Chapter 2 No Compromise
Theo Pov
I spend the rest of the day pretending the email never happened.
Critique goes exactly how I expected: I dismantle three concepts in under ten minutes, watch the presenters deflate like punctured tires, and leave the room before anyone can ask follow-up questions. Marcus texts me later—You made Ryan cry in the bathroom again. Nice work, asshole. I don’t reply.
Dinner is black coffee and a protein bar at my drafting table. I finish the wind-load revisions, send the updated model to Professor Linden, and ignore the three unread messages from my mother. I know what they say. Dinner tonight. Networking. Bring portfolio. Smile. Same script every semester. I delete them without opening.
By 10:47 p.m. the architecture annex is empty except for the hum of the HVAC and the faint smell of graphite. I pack up, shoulder my bag, and head back to East Hall.
The lobby is louder than before—bass thumping from someone’s open door, laughter echoing down the hall, the sharp stink of cheap beer and weed. I take the stairs again. Fourth floor. Room 412.
The door is closed this time.
I slide my keycard. Push in.
The light is on. Low. Warm. One desk lamp, not the overhead fluorescents.
Jaz is there.
He’s sprawled on his unmade bed in nothing but low-slung gray sweatpants that should be illegal. Chest bare. Tattoos stark against tan skin—thorns wrapping his left pec, gears spiraling down his right forearm, something that looks like fractured blueprints bleeding across his ribs. Chestnut curls loose now, still damp from a shower. He’s scrolling on his phone with one hand; the other is tucked behind his head, bicep flexed, silver chain glinting against his collarbone.
Flour is gone. Replaced by the clean, dark scent of cedarwood soap and something faintly sweet—cinnamon, maybe, baked into his skin.
He doesn’t look up when I enter.
I close the door. Lock clicks loud in the quiet.
I set my portfolio on my desk. Unzip. Pull out tomorrow’s render notes. Pretend he’s furniture.
He speaks first.
“Long day, prince?”
I don’t flinch. “Don’t call me that.”
“Too late. It’s stuck.” He finally glances over. Hazel eyes lazy, amused, but there’s a glint under the laziness—like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. “You always come back this late smelling like ink and coffee?”
“I work late.”
“Shocker.” He stretches—slow, deliberate. Muscles roll under skin. Sweatpants slip another inch lower. Dark trail of hair disappears beneath the waistband. He knows I’m looking. He wants me to look.
I turn my back. Open my laptop. Boot it up. The screen glows blue-white against the dim room.
Silence stretches. Thick. Electric.
Then the bed creaks.
He’s up. Bare feet on the floor. Walking toward me.
I don’t turn.
He stops behind my chair—close enough I feel the heat rolling off him. Close enough I can smell cedar and cinnamon and the faint salt of clean skin. His shadow falls across my screen.
“You gonna pretend I’m not here all semester?” His voice is low. Rough from whatever he was doing before I walked in. Maybe talking. Maybe smoking. Maybe jerking off—I shove the thought down hard.
“I’m going to work,” I say. Flat. “You should sleep. You have the early shift tomorrow.”
He laughs—soft, dark. “You already know my schedule?”
“Overheard it in the hall.”
“Liar.” He leans down. One hand braces on the back of my chair. The other plants on my desk—right next to my mouse. Tattoos flex. Knuckles scarred. “You looked me up. Or asked someone.”
I don’t deny it.
His breath brushes my ear. Warm. Deliberate.
“You’re so fucking wound up, Theo. Look at you—spine straight, jaw locked, pretending you don’t feel me breathing down your neck.”
My pulse kicks—hard, traitorously loud in my ears.
“I feel nothing,” I lie.
“Bullshit.” His fingers brush the back of my neck—light, testing. Goosebumps explode down my spine. “Your skin just betrayed you.”
I grab his wrist. Hard.
“Don’t.”
He doesn’t pull away. Just lets me hold him there. His pulse thumps against my thumb—steady, strong, faster than mine wants to admit.
“Don’t what?” he murmurs. “Touch you? Or make you admit you want it?”
I twist his wrist. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind him who’s in control.
He hisses—soft, pleased. “Fuck. Do that again.”
I release him like he burned me.
He straightens. Laughs again—low, filthy. “You’re gonna be so much fun to break.”
“I’m not breakable.”
“Everyone’s breakable, prince.” He steps back—finally—gives me space. But not much. “Especially the ones who pretend they’re made of glass and steel.”
I stare at my screen. The render stares back—perfect lines, perfect shadows, perfect control.
My hands are shaking. Barely. But enough.
He walks to his side. Drops onto his bed. Props himself on one elbow. Watches me.
“You gonna jerk off thinking about me tonight?” he asks casually. Like he’s asking about the weather.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache.
“Or are you gonna lie there pretending your dick isn’t hard right now?”
I slam the laptop shut.
The room goes darker.
I stand. Turn.
He’s still watching. Sweatpants tented. Obvious. Shameless.
My mouth goes dry.
“You talk too much,” I say.
“And you don’t talk enough.” He spreads his legs wider—invitation, challenge. “Come here and shut me up then.”
My feet move before my brain catches up.
Three steps. I’m at the edge of his bed.
He looks up at me—eyes dark, pupils blown. Lips parted. Tongue flicks out, wets the bottom one.
I grab his jaw. Hard. Thumb pressing into the soft spot under his chin.
His eyes flare—surprise, hunger.
“You want me to shut you up?” My voice is low. Rougher than I’ve ever heard it.
He nods—once, slow.
I lean down.
Our mouths crash.
No gentleness. No hesitation.
I bite his bottom lip—hard enough to taste copper. He groans into my mouth—loud, wrecked. Hands fist my hoodie, yank me down on top of him.
I straddle his hips. Grind down once—feel how hard he is, how thick, how fucking ready.
He bucks up—seeking friction. Whimpers when I pin his wrists above his head with one hand.
“Fuck—Theo—”
“Quiet,” I growl against his throat. Bite down. Suck hard. Mark him.
He arches—whole body shuddering. “Yes—fuck—do that again—”
I do.
Teeth. Tongue. Bruising suction.
His hips jerk—desperate. Sweatpants soaked at the tip already.
I release his wrists. Shove my hand down the front of his pants.
No underwear.
Hot. Thick. Leaking.
I wrap my fingers around him—tight. Stroke once—slow, punishing.
He cries out—sharp, broken. “Shit—fuck—harder—”
I squeeze. Twist at the head.
His eyes roll back. Mouth falls open. “Gonna—fuck—gonna come if you—”
“Don’t.” I stop moving. Just hold him—tight, unmoving.
He whines—high, needy. Hips twitching. Trying to fuck into my fist.
“Please—”
“No.”
I lean down. Kiss him again—slow this time. Filthy. Tongue deep. Tasting the whimper he can’t hold back.
When I pull away his lips are swollen. Red. Wrecked.
“You don’t come until I say,” I tell him.
His eyes are glassy. Desperate. “Yes—fuck—yes sir—”
The word hits me like a fist to the gut.
Sir.
I grind down hard—once—feel him throb against me.
Then I stand.
Step back.
Leave him sprawled—chest heaving, cock leaking, eyes wild.
“Goodnight, Reed.”
I turn to my bed.
Strip to boxers. Slide under the covers.
He’s panting behind me.
“Motherfucker,” he whispers—half laugh, half sob.
I smile into the dark.
For the first time in years, I don’t feel in control.
And I fucking love it.
