The dorm didn’t have AC, just a box fan in the window and decades of dust in the vents. By the third night, Ethan was used to the hiss of the radiator (which, oddly, was always on) and the distant thump of music from somewhere across campus.
Mark had stripped down to boxers, sprawled on the beat-up chair they’d scavenged from the hall, freshly packed bowl in hand, sparking the pipe like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You know,” Mark said, exhaling slowly, “this place is a lot cooler than I expected.”
Ethan gave a half-smile,
“You mean the lack of air conditioning?”
Mark laughed, passing the bowl to Ethan.
“No, I mean the people. The vibe. The way it all just kind of works. You’ll see.”
Though he had tried beer and liquor in high school, he still naively believed that weed was a gateway drug. Thinking back to the DARE pledge he’d signed in the 6th grade, Ethan took the bowl. Not wanting to admit he had no idea what he was doing, he fumbled with the carb, lighting the bowl awkwardly.
Despite Ethan’s initial coughing fit, they talked until almost 2 a.m.—the kind of loose, meandering conversation that only happens when you're a few nights into college and someone sparks a bowl late at night.
Mark exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift toward the box fan.
“This place is different,” he said. “I didn’t think I’d like it, but there’s something about it. Like... it’s not trying too hard.”
Ethan laughed softly, then coughed.
“I’m still trying to figure it all out.”
“Don’t overthink it,” Mark said, offering the pipe again. “Just don’t be a dick, and you’ll be fine. First home game’s next weekend, Eli will probably ask us to help with their tailgate. You’ll get front row for the circus.”
There was something easy about Mark—how quickly he’d made friends, how he never seemed self-conscious walking the hallways in nothing but boxers. Ethan wasn’t used to that. He wasn’t used to a lot of things here.
The weed didn’t make him giggly or loud. It made everything slow down a little, softened the edges. The hum of the radiator, the low bass of a party three floors down, the quiet rhythm of someone laughing outside—all of it folded into the walls like the room had been waiting for this moment to breathe. He couldn’t quite explain it, but he felt more like himself when stoned.
He also couldn’t help himself staring at Mark’s bulge, the treasure trail leading from under the waistband of his boxers. But instead of Mark, he was thinking about Eli.
The next morning, Ethan grabbed his towel and soap and headed to the communal showers on the first floor. The hallway smelled like bleach and Pine Sol, but nothing could mask the smell of 40 men living together.
He pushed through the heavy door and stepped into a wide, echoing room—tiled from floor to ceiling, steam already rising and curling toward the flickering fluorescent lights. There were no stalls, no curtains—just a row of exposed metal taps and showerheads lining the walls. Water splashed directly onto the concrete floor, draining through a wide grate in the center of the room.
Three or four guys were already in there, casually washing off the night before, laughing and talking like it was nothing. Most of them were older. Ethan tried not to look, but he couldn’t help himself. One had music playing from a waterproof radio balanced on the sink. A pair of boxers lay crumpled near the bench by the entrance.
Nerves steeled, Ethan swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the far wall as he made his way to an open showerhead. He turned the tap, adjusted the heat, and stepped under quickly, forcing himself to focus on the water and not the sound of other bodies moving beside him.
It wasn’t fear, exactly.
It was something else.
A low ache behind his ribs. A tightness he couldn’t name.
He didn’t linger. Dried off fast. Towel around his waist, eyes down, he passed a guy, naked, shaving at the mirror. He nodded casually.
“Mornin’.”
Ethan nodded back, heart pounding, and left without saying a word.
On Friday, Mark burst into the room with a grin and two shirts slung over his shoulder.
“You’re coming tonight. Non-negotiable.”
Ethan looked up from his desk.
“Coming where, and how do you already have Rush t-shirts?”
“The Annex. Eli and the guys are having people over. It’s not Rush yet, but it’s… pre-Rush. Trust me.”
That night, they crammed into the backseat of someone’s Suburban, windows down, Widespread Panic blaring. The air grew cooler as they left campus behind, winding down narrow roads that disappeared into the trees.
The Annex looked exactly like Mark had described: a slouching farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, faint light bleeding from warped windows, porch crowded with bodies and smoke. The yard was littered with old couches, beer cans, and what appeared to be random items lifted from campus. Technically Rush events weren’t supposed to take place off campus. An early Annex invite wasn’t just luck - it meant someone had decided you were worth getting to know better.
Inside, it was packed. The furniture looked like it had been stolen from an actual crack house. Someone had taped a sign over the bathroom that read “NO PUKING—FRONT YARD ONLY”. Jane’s Addiction blared from old speakers. The smell of stale beer and cigarettes clung to everything.
Ethan stuck close to Mark at first. The beer tasted like piss, the floor sticky, the brothers loud. He caught glimpses of Eli across the room—at the fridge, at the porch railing, at the center of whatever conversation was happening.
At one point, Eli brushed past them in the kitchen, then paused and doubled back.
“Didn’t think you’d show,” he said, voice even, gaze lingering just a second longer than necessary.
Ethan tried to shrug.
“Mark made me.”
Eli smirked, dimples now plainly visible.
“Glad he did.”
Leaning against the door frame, he pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and offered it to Ethan without a word. Their fingers touched as Ethan took it—again—and the static hit was instant.
“You seem less tense,” Eli said, nodding toward the party. “Settling in yet?”
Ethan swallowed.
“Trying to keep up.”
Eli’s smile softened just slightly.
“Stick with us. You’ll be fine. The real fun starts after bid night, this is just a warm up”
The sun was just starting to come up and Ethan found himself outside in an old chair away from the noise. A girl laughed behind him; someone dropped a glass. But he was focused on the quiet of the woods.
He thought about how strange it was—how much a place like this could feel like something you didn’t know you were missing.
When Eli came outside again, their eyes met briefly, and Ethan’s heart did the thing it had recently been doing.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Eli said, just before slipping back inside.
The words hung there after he was gone, like the last curl of smoke from his cigarette. Ethan didn’t know why, but he kept replaying them over and over again.
“He says that all the time,” Mark told Ethan later, shrugging. “But he’s the one about to sell out. Banking, Richmond, maybe New York if he gets lucky. He won’t say it, but I think he’s scared stiff.”
Early that morning, lying awake in the sticky heat of the dorm room, lazily fondling his cock, Ethan replayed it all in his head: the sounds, the smell of Eli’s cologne, his Oxford unbuttoned just so, the weight of his voice.
He told himself it was nothing.
He told himself it was everything.
Stay Connected
📖 Subscribe to Line & Verse for weekly chapters and essays.
📸 Follow along on Instagram: @caleb_writes
🧵 Join me on Threads: Caleb_Writes
📘 Facebook: Caleb Reed
Enjoying the story - my goal is 1 chapter per week. Question: Doesn't Ethan wonder why he's being included? Ethan hasn't done anything noteworthy to warrant all the attention. A little self-introspection might be interesting in this chapter. Perhaps Ethan will realize it's not his personality. Perhaps he won't. Perhaps he'll think he might be being set up for a fall. Either way, when I was Ethan's age, being included was almost as bad as being excluded, because I wasn't sure why. Ethan should torture himself a little. Unless his self-worth is stronger than average.