent, so nobody had to squeeze into death-trap vans. Wymack let him loose on planning—gave him freedom to run—and then checked his work when Dakota slapped down a neatly written sheet of paper with a plan, some ridiculous mix of highlighted bullet points and doodled stars in the margins.

It was the first time in years he wasn’t doing something just to survive. He was doing it because it mattered. Because they mattered. And for once, he was part of it.

But the panic… the panic was just as sharp as the pride. Maybe sharper.

Because it would be so easy to ruin this. One missed deadline, one forgotten order, one slip-up, and Wymack would toss him aside. He knew it. He’d seen it happen to himself before. He was used to being disposable, and no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise, that feeling lived in his chest like a second heartbeat.

And if it all fell apart—if everything went wrong and he had to pack up and go back to California—what then? Who would be there waiting?

Jeremy? Maybe Jeremy would care. But Jeremy was golden boy, team captain of everything. Jeremy couldn’t carry him forever.

And if no one was there—if it was just him and the silence—Dakota didn’t know if he could stand it.

He gripped the hoodie tighter in his hands, knuckles white against the black fabric. Pride. Panic. Two sides of the same coin, spinning fast enough to make him dizzy.

────────────

Dakota scrawled his signature across the clipboard in the same dramatic flourish he always imagined he’d use when autographing merch for screaming fans—if his life had gone differently, if he’d been someone else. He handed the pen back with a practiced grin that landed somewhere between charming and smug. The delivery guy didn’t seem impressed, but whatever.

Then came the box. Heavy as hell, packed tight with gear that clanked faintly when he shifted it into his arms. Dakota winced, readjusted his grip, and eyed the second box waiting by the truck like it had just insulted him. He debated stacking them, hauling both in one trip to prove something stupid—manliness, competence, stubborn pride—but even he knew that was asking for disaster.

The fire door swung open, and Allison Reynolds slipped out, duffel slung over her shoulder. Perfect hair, perfect posture, like she’d just walked out of a commercial instead of sprinting late to practice.

“Hey, need a hand?” she asked, already moving like she might grab the second box.

Dakota immediately smacked the one in his arms down on top of it, bent his knees, and heaved both at once before his brain caught up with his body. His arms screamed at him. His pride told them to shut up.

“Nah,” he grinned, strained but stubborn. “I got it. You can hold the door, though.”

She obligd, one brow raised as he shuffled past her, arms trembling despite his best effort to look casual.

Dakota wasn’t weak—he was tall, lanky, and strong enough in bursts. He hiked, did the occasional gym stunt when the mood hit, push-ups until his arms shook, sit-ups until his ribs protested. But he wasn’t an athlete, not like the rest of them. No daily drills, no weight training, no endless punishment from Wymack. And it showed. Halfway down the hall, he had to rest the boxes against the wall, hoist them higher with a knee, and shove his sleeves up to his elbows, panting like he’d just run a marathon.

Allison smirked but didn’t say anything, her silence almost worse than if she’d laughed.

Then, casually, she said, “Didn’t know you had tattoos.”

Dakota huffed a laugh through his teeth. “Got a few.” His voice was thin, breath saved for the actual work of moving.

She reached out, brushing her fingers over the black lines wrapping around his forearm. “What do they say?”

The ink stretched up both arms, not full sleeves but close enough—a scattered patchwork that looked like someone had flipped through a museum catalog and a stack of poetry books at the same time. Marble busts and statues, clean-lined architecture, cursive words in English, French, Latin. Bits of history, fragments of ideas, things Dakota once thought were worth carving into his skin forever.

“They’re just—quotes. Phrases. Things I didn’t wanna forget,” he muttered, shifting the boxes higher, trying to pretend his arms weren’t shaking like twigs.

Allison tapped one piece of script near his elbow. “That one looks French.”

“It is.” Dakota managed a crooked smile, even through the effort. “It’s about survival. You’d like it. Has a bite.”

Allison gave him a sideways glance that said she wasn’t sure whether to tease him or actually be intrigued. She ended up just humming and letting him sweat it out.

Dakota was grateful for it—because if she’d pressed any further, if she’d actually asked him why he inked survival on his arm like a brand, he wasn’t sure he’d have the breath left to dodge the answer.

Dakota made it to the locker room with the kind of stubborn dignity reserved for soldiers crawling across battlefields. His arms burned, his spine screamed, but he dumped the boxes down by the benches with a heavy thud, then stood over them like he’d just conquered Everest.

“See?” he said to no one in particular, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “Easy.”

Of course Kevin was right there, sitting on the bench with his water bottle, flipping through one of his endless notes like he was reviewing Exy scripture. He barely spared Dakota a glance before saying flatly,

“Put one of those on top of the spare gear locker.”

Dakota froze mid-breath. He followed Kevin’s gesture with his eyes—up to the high, narrow storage space above the lockers where they kept backup sticks, extra gloves, all that crap. Too high. Too far. Too heavy.

“Oh,” Dakota said, casual as hell, bending his knees like this was no problem at all. “Sure thing.”

He slid his hands under one of the boxes again, trying to lift it smooth, like it didn’t weigh more than his will to live. His arms immediately shook. His back popped. His soul left his body.

Kevin, of course, didn’t even look up.

Dakota let out a grunt halfway up, the kind that betrayed way too much effort. He tried to cover it with a cough.

“Everything okay?” Kevin asked, still not looking, voice maddeningly neutral.

“Peachy,” Dakota wheezed, pushing the box higher, wobbling on his toes now. “Absolutely thriving.”

The box tilted dangerously to one side. Dakota caught it with his knee, cursing under his breath. His face was hot, his arms trembling so badly he thought his tattoos might start vibrating.

Kevin finally glanced over, one brow raised like he was watching a particularly disappointing warm-up drill. “Do you want me to—”

“Nope,” Dakota cut him off, teeth gritted, a manic smile plastered across his face. “Don’t you dare. I’ve got it. Totally fine. Easy lift. Real simple.”

The box slid sideways again. He caught it, barely, hugging it to his chest like a life raft, before shoving it one desperate inch at a time toward the top of the locker.

If he survived this, he thought, he was never touching another box again in his life.

Dakota was just about to make one final, heroic push when Kevin stood up. No rush, no theatrics, just that irritating calm like this was inevitable.

Kevin crossed the room, grabbed the edge of the box with one hand, and effortlessly started guiding it upward like it weighed nothing.

Dakota immediately panicked. “No, no—hey, no, I had it!” He tried to shoulder Kevin off, nudging at him with his elbow while still wobbling under the box.

“You didn’t have it,” Kevin said flatly, his grip steady, his face maddeningly impassive.

“I did! It was a strategy. I was conserving energy for the final push.” Dakota leaned harder into the box, trying to wrestle it from Kevin’s hands.

Kevin arched a brow. “Your strategy was dying under a cardboard coffin?”

“Bold of you to assume I can’t come back from the dead,” Dakota grunted.

In his desperation to prove he was fine, he shifted his weight too far. His shoulder clipped another box stacked neatly on top of the lockers—the one holding spare gloves. It wobbled, tilted—and then tumbled forward with a heavy crash.

Gloves rained down like hailstones, scattering across the floor. A couple smacked against Dakota’s head as he flinched, still clutching his box with white-knuckled stubbornness.

Silence.

Kevin stared at him, unimpressed, his hands still steadying the box Dakota was apparently ready to die for.

Dakota, buried under shame and gloves, cleared his throat.

“That… was a tactical distraction. See, now if someone tried to rob the locker room, they’d slip.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Kevin brushed past him, one hand flat against the box, and with a single motion slid it onto the top of the locker like it weighed less than a grocery bag. The sound of cardboard scraping metal was deafening to Dakota’s pride.

He just stood there, red-faced and dripping with sweat, staring at Kevin’s stupidly calm profile. The urge to strangle him flared hot in his chest. Kevin Day, man of many muscles and zero humility—what a bastard. He thought, not for the first time, that he’d like to strangle him. Slowly. No witnesses. Just poof, problem solved.

“I had it,” Dakota muttered, breath still uneven.

“Of course you did,” Kevin said flatly, already crouching in front of the second box. He cut through the tape, pried it open, and lifted one of the new helmets like he was holding evidence in court. Precise. Clinical.

Dakota flopped down on the bench behind him, every bone in his body sighing in relief. His arms felt like overcooked pasta. His lungs burned. Sitting down wasn’t just good—it was divine, holy, maybe even life-changing.

He dragged a hand through his hair and leaned forward on his elbows. “You know,” he rasped, “normal people at least pretend to let others finish a task before swooping in like Captain Exy Saves the Day.”

Kevin didn’t even glance back. He turned the helmet in his hands, inspecting the lining. “Normal people don’t almost crush themselves to death proving a point.”

Dakota smirked weakly. “So I’m special then. Good to know.”

“Annoying,” Kevin corrected, setting the helmet down carefully beside him.

Dakota slouched further, watching him work. There was something maddening about how precise Kevin was, how he treated a piece of gear like it was sacred. His hands were steady, movements efficient, and that frown of concentration—it should’ve been obnoxious. Instead it made something in Dakota’s chest twist.

“Gonna marry the helmet, or can I take you on a date first?” Dakota asked, words slipping out before he could stop them.

Kevin froze for half a beat. Just one. Then he went right back to his inspection like Dakota hadn’t said anything at all.

But his ears were pink.

Dakota noticed. And that made his sore arms feel just a little lighter.

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, the silence filled only with the soft scrape of Kevin’s fingers along plastic and the scratch of Dakota’s pen across the page. Kevin inspected every helmet with a surgeon’s precision, explaining each update like he was reciting scripture. Dakota half listened, half drifted, sprawled across the bench on his stomach with his chin propped in one hand, lazily jotting down notes in the other. Kevin’s voice was steady, low, and deliberate—so much so that Dakota nearly yawned into his notepad more than once.

When he finally wrote down the last point, Kevin slipped the helmet on. He tightened the straps around his fingers, testing the leather’s give before clicking it into place. For a second he looked strange—less Kevin Day, obsessive Exy star, and more like some kind of warrior preparing for battle.

Then he tugged it off, tossed it into the box with a thud, and said, almost casually:

“Why do you hate alcoholics?”

Dakota blinked, pen freezing mid-scribble. He stared down at his notepad, then up at Kevin, half convinced he’d misheard. “Sorry?”

Kevin didn’t look at him. His eyes were on the helmets again, tracing over grooves in the padding like they held the answer.

“Back in Michigan. You said you hated alcohol. You were… forceful about it.”

“I don’t hate alcohol,” Dakota said quickly, like that was important to correct. He twirled the pen between his fingers, stalling. “I hate when people abuse it.”

“Why?” Kevin asked, still calm, still detached. But there was something about the way he asked, too direct, too intent.

He huffed. “Because it’s bad? Addictive? Like—watching someone take coke or whatever. It rots you out, slowly. Same shit.” He frowned when Kevin finally looked at him. Kevin’s eyes weren’t critical, just waiting, and Dakota knew instantly he wanted a different answer. Something closer to the bone.

“Fuck,” Dakota muttered, thunking his forehead against the bench like maybe he could knock the words loose. He stayed there a moment before forcing himself to look up again. “My dad’s an alcoholic. Has been my whole life. Don’t know if that’s what made him such an asshole, but—yeah. Guess it stuck. Alcohol always equals… him.”

For once, Kevin didn’t rush in with some analysis. He just nodded, thoughtful, fingers skimming the edge of a helmet like he needed something to do with his hands.

“Your family’s from California?” Kevin asked finally, like he was easing them back into safer territory.

Dakota let out a breath, rolling onto his side on the bench. “Yeah. San Mateo County, near San Francisco. They had a holiday house in L.A.—that’s where I went to school. Pretentious private shit. Uniforms, blazers, the whole deal.” He sighed, twisting his pen between his fingers. “My dad’s a workaholic on top of being a drunk. Always bragged about how much money he made, how many clients he had, how he never took a day off. Thought that made him better than everyone else. Family didn’t… matter. My mom was better, but she wasn’t there either. My sister and I grew up with nannies more than parents.”

Kevin leaned back against the lockers, long legs stretched out, arms draped over his knees. He tilted his head, studying Dakota with that sharp, unreadable stare. “So you had money.”

Dakota barked out a short laugh. “Oh, we had plenty. Country clubs, imported cars, houses I barely lived in. It’s easy to look rich on the outside.” He traced the corner of his notepad with a thumb, voice dipping lower. “Doesn’t mean any of it was worth shit once they decided I wasn’t worth their time.”

That earned him a sharper look from Kevin, the kind he usually reserved for teammates about to sabotage their own game. Not pity—Kevin didn’t waste time on pity—but something steadier, heavier. He didn’t say you’re not worthless, not directly. But the silence stretched long enough that Dakota felt it anyway.

“Why did they cut you off?” Kevin asked, voice as steady as if he were asking about a play formation.

Dakota let out a low whistle. “Wow. You really are talkative today. And here I thought locker rooms were sacred ground for you, Day. Not for conversation.”

Kevin didn’t rise to the bait. He frowned in that clipped way that always felt like judgment, though maybe it wasn’t. “We are not practicing right now. Half the team is gone. And you said you would.” His gaze narrowed. “Talk. Sober.”

Dakota froze with his mouth half-open, ready to volley another joke, but Kevin had landed his shot clean. His laugh came out weaker than intended. “You don’t forget anything, do you?”

Kevin’s shoulders lifted in a slight shrug, his posture maddeningly straight against the lockers. “Not the things that matter.”

Dakota dragged his hand through his hair, suddenly restless. He sat up on the bench, the notepad sliding to the side. “Technically, I’m not cut out yet. They didn’t, like, erase me from the will—at least I don’t think so. But when I was a teenager, I did everything humanly possible to make them hate me. Just… to prove a point. Or maybe just to feel like I had some control over it.”

Kevin studied him, expression unreadable.

“I failed out of classes I could’ve passed in my sleep. Threw parties I didn’t even want just because I knew the cops would show up eventually. Brought home people I knew would piss them off. Every time they told me what not to do, I made sure to do exactly that.” Dakota’s mouth twitched like it wanted to curl into a smirk, but his voice wavered. “Turns out, if you set enough fires, eventually the house doesn’t want you inside anymore.”

Kevin leaned forward slightly, elbows braced against his knees. “So you forced their hand.”

“Something like that.” Dakota shrugged, trying for nonchalance, but his throat was tight. “I told myself it was strategy. If I made them hate me, it wouldn’t hurt when they finally threw me out. Like—beat them to it, you know?”

Kevin’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. “But it did hurt.”

Dakota barked out a laugh, sharp, too loud for the empty locker room. “Congratulations, Day. You cracked the case.” His grin faltered as quickly as it came. “Yeah. It hurt.”

“They hated things about me I couldn’t control, too,” Dakota muttered, eyes fixed on the scuffed tiles under his shoes. “That’s what made me start trying to make them hate all of me. Easier that way. They spent too long grooming me to be someone useful and perfect, and I didn’t budge. I was… defected.”

Kevin’s brow pinched. “Defected?”

Dakota didn’t answer right away. He could feel Kevin’s stare, steady and unrelenting, like he was waiting for him to spell it out. With a sigh, Dakota flicked his hand through the air. “Defected. Gay. Homo. Faggot. Pick your favorite label. I’ve liked guys since I knew what liking someone even meant. Never girls. And my traditional, raging-alcoholic father thought that deserved discipline. So, congratulations—defective son.”

Kevin didn’t flinch at the words, though his jaw worked like he wanted to bite something in half. “That isn’t defective,” he said flatly.

“Sure. Tell my dad that. Maybe it’ll sober him up.” He leaned back on the bench, one arm thrown over the top like he didn’t care, even though his chest felt like it was collapsing. “They wanted a golden boy. I gave them someone who couldn’t even fake it. So, yeah. They hated me for things I couldn’t control. I just… made sure they hated me for everything else, too. Easier than waiting for the day they’d finally say it out loud.”

“You know you sound like every cliché rich-kid trope,” Kevin said flatly. His tone wasn’t mocking, just cautious—like he was testing Dakota’s reaction.

Dakota barked out a laugh, sharp and surprised, until it rolled into full-blown cackling. He threw his head back, grinning wide. “Oh my god, yes. I’m the bratty trust-fund disaster. Somewhere out there, an audience is screaming at the screen, ‘don’t trust him, he’ll self-destruct in act two.’”

Kevin exhaled through his nose. Almost a laugh, but not quite. “At least you’re self-aware.” He flicked the corner of a helmet box, eyes dropping.

Then—because Kevin never knew when to stop prodding—he asked, “Do they still call you? Or are they just waiting to watch you fail so they can say I told you so?”

There was no venom in it, just Kevin’s merciless brand of honesty.

Dakota’s smile faltered. He tipped his head back against the bench, staring at the ceiling. “Sometimes. They call. I don’t answer. I know it’s not to check in. It’s to see if I’ve… changed. If I’ve gotten—” his lips twisted, “—better.”

Kevin studied him for a long beat before leaning back against the lockers. “You are better. Just not in the way they want.”

The quiet that followed was heavier than Dakota expected. His throat felt tight, so he broke it the only way he knew how—with a crooked smile and a finger gun aimed lazily at Kevin.

“I won’t go back,” he said softly, mismatched eyes finding Kevin’s green ones. “Promise.”

Kevin didn’t roll his eyes or swat him away. Instead, a ghost of a smile flickered over his mouth before disappearing as quickly as it came. He pushed off the lockers and closed the distance, brushing Dakota’s “gun” aside with the back of his hand.

“Your aim is terrible.”

Dakota smirked. “Do I pull the trigger anyway?” He adjusted his hand, pointing back at Kevin like he was lining up a shot.

Kevin didn’t flinch. He leaned in instead, until Dakota’s finger hovered just above his chest—right over the Fox logo on his shirt. “Go ahead,” he said. Steady. Almost daring.

Dakota grinned wider, pressing his fingertip against Kevin’s sternum. “Bam.”

“You missed,” Kevin said, tone flat but mouth twitching at the corner. He didn’t step back. Didn’t bat the hand still pressed against his chest. Just looked at Dakota like he was waiting for the next move.

“No,” Dakota murmured, finally dropping his hand but not his smile. “I hit my mark.”

────────────

Kevin had always known there were parts of him no one would ever understand. Hell, there were parts even he didn’t understand. Thoughts that didn’t fit into words, feelings he couldn’t name—and didn’t want to.

He’d dated before, if you could call it that. Thea had been a Raven; being together had felt like common sense. Logical. Efficient. She was good—sometimes better than him, and that burned. Maybe she was his mentor, maybe his rival, maybe something else in between. He couldn’t remember the details anymore, just the edge of it—the way they pushed each other harder, faster, meaner.

Thea knew how to make him feel small. Of course she did. She was a Raven long before she wasn’t. Her words were never soft. She didn’t coddle or comfort. She cut. And sometimes the cuts worked. That was the worst part. They made him sharper, faster, cleaner. Other times, they just made him angry.

He learned to bury it all. The feelings, the anger, the grief, they became fuel. Rage tucked behind clenched teeth and brutal workouts. Easier to keep moving than to stop. Easier to run drills until his legs gave out than to sit with himself.

People told him he should. Matt, Dan, Renee, even Nicky once. Talk to Bee, maybe. Or to Andrew. Or Neil. Wymack. Talk to someone.

But Kevin couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. Not with them. Not even with Thea. And not with whoever he tried to date next. Because no one could ever know. Not about the darkest part of him.

Not about Riko.

That was the thing he could never say out loud, that he still thought of him. Still missed him. His brother, his rival, the person he hated most in the world. The one who ruined him. The one who made him. No one would understand how you could hate someone so completely and still miss them. Still remember when it was simpler, when they were just two boys with big dreams and too much to prove. Before the world collapsed around them.

Sometimes Kevin thought the world had been too small for both of them.

And when Riko died, Kevin blamed himself. He blamed himself for a lot of things, things he’d never speak into the air. Not even drunk. Especially not drunk.

So he drank instead. Not to forget, he wasn’t that lucky, but to dull the edges. To make it hurt less. To make himself feel less. Booze, drills, running, homework. That was the routine. That was survival.

Kevin didn’t want pity. He didn’t need it. He was a champion. He was going Court. He had contracts waiting for him, real ones, stamped with ink and promise. In two years, when he left the Foxes behind, he would build a new life.

A life for him.

A life built on Exy.

A life beneath flashing cameras, in front of arenas that screamed his name, with strangers dissecting his every play like he was an Exy god.

He didn’t think it was arrogance. Arrogance was careless. Kevin was not careless. He was confident. He had to be. Confidence was armor, and armor was survival. This game was his life’s work, and no one—not the Foxes, not the press, not his own ghosts—was going to take it from him.

He couldn’t crack. He couldn’t fail. Not now. Not ever.

But he did.

Not in public. Never where anyone could see. His failures came in the dark, in the quiet hours between midnight and morning. When his drills were done, when his body was wrecked, when there was nothing left to distract him.

That was when it hit.

He would lie on his side, facing the wall, the hum of the dorm settling around him. And he would let the pillow soak up his tears, silent, bitter things he would never admit to. Not to Bee. Not to Neil. Not to Andrew. Not to anyone.

Because Kevin Day was strong. Kevin Day was unshakable. Kevin Day was an Exy champion.

But the boy who cried into his pillow at 3 a.m.? That boy was still Riko’s shadow. Still broken. Still clawing his way out of a cage he swore he’d left behind.

He hated himself for it. Hated the weakness. Hated that grief still gnawed at him, years later. Hated that he could still miss Riko even while loathing everything he’d done.

He didn’t want pity. But some nights, God help him, he wanted someone to understand.

And that was almost worse.

The air in California was different, warmer, heavier somehow, like it wanted to crawl into his lungs and weigh him down. Kevin adjusted the strap of his duffel bag on his shoulder and kept moving with the Foxes through the airport, ignoring the noise, the chatter, the slow shuffle of travelers dragging their feet. He didn’t care about any of it.

All he could think about was Exy.

The Trojan game wasn’t just another mark on the schedule. It was a test. He replayed drills in his head the way some people recited prayers: pivots, rotations, passes, shot formations. His muscles twitched with the phantom weight of his racquet. He thought of the Trojans’ defense, how tight their backliners stayed, how sharp their counters could be. He thought of plays he wanted to try, tweaks to the Foxes’ offense that would either work brilliantly or collapse in his face.

The airport buzzed with noise, but all Kevin heard was the rhythm of the court, the endless beat of the game he was building his life around.

And then, inevitably, his mind snagged on Jean.

Jean, who would be waiting in a Trojan jersey instead of a Raven one. Jean, who knew his tempo, who knew how Kevin played better than most. Jean, who had survived with him under Riko’s thumb, who had been carved up by the same hands. This would be one of the first times they’d face each other as opponents, not cellmates in a gilded cage.

Kevin wasn’t sure if that made him proud or nauseous.

Kevin’s gaze snapped down when he felt fingers working at his hand. At first, it didn’t register—his brain too locked into schedules, plays, the echo of Jean’s name somewhere in the back of his skull. By the time he processed it, Dakota’s fingers were curled tight around his fist, prying at it with stubborn determination.

For a beat, Kevin just stared in confusion. Why was Dakota trying to open his hand? Why did it feel—like something else, something dangerous, like the beginning of a gesture he couldn’t afford? His chest lurched, heart dropping into the pit of his stomach, panic fizzing sharp as lightning under his ribs. He yanked back like he’d been burned, eyes darting, scanning the crowded airport terminal as if someone might’ve caught it, as if they—the cameras, the whispers—were already watching.

“What are you doing?” he snapped, sharper than he intended.

“Your ticket,” Dakota groaned, voice edged with impatience. His brows were drawn tight, mismatched eyes flashing with irritation as he tugged at Kevin’s sleeve. A quick twist, and suddenly the paper was gone from Kevin’s hand.

Dakota slid it neatly into the pile he was carrying, already moving on, circling the Foxes with mechanical precision. Collecting scraps of paper like the team would fall apart if he didn’t, like one misplaced ticket might unravel the whole fragile system he’d strung together.

Kevin frowned after him. He knew that look, the brittle edge of someone holding themselves up by sheer willpower. It reminded him of accounts he’d read about Roman soldiers at the end of a lost campaign: armor battered, rations gone, marching back through foreign lands they had no hope of holding. They didn’t collapse because they weren’t allowed to, because if one fell, the others would break too.

Dakota wore that same look now, like a man who’d been marching too long.

And Kevin didn’t forget. It wasn’t just his ghosts waiting for him in California. Dakota had his own—and Kevin suspected those were worse. Maybe that’s why it was easier, for once, to focus on someone else’s misery instead of his own.

He watched him—watched the way Dakota’s eyebrows seemed permanently drawn together, the way his mismatched eyes flicked around as if expecting an ambush at any second. Kevin prided himself on never backing down from eye contact, on meeting stares head-on like every exchange was another fight to win. But Dakota’s gaze, when it cut across the space between them, landed differently.

Intimidating. Disarming.

Kevin told himself it was because of the eyes, the unsettling asymmetry. One dark, bottomless brown, the other a pale icy blue broken only by a patch of hazel eating away at the corner. Like two marbles pressed into the same skull, clashing but inseparable.

Kevin had studied fractured empires, split kingdoms, war-torn maps. Dakota’s eyes reminded him of those: borders that didn’t belong together, but had been forced to share the same land.

The hotel lobby was loud, chaotic in the way Wymack always hated, Foxes scattering like coins spilled on the floor, staff trying to corral them into elevators. Kevin kept his hands tight around his bag, fingers sore from the grip, drills and plays running on a loop in his head. California smelled like salt and heat, like old ghosts pressing at the back of his throat.

He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to think about Jean in Trojan colors, about Riko’s shadow still etched into every corner of this state. So he focused on the small things, shoe laces, wrist brace, the timing of their warm-up tomorrow.

Dakota moved through the lobby like he wasn’t really there. He smiled when someone looked his way, cracked some throwaway line at Matt, but his shoulders were too stiff, his eyes darting too sharp. Like someone who’d practiced the mask enough times to fool most people, just not Kevin.

Kevin told himself to let it go. It wasn’t his problem. Dakota wasn’t his problem.

But later, after he dropped his bag in the room he was sharing with Andrew and Neil, Andrew stretched out silent on the bed, Neil hunched over his phone, Kevin found himself drifting back downstairs. He told himself it was for coffee. He told himself it was to clear his head, to shake the nerves.

He spotted Dakota at one of the lobby chairs, half-slouched with a notebook in his lap, pen tapping restlessly against the paper. Not looking up, not joining the noise of the rest of the team. Just… elsewhere.

Kevin crossed the room before he could think about it too hard. He kept his posture casual, the same cool indifference he used with reporters. No one needed to know he was doing this deliberately.

“You’re not unpacking?” he asked, voice flat, as if it were the most neutral observation in the world.

Dakota glanced up, mismatched eyes catching his, and smirked like he always did. “Why unpack when I’ll just make a mess in ten minutes anyway?”

Kevin didn’t smile, but something in his chest loosened at the sarcasm. At least it sounded like him.

Still, he sat down across from him, elbows on his knees, pretending he was just waiting for something. Pretending he wasn’t watching every flick of Dakota’s pen, every tight line around his mouth.

“You’re fine?” Kevin asked finally. He kept his voice quiet, even, like it was an afterthought. Like he didn’t care too much about the answer.

Dakota raised an eyebrow, tilting his head as if to mock him. “You’re fine? That’s what I get? Didn’t know you were such a people person, Day.”

“You didn’t answer.”

For a second, the smirk faltered. Dakota’s hand stilled on the page, fingers pressed hard into the pen. Then he leaned back, putting the mask back on like it had never slipped.

“I’m fine, coach’s pet,” Dakota said breezily. “California hasn’t eaten me alive yet.”

Kevin didn’t believe him. He wasn’t sure why it mattered that much—but it did.

They sat in silence for a beat, Dakota going back to his notebook, Kevin watching his pen move quick. He knew the signs: the tense shoulders, the sharp eyes. He knew the look of someone trying to hold something back. But he also knew that pushing rarely got him anywhere.

Kevin leaned back, slouching into the chair. He could wait it out. They could wait each other out all damn night.

But still, after a few minutes passed, Kevin noticed himself stealing glances, watching Dakota's fingers as they moved across the page. He couldn't see what he was writing, but there was something... familiar about the gesture.

He almost asked. The words were halfway out before he caught himself. Why did he care? It wasn't like he and Dakota were friends. They hardly knew each other, not really. But something about this...

"...What are you writing?"

"Nothing interesting, I think. Just... Thoughts. Sometimes journaling keeps my mind clear, but Im shit at it," Dakota admitted with a sheepish grin. "My therapist once told me to write out my thoughts and feelings during the day if Im feeling overwhelmed. But it overwhelms me even more.”

"Why does it overwhelm you?”

"It's the whole thing of having to come to terms with feelings." Dakota sighed. "Thinking it is one thing. Writing it down makes it real.”

The answer was honest, almost too honest. Kevin's gaze flickered over Dakota, watching his fingers tap against the page, the way his shoulders tensed under his hoodie. It was strange, seeing him like this. Vulnerable.

"You afraid of feelings?"

Dakota gave him a flat look, slightly unamused slightly tired.

"More like tired of them."

It was a familiar sentiment. Kevin understood it all too well. He was tired of his own emotions too. He was tired of the guilt and the grief and the rage. He was tired of the expectations and the responsibility. He was tired of missing someone who should have never mattered to him in the first place.

"You and me both," he murmured quietly, almost without thinking.

"Mm. And who is torturing that pretty head of yours?" Dakota asked lazily, going back to writing something in his notebook.

The word 'pretty' sounded strange from Dakota, like a foreign language. No one ever called him pretty. Asshole, smart, talented, jerk. But never pretty. It left an inexplicable fluttering feeling in Kevin's stomach. He pushed the strange sensation away.

"No one," he answered automatically. It was a lie; he was sure Dakota knew it was a lie.

Dakota finished writing something down, then stretched out his buzzing legs for a moment before his gaze flickered to the exit doors. The sun was already dipping behind the city, leaving everything in those warm, orange colors.

"You want to go for a walk?"

The question caught Kevin off guard. But he found himself nodding anyway. Something about this moment felt... almost comfortable. Like he could let his guard down, just slightly, just for a moment.

"Sure," he said gruffly. "Why not."

He’d never really seen California. Never had the time. All his trips here had been courts and hotels, flights and drills, nothing else. But now, walking through the city streets, he couldn’t help but notice it: palm trees swaying against the haze of neon, the tang of saltwater in the air, the faint roar of traffic. Their hotel wasn’t far from the main strip, nor from USC’s campus, but this wasn’t sightseeing. This was supposed to be Kevin clearing his head before tomorrow’s match, before stepping onto that court, before facing Jean again.

Dakota walked a few steps ahead, purposeful, unhurried, and Kevin realized he was keeping distance without thinking. Subconsciously not walking too close. Giving himself room, as if proximity itself were dangerous. Dakota needed the air too—Kevin could tell. And what was going on in his head? Coming back to a place that had once been a cage? The risk of recognition hung heavy in Kevin’s mind. What if someone recognized him? What if they tried to take him back? Would Kevin just…stand there? Let it happen? It wasn’t his business, none of this was. But Kevin was a fucking idiot who cared more than he ever wanted anyone to see.

Dakota led him like someone who already knew the streets, cutting between alleyways and sliding down the main drag until the ocean was close enough for Kevin to taste it on the air. But he didn’t head for the beach. No, he turned sharply, leading Kevin into a mess of parked cars and glowing neon.

Kevin faltered. His pulse spiked when he realized exactly where Dakota was taking him.

“You’re kidding. Dakota.”

“Relax.” Dakota’s laugh cut through the air, too bright, too careless, as he reached back and grabbed Kevin’s wrist, dragging him forward like he’d done this a hundred times.

Kevin stiffened instantly. The building’s sign glared in his face—cheap neon bending the word into something gaudy, unavoidable. Cars jammed themselves into spots at impossible angles, men straightening ties or smoothing hair as they queued at the door. Kevin yanked his hood further over his head, the instinct immediate. He couldn’t be seen here. If someone recognized him—God, the headlines. National champion caught in a strip club the night before Trojans match. He’d be crucified.

He almost turned back. Almost shoved Dakota off him and walked straight back to the hotel. But then the bodyguard at the door gave Dakota a double take, muttered something low Kevin couldn’t catch, and with a nod waved them both through. No questions. No IDs. Just like that.

Kevin’s brows furrowed.

Dakota glanced back at him and smiled like it was all part of some secret joke.

Inside, the lights hit him first—garish and hot, too bright for his eyes. Then the haze: smoke clinging to the ceiling, liquor sharp in the air, and something else—not normal cigarettes. The bass throbbed through his ribs, and Kevin’s face burned as his eyes involuntarily caught on movement: women in heels too tall for balance, clothes meant to slip off easy, dancing on long lit platforms that looked more like catwalks than stages. No poles, but no less suggestive. Customers cheered, dollar bills flashing like confetti.

Kevin’s ears roared. He didn’t belong here. His skin crawled with the wrongness of it, the risk. He tugged his hood lower, praying for invisibility.

Dakota stopped at the bar, tapping his phone against the counter for service, voice drowned by the music. Kevin hovered, stiff and miserable, scanning exits and shadows like someone about to be hunted. Then Dakota’s hand was back, gripping under his arm, dragging him deeper, straight into the belly of the place.

Kevin’s fingers tightened reflexively around Dakota’s sleeve as they wove through the crowd. He hated it, hated touching, hated being dragged, but the alternative was losing him in this chaos, and that was worse.

They broke through into a corner booth, and Kevin froze mid step.

It was filled with men who didn’t belong here either. Not in the same way. Suits too clean, tattoos too sharp, expressions like knives. Power practically sweating off them. One man in his forties lounged back with his shirt half undone, ink spilling across his chest. Kevin’s throat closed. Yakuza? Mafia? Who the hell were these people? And what the fuck was Dakota doing leading him here?

The man glanced up mid-conversation, speaking low and fluid in Chinese, then stopped. His gaze sharpened on Dakota, and a smile crept across his mouth.

“Ah.”

The man’s voice slid smooth over the music, his smile widening as his gaze swept over Dakota. His Chinese was fast, too fast for Kevin to catch, but Dakota answered just as quickly, tone steady, like this wasn’t his first time sparring in another language.

Kevin’s stomach twisted. Of course it isn’t.

When the man finally leaned back and gestured to the booth, Dakota switched to English for Kevin’s benefit. “This is Mr. Liang. He runs southern LA.”

Kevin stayed frozen at the edge of the booth, pulse thrumming in his ears. Half the city. He hadn’t survived the Ravens, hadn’t clawed himself free of Riko and Evermore’s games, just to sit in some strip club corner with another mafia breathing down his neck.

Mr. Liang’s gaze shifted to him, sharp and measuring. “And who’s this?”

Kevin felt his chest go tight. Every instinct screamed to lie still, to stay invisible, to keep his name sealed behind his teeth.

Dakota didn’t hesitate. He draped an arm across Kevin’s shoulders, casual in a way that made Kevin’s entire body lock up. “This is Alex,” Dakota said smoothly, eyes never leaving Mr. Liang. “My boyfriend.”

Kevin’s heart stuttered. He opened his mouth, but Dakota’s hand squeezed his shoulder—warning, don’t. Kevin shut his mouth so fast his teeth clicked.

Mr. Liang’s brows arched. “Boyfriend.” A low laugh. “Never thought I’d hear that from you, Dakota. You were too busy chasing engines and glory to chase people.”

Dakota smirked, like the comment didn’t sting. “I grew up.” He leaned a little closer to Kevin, deliberately keeping the act airtight. “Besides, Alex doesn’t let me get away with much.”

Kevin felt his skin heat, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. He wanted to shove Dakota’s arm off, but the weight of Mr. Liang’s gaze pinned him in place.

Liang leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So, the boy I once paid to risk his life on the highway… is back in my city, sitting at my table, with a pretty boyfriend.” His smile thinned. “Why?”

“Business,” he said simply. “Always business.”

Kevin’s pulse hammered in his ears. He wasn’t sure if Dakota was bluffing, or if he was actually setting something in motion. Either way, the danger was thick enough to taste.

Liang leaned back, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’d swallowed a secret. “Business. You always did have a taste for the word, even when you didn’t understand what it meant.” He drummed his fingers once against the table before flicking his gaze back to Dakota. “So, tell me. Why are you really here?”

“Because you still owe me.”

That earned a pause. The air seemed to thicken, even with the pounding bass shaking the walls. Liang tilted his head, studying him. “Owe you?”

“You know damn well,” Dakota shot back, his voice steady. “Those last three races, the money you promised never made it into my hands. I drove, I won, I nearly got myself killed half a dozen times—and then you vanished me off your payroll.”

Liang chuckled, low and amused, as if Dakota’s anger was a child stomping his foot. “Ah. That.” He leaned back, spreading his hands in mock apology. “You have to understand, business was messy then. People were breathing down my neck. Police, rivals, creditors. Sometimes debts get… shuffled.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Dakota said, his smile all teeth now. “You made plenty off me. You know it. I was good for you. More than good.”

“Good? Boy, you were the best. Do you know how many nights my friends here,” he gestured to the men in suits, “still talk about you? The foreign kid with the mismatched eyes who cut through the freeway like he was born behind the wheel. Do you know how much money I made off people who bet against you, thinking you were too pretty, too soft?”

Kevin frowned sharply at that, something ugly knotting in his chest. Pretty. Too soft. Words he’d heard slung at Dakota before, but now they carried weight he hadn’t accounted for. What the hell did you do, Dakota?

Dakota’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t take the bait. “Then pay me what you owe.”

“Still so bold. Still so sharp.” His smile thinned as he leaned forward again. “But money doesn’t move without favors. You know that.”

Kevin’s brows pulled together. “Favors?” he echoed before he could stop himself.

Dakota’s fingers twitched once against Kevin’s sleeve, subtle. Stay quiet.

Liang ignored him, eyes glittering as they fixed on Dakota. “There are men here who’ve never seen you drive. Never believed the stories I told. They think I exaggerate.” He gestured toward the others at the table, who were watching the exchange with cool interest. “One race. One night. Sit behind the wheel again. Show them you are what I say you are. Then we’ll talk about what I owe you.”

Kevin felt his stomach drop. “You can’t be serious.”

Liang’s smile turned sharp. “He can handle it. He always could.”

Dakota didn’t look at Kevin. His eyes were locked on Liang, unreadable, calm in a way that made Kevin’s skin crawl. After a long silence, Dakota finally exhaled a laugh, small and humorless. “You really haven’t changed.”

“And you have?” Liang asked softly.

Dakota hesitated—just for a breath, just long enough for Kevin to notice—before shrugging one shoulder. “I’ll drive.”

Kevin’s head snapped toward him. “What?”

“Relax, Alex.” Dakota’s voice was smooth, easy, as if he wasn’t agreeing to throw himself into something reckless and criminal. “It’s just like old times.”

Kevin’s chest tightened. He hated how easily Dakota slipped into this role, how the neon lights seemed to crown him in colors Kevin couldn’t place. He hated the way Liang looked at him—like he owned him.

And most of all, he hated how little Kevin really knew about the boy standing next to him.

The back exit of the club opened to a smaller lot tucked behind the neon facade, where the bass thudded through the walls like a second heartbeat. Out here, the air was cooler, salt wind carrying in from the coast. Rows of cars gleamed beneath the streetlights—sleek, polished bodies in black, silver, and crimson, lined up like predators waiting to be let loose.

Liang spread his arms, proud, like a king unveiling his treasure. “Pick your poison,” he said, his grin curling sharp. “But I’ve got just the one for you.”

Dakota’s eyes narrowed as Liang led them toward the far end of the row, where a heavy, dark-green machine squatted low to the ground. Muscle car, American build—solid steel where Dakota had always preferred featherweight precision. Liang’s smirk told Kevin everything: this wasn’t a gift. This was a test.

“Not exactly your little toys from before,” Liang said, tapping the hood with the flat of his hand. “This one demands respect. And strength.”

Kevin glanced at Dakota, half-expecting him to balk. Instead, Dakota stepped forward, mismatched eyes glinting under the lamplight. He slid a hand along the hood, then bent to pop it open. The engine bay yawned wide, metal and grease and shadow.

Dakota leaned in without hesitation, scanning the tangle of parts like a surgeon reading x-rays. He tugged lightly at a hose, brushed two fingers over the intake, then tapped the frame twice. “Carb’s been swapped—looks like you went Holley double-pumper. Bold choice for a block this size. You’ve got a Tremec TR-6060 in here too, huh? Six-speed manual? No wonder she runs hot.”

Kevin blinked. Half the words blurred past him, but Liang’s eyebrows shot up in amusement. “Still got the tongue for it,” Liang said.

Dakota straightened, wiping his palm on his jeans. “Still got the brain for it too. This thing isn’t built for speed. She’s heavy, oversteers like a bitch, and your suspension’s crying for mercy. Whoever tuned her didn’t do shit for balance.” He tilted his head, smirking. “She’s all grunt, no grace. Meant for someone who floors it and prays.”

Dakota looked alive in a way Kevin hadn’t seen before.

“You’ll manage,” Liang said smoothly.

“Oh, I’ll manage.” Dakota’s smile widened, but his eyes were cool. “Don’t think I won’t.”

Kevin stepped forward, lowering his voice. “This is insane,” he muttered.

Dakota didn’t look at him. He only leaned closer to the car, tracing the line of the frame with his fingers. “No, Alex,” he said softly, almost like a whisper meant only for Kevin. “This is easy. This is my court.”

Engines snarled awake one by one, a chorus of metallic growls echoing off the brick walls of the alley. The crowd had gathered fast, word must’ve spread inside the club, because half the bar had spilled out back. Men in tailored suits, girls in sequins, strangers waving bills in the air. The glow of headlights cut through the dark, and somewhere in the chaos a bottle shattered, the sound swallowed by laughter and cheering.

Kevin stood stiff at the edge of it, shoulder-to-shoulder with Liang’s men. He could feel the bass of the idling cars thrumming up through the pavement into his legs. This wasn’t Exy. This wasn’t court lines and whistles and order. This was chaos disguised as ritual.

Liang leaned close, smelling of smoke and something sweet that made Kevin’s throat burn. “Watch closely,” he murmured. “You’ll see why I kept him around as long as I did.”

Kevin wanted to tell him to fuck off. Instead, his eyes stayed locked on Dakota.

Dakota slid into the driver’s seat like the car had been waiting for him. He dropped low, adjusting the seat with one swift motion, fingers grazing the wheel before gripping it properly. Even from here Kevin could see it: the way his shoulders eased, the way his eyes lit up under the streetlamps. His whole body looked different, sharper but also looser, like something had clicked back into place.

A man in a leather jacket shouted the rules over the noise, one lap down the coastal strip, no cops, no excuses. First one back past the cone won. The rest didn’t matter.

Dakota revved the engine once, a clean, confident roar that made a few heads turn. He barely looked at his opponent, a broad guy with tattoos climbing up his neck, leaning cockily against a low silver Nissan. If Dakota was nervous, Kevin couldn’t see it.

“Relax, Alex,” Dakota called out suddenly, eyes flicking to Kevin through the open window. His grin was boyish, sharp, dangerous. “I told you. I don’t lose here.”

Kevin’s stomach knotted. He wanted to drag him out of that car, wanted to shake him until he remembered this wasn’t safe, wasn’t smart. But all he did was tighten his fists at his sides, silent. Because some part of him already knew he wouldn’t be able to stop Dakota.

The starter dropped his arm. Tires squealed, smoke curled. Both cars shot forward, engines howling as the street blurred alive with speed.

Kevin’s breath caught in his throat, following the disappearing glow of Dakota’s taillights as if he could anchor him by sight alone.

From Kevin’s vantage point, all he could see were the streaks of headlights cutting down the coastal strip. The crowd pressed forward, their shouts and whistles blending into the night as two cars screamed into the distance, swallowed by the curve of the road. Every few seconds, the guttural snarl of engines carried back on the salty wind.

Kevin leaned forward on instinct, hands tightening into fists at his sides. He could picture the turns, the physics of speed, but not him. He couldn’t see Dakota. Couldn’t tell if he was ahead or if Liang’s man had forced him against the rails. The waiting felt worse than watching a ball fly toward a goal you couldn’t defend.

Liang’s voice cut in smooth, like the man wasn’t at all concerned about the outcome. “So, Alex.” He clapped Kevin lightly on the shoulder, almost friendly, but Kevin stiffened at the weight of it. “How long have you been with him?”

Kevin blinked, dragged back from the edge of the road. His mind scrambled. “A while,” he muttered, hoping the vagueness would hold.

Liang chuckled. “A while. Hm. That could mean a month. Could mean a year. Which is it?” His smile was all teeth, eyes sharp like he was measuring Kevin for cracks.

Kevin forced his jaw to unclench. He thought of the way Dakota introduced him, so casual, like they were nothing worth questioning. He had to sell that. “Closer to a year,” he said evenly. “Give or take.”

Liang’s eyebrows lifted. “Impressive. Dakota doesn’t usually… keep people. Too restless, too sharp. Like fire. Burns fast, burns out. But you…” Liang studied him for a moment longer, then laughed softly. “You don’t look like his type.”

“Maybe you don’t know his type as well as you think.”

That earned him another chuckle, low and knowing. “Bold. I like that.” Liang’s gaze slid back to the strip where the sound of engines roared closer for a heartbeat before fading again as the racers disappeared behind another curve. “Tell me, Alex. What do you think of him? Dakota. Not the pretty face, not the easy grin. The boy.”

Kevin’s throat went dry. He didn’t answer immediately, which made Liang lean in, amused.

“I think…” Kevin started slowly, eyes narrowing at the glow of headlights that reappeared in the distance, his voice lowering like the words were pulled out of him. “I think he’s more than anyone gives him credit for.”

Liang tilted his head. “Hm. Loyal. Careful. You sound like you believe it. That makes you dangerous, Alex. To him—and maybe to me.”

Kevin said nothing. He couldn’t. His chest was tight as the cars came back into view, one of them fishtailing slightly before correcting. Kevin squinted into the glare of lights, pulse hammering. He thought he knew which car was Dakota’s, but the distance made it impossible to be sure.

“Tell me,” Liang went on, voice smooth as smoke. “Does he still drive angry?”

Kevin’s head snapped toward him at that, sharp and confused. Liang only smiled wider.

“Drive angry?” he repeated.

Liang smirked, like he’d baited a hook and felt the tug. “Ah. He hasn’t told you.” He clicked his tongue. “Dakota always loved the rush. The speed, the blur of headlights, the way the city disappears around you until it’s just you and the machine. But the thing that made him dangerous wasn’t skill—it was spite.”

Kevin frowned, but Liang kept talking, clearly enjoying himself.

“Seventeen years old,” Liang said, leaning back like he was recounting a fond memory. “Fresh out of Switzerland, back in the States for a summer. He shows up at one of my tracks, sharp tongue, prettier than sin, acting like he owned the place. I put him behind the wheel to shut him up. Thought he’d crack under pressure.” Liang laughed, short and sharp. “Instead, he flew. Like he had something to prove. No fear, no hesitation. Just anger. He took every risk because he didn’t care if he wrecked. That’s what made him fast. That’s what made him mine for a while.”

Kevin’s stomach dropped, heat crawling into his face even though the night air was cool. He forced himself not to react, not to show the sharp spark of irritation at the word mine.

Liang’s eyes glittered, catching it anyway. “Ah. That struck you.” He lowered his voice, almost conspiratorial. “He never told you about the night in Monterey, did he? The one with the red Mustang?”

Kevin shook his head stiffly.

Liang smiled wider, savoring the silence. “He drove it straight into a police barricade. Didn’t flinch. Slid sideways through smoke and glass, missed a cruiser by an inch. Not because he wanted to escape. No, because he wanted to scare them. To make the world feel him. That was Dakota back then. Brilliant, reckless, half-ruined, and all fire.”

Kevin clenched his jaw. The engines roared in the distance again, but he couldn’t tear his focus away from Liang’s words. He pictured Dakota, smirking, wild-eyed, metal screaming around him, and it didn’t fit with the boy who sat next to him at history, rolling his eyes, lazy and sharp but careful in his own way.

“Why are you telling me this?” Kevin asked finally.

Liang shrugged, a lazy motion at odds with the sharpness in his gaze. “Because it’s entertaining to watch you try to reconcile the pretty boy in your bed with the hurricane he used to be. And maybe because I want to see if you’re the kind of man who can keep up with him, Alex. Or if you’re going to get burned like the rest.”

“You know, Alex, Dakota never belonged on dirty streets like this.” He continued. “The boy had ambition. Bigger than you could imagine.”

“Ambition?”

“Not to sit in strip clubs. Not to dodge cops. He wanted circuits, sponsorships, Formula fucking One. He wanted Monaco, not Monterey.” Liang tipped his glass toward Kevin, as if offering him a toast. “And he could’ve had it. The precision, the fearlessness, the appetite for speed—you can’t teach that. It was in his bones. All he needed was polish. Money. A push.”

Kevin’s frown deepened. “And instead?”

“And instead…” Liang exhaled, leaning back. “One day, he just vanished. Abandoned the tracks, abandoned me, abandoned California. Like he’d ripped himself out by the roots. For what?” He shook his head, scoffing. “For silence. For obscurity. For—what? School? Books?” He glanced sharply at Kevin. “I don’t know. No one does. He just walked away.”

Kevin shifted his weight, suddenly restless. Silence. The word landed like a stone in his chest. Dakota never shut up now, always full of sharp comments and lazy sarcasm, but Kevin had caught flashes of it before—those quiet moments where he seemed to fold in on himself, untouchable, unreachable. Maybe that silence was still in him.

“You sound bitter,” Kevin said carefully.

“Of course I am. I had the golden boy in my palm. I would’ve paraded him in front of the world, built a kingdom around him. But he ran. And for what? To sit here years later, pretending to be normal? Tell me, Alex—has he ever mentioned any of this to you?”

Kevin’s throat worked, but he forced out a flat, “No.”

“Mm.” Liang’s smirk deepened, pleased. “Then either he doesn’t trust you enough to tell you—or he doesn’t want you to know the kind of fire you’re lying beside.”

Kevin didn’t bite at the insinuation, though heat pricked uncomfortably at the back of his neck. His jaw tightened, his eyes flickering toward the road.

Liang followed his gaze and chuckled low. “You’ll see soon enough. The boy doesn’t change. Not really. Put him behind the wheel, and he’ll remember exactly who he was.”

The engines screamed louder, closer, until they drowned out the bass inside the club. The crowd surged toward the street, restless and wild, their cheers snapping sharp through the air. Liang stood like a king watching his gladiators, arms folded, expression carved from stone. Kevin shoved his hands deep into his pockets, shoulders tense, that gnawing edge inside him refusing to quiet.

Tires screeched, echoing down the strip. Two cars burst from the shadows, headlights cutting across the night. The crowd roared as they tore through the final curve.

One was ahead. Kevin squinted through the blur, his pulse tripping over itself when the chrome caught the streetlight. Dakota.

The silver car beside him swerved aggressively, a last-ditch attempt to rattle Dakota. Kevin’s teeth clenched. If Dakota had flinched, even a second late on the wheel, he’d have been wrecked. But Dakota didn’t flinch. He didn’t so much as blink.

The finish line came in a flash. Dakota’s car cut across first, tires screaming against asphalt as he spun it into a clean 180 before slamming the brakes. The Nissan staggered behind, slowing with a frustrated roar. Its driver climbed out, storming toward Liang with fire in his eyes.

Kevin braced for a fight, but Liang only laughed, a low, satisfied sound. “See? I told you. That boy doesn’t lose.”

The crowd howled its approval, but Kevin hardly heard it. His ears rang with the sound of Dakota’s engine, with the image of Dakota climbing out of the car. He looked untouchable—hair mussed, grin sharp, face lit with the thrill of the win like it belonged to him and no one else.

Dakota barely acknowledged the noise around him. He leaned against the hood, brushing sweat from his temple, already dissecting the car. “Steering’s too heavy for tight maneuvers,” he muttered. “Suspension’s unbalanced. Weight distribution’s off. I could’ve cut three seconds easy if the rear had more grip.”

Liang arched a brow, amused. “And yet you still won.”

Dakota shrugged, unimpressed. “Winning doesn’t mean it’s good. I need a car that answers, not one that drags you around like a sack of bricks.” He tapped along the seam of the hood, crouching to peer at the tires, his voice sharp. “Brake balance is garbage. If anyone less competent had been behind that wheel, you’d be scraping them off the pavement right now.”

Kevin blinked at him, something cold threading down his spine. Dakota didn’t sound like a kid showing off—he sounded like someone who knew. Every flick of his hand across the metal, every clipped word made it clear: this wasn’t luck. This was history.

Liang chuckled softly, but his eyes never left Dakota. “Still sharp. I’ll give you that. Years away and you haven’t dulled.”

Liang’s smirk lingered as the other driver stormed off, cursing under his breath. The crowd began to thin, but Liang only seemed more awake, more alive. He clapped his hands together once, decisive.

“One more,” Liang said, like it wasn’t a request. “You’ve been out too long. Let them see you again. Remind them why I used to put money on your name.”

Dakota’s grin faltered. He straightened, brushing his palms against his jeans, voice careful but firm. “No. That’s not happening.”

“Why not? You clearly still have it. You’d fill my pockets tonight.”

“I’m not here to fill your pockets. I’m here for what you owe me,” Dakota said. His voice didn’t rise, but there was a steel edge underneath. “That’s all.”

The air tightened. Kevin shifted his weight, fighting the urge to say something, anything, but this wasn’t his world. Dakota’s mismatched eyes stayed fixed on Liang, and Kevin realized for the first time how practiced that look was, calm, stubborn, but not reckless.

Liang’s gaze flicked briefly toward Kevin. His smile didn’t waver, but suspicion colored his tone when he said, “Your boyfriend doesn’t seem to like it here. What’s the matter, Alex?”

Kevin froze, pulse jumping. He felt Dakota’s sharp glance at his side, but it was too late—Liang had already scented blood.

“You don’t act like his boyfriend,” Liang said finally, his tone casual but his eyes too intent. “Not the way he should. Not the way I know him.”

Kevin stiffened. “And how’s that?”

Liang’s smirk widened, slow and cruel. “Dakota doesn’t bring people home. He doesn’t share. So why would he drag you here—some stranger who barely looks like he belongs? Someone who doesn’t even know him?”

Kevin clenched his jaw. He could feel the silence stretching thin, could feel the weight of it tilting suspicion straight onto him.

Dakota’s laugh broke it. Sharp, sudden, dismissive. “You’re boring me, Liang.”

But Liang didn’t stop. He leaned in, his voice lower now, deliberately baiting. “I think you’re lying. He’s not yours. He’s just someone you pulled out of the dark to play a role. And I wonder why?”

For a beat, Dakota’s grin didn’t move. Then—smooth as a switchblade—he turned, grabbed Kevin by the collar, and yanked him down into a kiss.

Not just a kiss. A full, deliberate claim. His mouth pressed hard against Kevin’s, fierce and unrelenting. His fingers dug into Kevin’s hoodie like he had every right to hold him there.

And Kevin, caught in the surge, his heart pounding in his chest, kissed back. Not by instinct, not by calculation, but because the rush of it burned through him hotter than the noise, hotter than the neon lights spilling across the street. His lips moved against Dakota’s, heat sparking through the contact, and for the first time he felt the world tilt. His fingers trembled as they tangled into Dakota’s hair, mind going blank.

When they finally broke apart, Kevin’s breath hitched, and Dakota’s mask cracked. His eyes flicked wide, surprised, searching Kevin’s face for something he hadn’t expected to find there. They parted just for a moment, lips still touching, breathing against each other.

Liang chuckled darkly, leaning back with a satisfied grin. “Now that looks real.”

Dakota smirked again, but it was a touch too late, a half-beat slower. He pulled away and wiped his mouth with his thumb, voice perfectly steady when he said, “Believe whatever you like, Liang. But I want my money back.”

He turned away, hiding the flicker of confusion in his eyes.

Kevin stayed silent, chest heaving, still tasting Dakota on his lips—still reeling from the fact that when Dakota pulled him in to fake it, he’d wanted more.

Liang barked something sharp in Chinese, flicking his hand like he was dismissing the night itself. One of his men darted off, and Liang leaned back, smug and satisfied.

“Fine, yes. I do owe you,” he said, voice syrupy. “Don’t take it personally, Alex. Suspicion is healthy in business.”

Dakota’s tongue clicked in annoyance. He shoved a napkin into Liang’s hand, the hotel’s address scribbled across it. “Put it on a card.”

“Tomorrow. You’ll have it. I’ll see you both around.”

Dakota flashed him a smile that wasn’t a smile at all, then closed his fingers around Kevin’s arm and yanked him out of the crowd, away from the roar of engines and the bite of sirens somewhere down the street.

They walked in silence, long enough that Kevin’s nerves had time to gnaw their way raw. By the time he spoke, his throat was dry.

“You said we were going on a walk.” His voice cracked, sharper than he wanted. “What the fuck, Dakota? Who was that guy? Actually—don’t answer. I don’t want to know.”

“I couldn’t go alone there,” Dakota muttered, sounding bored and defensive all at once. “It wasn’t safe. And I want my money back.”

“So you used me?” Kevin snapped. “As what, some—prop? What if something happened? To me? To you? You lied.”

“I’m sorry,” Dakota groaned, like the word was heavy in his mouth.

“Are you? Because what the fuck do you even mean you can’t go alone there? He knew you. You had some history. If you don’t feel safe with him, maybe you don’t go at all.”

“It’s not that simple,” Dakota snapped back. “It’s my money. And unlike you, I don’t have a team bankrolling me. Thirty bucks doesn’t get me far, Kevin.” His shoulders hunched as his voice dropped, sharper. “Liang’s not dangerous. He just wants me back. I was worth something to him. If I’d gone alone, he would’ve made me stay.”

Kevin’s frown deepened. “What—like kidnap you?”

“No.” Dakota’s laugh was thin, humorless. He chewed at the inside of his cheek, silent for several beats before muttering, “He’d make me a deal I couldn’t refuse.”

Kevin didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His head was spinning with too many questions and none of them had safe edges. He didn’t know what to make of Dakota’s past, or why the hell he’d willingly brush so close to it again.

They slowed when the hotel came into view, glass doors glinting under streetlamps, lobby warm and sterile through the windows. Kevin’s chest tightened the closer they got to their rooms, like time was slipping too fast, like the questions in his throat were seconds from being swallowed whole.

Dakota stopped at his door, keycard already between his fingers. He looked calm, too calm, like none of it mattered. Like Kevin hadn’t just been dragged into a night that could have ruined both their lives.

Kevin lingered, staring at the carpet, the sterile hotel wall, anywhere but Dakota’s face. His jaw ached from clenching it. The words slipped out before he could stop them.

“You kissed me.”

Dakota froze. His hand stayed on the door handle, the keycard angled uselessly against the lock. For a beat, the hallway was too quiet, only the distant hum of the ice machine filling it.

Kevin forced himself to look up. “Don’t—don’t act like it didn’t happen. You kissed me. Back there. In front of him.” His voice cracked on the last word. “Why?”

Dakota’s eyes flickered, not quite meeting his. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He leaned back against the door instead of opening it, arms crossing over his chest like armor.

“Because Liang was sniffing around. Because he was testing us. Because he didn’t believe you were mine.”

“So what, I’m just—what, cover? A lie to make your life easier?”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

Kevin felt heat flood his face, sharp and humiliating. “You didn’t have to—” He broke off, exhaling hard. His chest was buzzing with something he didn’t have a name for. “You didn’t have to make it real.”

That made Dakota glance at him, sharp and quick, like Kevin had said too much. For half a second there was surprise, maybe even something softer, before it was gone.

Kevin’s fists curled at his sides. “Don’t ever use me like that again.”

Dakota shrugged, pushing off the door at last. “Then don’t come next time.”

The keycard beeped, the lock clicked, and Dakota disappeared into his room without another word.

Kevin stood there too long, pulse hammering, lips burning with the memory he couldn’t shove away. He hated himself for it, that he hadn’t pulled back, that he’d kissed him back. And worse, that it hadn’t felt like a mistake in the moment.

He didn’t move until the hallway was empty, silent again. Then, he fell asleep to the taste of Dakota on his tongue.