Adrian woke up at six AM the next morning with a plan.
Dante was already gone—of course he was gone, probably fled before Adrian could wake up and ask uncomfortable questions about the previous night. His bed was made with military precision, like he'd never been there at all.
Adrian grabbed his phone and texted Sage.
Adrian: You're wrong about Dante. This is just competition stuff. Psychological warfare.
Sage: It's 6 AM
Adrian: I'm serious. He's trying to get in my head. Make me doubt myself. Classic competitive strategy.
Sage: By crying alone at dawn?
Adrian: I don't know what I saw. It was dark. He might have just been tired.
Sage: Adrian...
Adrian: I'm going to prove you wrong. I'm asking Isabella on a real date. Off campus. Dinner. Formal.
Sage: That's your plan? Date someone to prove you're not into someone else?
Adrian: I'm not INTO anyone else. I like Isabella. She's great. This is what normal looks like.
Sage: If you say so.
Adrian showered, dressed in his best casual outfit—the navy sweater that Sage said brought out his eyes—and headed to the pre-med building where Isabella had mentioned she had an early lab session.
He found her outside the building at seven-thirty, reviewing notes on her tablet while drinking an enormous travel mug of coffee.
"Adrian?" She looked surprised, pleased. "What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to catch you before your lab. Do you have a minute?"
"Sure. What's up?"
Adrian took a breath, channeling every ounce of confidence he could manufacture. "I was wondering if you'd like to go to dinner with me. A real dinner, off campus. This Saturday?"
Isabella's smile widened. "Like a date?"
"Yeah. Like a date. If you want it to be."
"I'd like that." She touched his arm, the gesture warm and familiar. "There's that Italian place downtown everyone talks about—Marcello's? I've been wanting to try it."
"Perfect. I'll make a reservation. Pick you up at seven?"
"It's a date." She glanced at her watch. "I have to run—lab starts in five minutes. But text me the details?"
"Definitely."
She squeezed his arm once more before hurrying into the building, ponytail swinging behind her.
Adrian walked back to his dorm feeling vindicated. See? This was normal. This was what people did when they liked each other. Dante's weird behavior didn't mean anything except that he was being his usual competitive self, just with different tactics.
He was so convinced of this theory that he almost believed it.
The next few days proved that avoidance could be its own form of warfare.
Dante became a ghost in their shared room. Adrian would wake up and Dante would already be gone—no sounds from the bathroom, no evidence he'd eaten breakfast, just an empty bed and a vague sense of absence.
Classes, basketball practice, study sessions—Dante managed to schedule his entire life around not being in the dorm when Adrian was there.
When they did overlap, Dante communicated exclusively via text.
Dante: Using the shower
They were literally in the same room. Adrian could see Dante walking toward the bathroom. But instead of saying it out loud like a normal person, Dante texted.
Adrian: I can see you. You could just tell me.
Dante: This is easier.
Adrian: How is texting easier than talking?
No response. Dante just closed the bathroom door.
It happened again that night.
Dante: Turning off the main light. Using my desk lamp.
Adrian looked up from his laptop to find Dante standing by the light switch, phone in hand, carefully not making eye contact.
"I'm literally right here," Adrian said out loud.
Dante's jaw tightened. He flipped off the main light and returned to his desk without saying a word.
The cold distance was somehow worse than competition. At least when they were competing, Dante acknowledged Adrian's existence. Now it felt like Adrian had become invisible, a ghost haunting a room that Dante merely tolerated sharing.
Adrian found himself missing the rivalry. Missing the intensity in Dante's dark eyes when they competed. Missing the way Dante used to push him to be better, even when it drove him crazy.
This hollow silence was worse.
So Adrian did what he always did when confronted with something uncomfortable—he poked at it.
He started leaving his books on Dante's side of the room. Just little things, accidentally-on-purpose encroachments into Dante's space.
Dante quietly moved them back without comment.
Adrian played music he knew Dante hated—loud pop songs with repetitive lyrics that drove Dante crazy during study sessions back in high school.
Dante put on headphones.
Adrian made pointed comments during the rare moments they occupied the room simultaneously.
"Weird how quiet it's been lately. Almost like I'm living alone."
Dante didn't look up from his textbook.
"Some roommates actually communicate with words instead of text messages. I've heard rumors that's a thing."
Dante's jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
"Must be nice to have such a flexible schedule. Being able to avoid someone so completely."
Finally, Dante looked up. His dark eyes were flat, carefully empty of emotion. "What do you want from me, Adrian?"
"I want you to stop acting like I don't exist."
"I'm giving you what you wanted. Space. Distance. No more 'sabotaging' your relationship with Isabella." Dante's voice was controlled, neutral. "Isn't this what you asked for?"
"I asked you to stop showing up everywhere I go. I didn't ask you to disappear completely."
"What's the difference?"
Adrian opened his mouth. Closed it. He didn't have a good answer.
Dante returned to his textbook. "If that's all, I have a paper due tomorrow."
The conversation was over. Dante had drawn a line, and Adrian didn't know how to cross it without admitting things he wasn't ready to admit.
The pickup basketball games were the worst.
Adrian had gotten into the habit of joining the informal games on the outdoor courts every Tuesday and Thursday. It was fun, low-pressure, just guys from various dorms playing for exercise and social time.
Dante used to show up. Used to play on Adrian's team more often than not, used to call out encouragement and high-five him after good shots.
Now the courts felt empty even when they were full of players.
Marcus Reid showed up one Thursday, looking around with obvious confusion.
"Where's Dante?" Chris from Adrian's floor asked. "He usually comes to these."
"He's, uh, busy," Marcus said, shooting an unreadable glance at Adrian. "Other stuff going on."
"That sucks. He's the best player we have."
"Yeah." Marcus dribbled the ball a few times, still watching Adrian with that weird expression. "He's going through some things right now. Needs space to figure stuff out."
Adrian felt the words like an accusation, even though Marcus's tone was neutral.
After the game, Marcus jogged over as Adrian was packing up his water bottle.
"Hey, can I talk to you for a second?"
"Sure." Adrian tried to sound casual, like his heart wasn't suddenly racing.
Marcus looked around, making sure they had relative privacy. "Look, I don't know what happened between you and Dante, and it's not really my business. But he's my teammate and my friend, so I'm going to say this once."
"Say what?"
"Whatever you're doing to him, it's messing him up. He's missing practices, barely eating, spacing out during drills. Coach is about to bench him if he doesn't get his head together."
"I'm not doing anything to him," Adrian protested. "He's the one who's avoiding me."
"Right. He's avoiding you because being around you is easy and fun for him." Marcus's sarcasm was sharp. "Come on, man. You're not that oblivious."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Marcus studied him for a long moment, something like pity crossing his face. "Nothing. Forget it. Just—be careful with him, okay? He's not as tough as everyone thinks."
He jogged off before Adrian could respond, leaving Adrian standing on the empty court with more questions than answers.
Saturday arrived with uncomfortable speed.
Adrian spent an hour getting ready, changing shirts three times before settling on the light blue button-down that Sage had helped him pick out last year. He styled his hair, checked his teeth, applied cologne—the works.
He picked Isabella up at her dorm at exactly seven PM.
She looked beautiful in a deep green dress that brought out the warmth in her brown eyes. She smiled when she saw him, and Adrian felt a flutter of genuine attraction.
This was good. This was right. This was what he wanted.
Marcello's was everything people had promised—dim lighting, white tablecloths, the smell of garlic and fresh bread filling the air. They got a quiet table in the corner, and the server brought them menus and water with lemon.
"This is really nice," Isabella said, looking around appreciatively. "I've been wanting to come here since freshman year but never had a reason."
"I'm glad I could give you a reason." Adrian smiled, trying to ignore the nervous flutter in his stomach. "You look amazing, by the way."
"Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself." She opened her menu. "So, are you a pasta person or a pizza person?"
"Both. Equally. I don't discriminate."
She laughed. "The correct answer."
They ordered—carbonara for him, pesto pasta for her, breadsticks to share—and conversation flowed easily. Isabella was charming and quick-witted, laughed at his jokes, shared funny stories about her demanding pre-med program.
"I had an exam last week that was so hard, three people cried during it," she said, breaking off a piece of breadstick. "Like, actual tears running down their faces while they tried to answer questions about cellular respiration."
"That sounds traumatic."
"It was! And the worst part is, the professor seemed pleased about it. Like making students cry was some kind of academic achievement." She shook her head. "I'm starting to think pre-med is just an extended hazing ritual."
"Do you ever think about doing something else?"
"Sometimes. But then I remember why I started this path—helping people, making a difference, being like those doctors who took care of my grandmother. And it makes the crying-during-exams thing seem worth it."
"That's really admirable. Having that clarity about what you want."
"What about you?" Isabella leaned forward, genuinely interested. "What do you want? Like, big picture Adrian Hayes life goals?"
Adrian considered the question. "I want to tell stories that matter. That make people feel things, help them understand each other better. I don't know if that's through writing or film or theater or something else entirely, but that's the core of it."
"I love that. The world needs more storytellers."
They talked about families—Isabella's parents who ran a restaurant in Portland, Adrian's parents who traveled for his dad's consulting work. They talked about fears and hopes and the weirdness of being in college, suddenly expected to have life figured out.
It should have been perfect.
It was good. Really good.
But perfect? Adrian wasn't sure.
Halfway through the meal, Isabella said, "Tell me about your roommate—Dante, right? You two seem tense."
And Adrian proceeded to talk about Dante for fifteen straight minutes.
He told her about the kindergarten crayon incident, about competing for eighteen years, about the basketball championship and the track meet and every single way Dante had been present in his life since they were five years old.
He talked about Dante's strange behavior since move-in, the following, the interruptions, the sudden cold distance that felt like losing a limb he didn't know he'd been using.
He talked about not understanding what Dante wanted, what any of it meant, why someone who'd been his rival for so long was suddenly acting like Adrian's existence caused him physical pain.
Isabella listened patiently, nodding in the right places, asking clarifying questions. But Adrian could see something shift in her expression—recognition, maybe, or understanding of something Adrian hadn't meant to reveal.
"Wow," she said when he finally ran out of words. "That's a lot of history."
"Yeah. Sorry, I didn't mean to monopolize the conversation with Dante talk."
"It's okay. Clearly you have a lot of unresolved feelings about him."
"Not feelings. Just—confusion. About what's happening."
"Right. Confusion." Isabella's tone suggested she wasn't entirely convinced. "Have you tried just talking to him? Asking what's going on?"
"He won't talk to me. He literally texts me from across the room rather than speak out loud."
"That does sound difficult." Isabella took a sip of her water. "But for what it's worth, from an outside perspective? It sounds like he's dealing with something big. Something he doesn't know how to express."
"That's what everyone keeps saying. But no one will tell me what the something is."
"Maybe because you need to figure it out yourself." Isabella said it gently, without judgment. "Sometimes the answer is right in front of us and we can't see it because we're not ready."
Adrian didn't know how to respond to that, so he changed the subject to Isabella's research project. They finished dinner talking about cellular regeneration and medical ethics and the difference between good science and great science.
When the check came, Adrian paid—he'd invited her, after all—and they walked back to campus together under the October stars.
"I had a really nice time," Isabella said as they reached her dorm building.
"Me too. We should do this again."
"I'd like that."
They stood facing each other in the glow of the building's entrance lights. Isabella stepped closer, and Adrian's heart rate picked up.
She kissed him.
Soft, sweet, appropriate for a first date. Her lips were gentle against his, tasting faintly of pesto and mint. She made a small pleased sound when Adrian kissed back, his hands settling lightly on her waist.
It was... fine.
Nice, even. Pleasant.
But not earth-shattering. Not consuming. Not the kind of kiss that made the rest of the world disappear.
Just fine.
They pulled apart after a few seconds. Isabella smiled, touched his cheek briefly. "Goodnight, Adrian."
"Goodnight, Isabella."
He watched her disappear into her building before starting the walk back to his own dorm.
The October air was cool against his face, making him feel more alert, more present. He replayed the evening in his head—the good food, the easy conversation, Isabella's laugh, her stories, the kiss that had been perfectly adequate.
And then, without warning, without permission, an intrusive thought ambushed him:
I wonder what kissing Dante would feel like.
Adrian stopped walking.
Where the hell did that come from?
He stood frozen on the pathway, horror crawling up his spine. That wasn't—he didn't—why would his brain even generate that thought?
He'd just kissed Isabella. Sweet, beautiful, uncomplicated Isabella who liked him and laughed at his jokes and made perfect sense as a romantic interest.
He didn't wonder about kissing Dante. He didn't think about Dante that way. He didn't—
Except he'd just spent fifteen minutes of his date talking about Dante. He'd been missing Dante's attention for days. He'd felt jealous when Marcus mentioned being there for Dante, had felt something twist in his gut at the idea of Dante confiding in someone else.
No.
Adrian shoved the thought down, buried it deep, locked it away in a mental box labeled "Never Examine This."
He was just confused. The situation with Dante was confusing, and his brain was processing that confusion in weird ways. It didn't mean anything.
It couldn't mean anything.
He started walking again, faster now, eager to get back to his room and sleep and wake up tomorrow with his head on straight.
The dorm was quiet when he arrived. Most people were still out on Saturday night—parties, dates, late movies. Adrian took the stairs two at a time, key already in his hand.
He opened the door to Room 447B and stopped.
Dante was asleep at his desk, head pillowed on his arms, textbook open in front of him. It was only ten PM—early for a Saturday night.
Adrian closed the door quietly, not wanting to wake him. He set down his keys, pulled off his jacket, tried to move silently around the room.
Dante's phone, lying face-up on his desk, lit up with incoming texts.
Adrian didn't mean to look. He really didn't. But the messages were right there, impossible to miss.
Marcus: You ok?
Marcus: Want to talk about it?
Marcus: I'm here if you need me bro. Whatever you're going through.
Marcus: Don't shut everyone out. It doesn't help.
The twist in Adrian's gut had a name he refused to acknowledge.
Jealousy.
He was jealous that Marcus got to be the person Dante talked to, confided in, trusted with whatever was tearing him apart. He was jealous that Marcus knew what was wrong while Adrian was left fumbling in the dark.
He was jealous, and that jealousy felt too big, too consuming, too dangerous to examine.
Adrian stared at Dante's sleeping form—the curve of his spine, the way his curls fell across his forehead, the rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath. He looked younger like this, vulnerable in a way he never allowed when awake.
You absolute idiot, Dante had said.
And Adrian was starting to suspect he'd been talking about himself.