The heat in the storage room was a physical weight, a wet wool blanket pressed against his face. It smelled of mothballs, dry rot, and the burning copper tang of the split in his own lip. Steve sat wedged between a rack of velvet Elizabethan doublets and a stack of painted canvas flats, his knees pulled up to his chest. His breath hitched, shallow and ragged, scraping against the back of his throat like sandpaper. He shouldn't be here. He should be out there, maintaining the image, playing the part, being the perfect, untouchable boyfriend that Daniel required for the social season. But the illusion had cracked. Literally. A fist to the jaw had seen to that.
He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, pulling it away to check the smear of red. Bright. Too bright in the gloom. The single ventilation grate high on the wall offered no relief, only filtering in the heavy, yellow light of a summer afternoon that threatened a thunderstorm. The air pressure was dropping; he could feel it in his teeth, a dull ache that synchronized with the throbbing of his cheekbone.
It was stupid. Stupid to think he could walk through the chaotic hallway near the gymnasium without Daniel as a shield. Richter and his crew—those massive, braying linebacker types who viewed empathy as a biological defect—had cornered him near the trophy case. It hadn't lasted long. Just long enough to remind Steve of his place in the food chain. Just long enough to shatter the carefully constructed veneer of safety he’d been living under for three months.
Three months of the arrangement.
Three months of Daniel’s hand on the small of his back, heavy and grounding. Three months of sitting at the terrifyingly exclusive lunch table, ignored but protected. A contract. That’s all it was. Daniel needed a distraction to keep his parents’ matchmaking ambitions at bay, and Steve needed… safety. He needed the invisible forcefield that radiated from Daniel Blackwood.
But forcefields fail when the generator isn't around.
A sound from the corridor. Metal hinges screaming in protest. The heavy fire door at the end of the prop hallway groaned open and slammed shut. The echo vibrated through the floorboards, traveling up Steve’s spine.
He froze. If it was Richter, he was dead. He tried to make himself smaller, pressing his spine into the wooden crate behind him. A screw head dug into his shoulder blade, a sharp point of reality in the haze of his panic. He held his breath, his lungs burning with the need for oxygen, his heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs.
Footsteps. Not the heavy, stomping chaotic gait of the jocks. These were deliberate. Measured. The sound of expensive leather soles on concrete. Even in the dark, even terrified, Steve’s body recognized that cadence. It was a gravitational pull.
"Steve."
The voice was low, cutting through the stagnant air like a razor wire. It wasn't a question. It was a command. Daniel sounded… furious. Controlled, icy, terrifyingly calm fury.
Steve squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want Daniel to see him like this. Not the Project. Not the Charity Case. He wanted to preserve the dignity of the lie, at least.
"I know you’re in here," Daniel said, his voice closer now. "I saw the blood on the floor in the corridor."
The shame was hotter than the room. Steve exhaled, a shaky, broken sound that betrayed his position instantly. The footsteps stopped, then pivoted. A shadow fell over him, blocking out the sliver of sickly yellow light from the grate.
"Steve."
He looked up. Daniel stood there, towering in the cramped space. He was wearing his blazer, despite the heat, perfectly tailored, ridiculous for a high school student but armor nonetheless. His dark hair was swept back, severe, revealing the sharp, aristocratic planes of his face. But his eyes… usually cold, usually calculating… they were wide, searching, burning with something that looked dangerously like panic.
"I'm fine," Steve managed, though the words came out garbled around his swelling lip. He tried to stand, to perform the role of the unaffected partner, but his legs felt like water. He stumbled, his sneaker catching on a coiled extension cord.
He didn't hit the floor. Daniel moved with a speed that defied his usual stillness, crossing the distance in a blur. Hands—large, firm, impossibly warm—gripped Steve’s upper arms, stabilizing him. The contact was electric, a sudden jolt of voltage that made Steve’s vision swim. It wasn't the polite, performative touch they used in the cafeteria. This was a grip. A claim.
"Sit down," Daniel ordered, his voice tight. He didn't wait for compliance; he guided Steve back onto the crate, maneuvering him with a strength that felt overwhelming.
"It’s just a cut," Steve mumbled, trying to pull away. The proximity was too much. He could smell Daniel—sandalwood, expensive starch, and underneath it all, the scent of rain on hot pavement. It was intoxicating and terrifying. "You didn't have to come. I was just waiting for the swelling to go down so I could—"
"Shut up," Daniel hissed. There was no venom in it, only a frantic intensity. He dropped to one knee, ruining the crease of his trousers on the dusty concrete floor without a second thought. He reached out, his fingers hovering near Steve’s face before gently, terrifiedly gently, tilting Steve’s chin up toward the light.
Steve flinched. The instinct was involuntary.
Daniel froze. His jaw muscle ticked, a visible spasm under the skin. "Who?" The word was a single syllable of absolute violence.
"It doesn't matter," Steve whispered, his gaze dropping to Daniel’s tie—a silk maroon thing that looked like it cost more than Steve’s entire wardrobe. "I fell."
"Don't lie to me. Not you. Never you." Daniel’s thumb grazed the corner of Steve’s mouth, just below the cut. His skin was rougher than it looked, calloused from crew practice. The friction sent a shiver down Steve’s neck that had nothing to do with pain. "Richter?"
Steve didn't answer. He didn't have to. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.
Daniel let out a breath that sounded like a curse. He reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a pristine, monogrammed handkerchief. He didn't hesitate to press the fine white linen against the bloody mess of Steve’s lip.
"Hold this," Daniel commanded softly.
Steve obeyed, his hand trembling as he took the cloth. Their fingers brushed—a slow, lingering friction that made the air in the room feel suddenly thin. Daniel didn't pull away immediately. He stayed crouched there, staring at Steve with an intensity that felt like being dissected.
"I failed," Daniel said. The admission was stark, devoid of his usual rhetorical flourishes.
"What? No. You didn't—"
"The agreement," Daniel interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. "The terms were simple. You provide the façade, I provide the protection. I was… absent. And you paid for it."
The clinical nature of the words stung worse than the punch. *The terms. The agreement. The façade.* Of course. That’s what this was. Daniel was angry because his contract had been breached, because his property had been damaged. Steve felt a bitter, acidic rise of nausea.
"It's fine, Daniel," Steve said, his voice hardening. He pulled the handkerchief away. The white was stained a deep, alarming crimson. "You can stop pretending now. There's no audience here. You don't have to play the concerned boyfriend."
Daniel recoiled as if Steve had slapped him. The mask of composure slipped, revealing something raw and bewildered underneath. "Pretending?"
"We're in a closet," Steve laughed, a wet, miserable sound. "Richter isn't watching. The student council isn't watching. You can drop the act. I know I look like a mess, I know this is inconvenient for your image—"
"Stop it." Daniel stood up abruptly, the sudden motion making the shadows in the room lurch. He paced away, running a hand through his perfect hair, disrupting the order of it. He looked like a caged animal. "Is that what you think this is? Inconvenience?"
"Isn't it?" Steve pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. The adrenaline of the confrontation was overriding the pain. "I’m the charity case, right? The weird quiet kid you picked up to annoy your father. And now I’m bleeding on your shoes."
"You are an idiot," Daniel said to the wall. He turned back, his expression thunderous. "A brilliant, observant, infuriating idiot."
"Then fire me!" Steve shouted. The words echoed in the acoustic dead space of the room, too loud, too desperate. "End the contract! I can't… I can't do it anymore, Daniel. I can't pretend."
The silence that followed was absolute. The hum of the ventilation system seemed to cut out. The storm outside held its breath.
Daniel took a step forward. Then another. He closed the distance with predatory grace, invading Steve’s personal space until Steve’s back was against the rough canvas of a painted tree. Daniel placed a hand on the wall beside Steve’s head, boxing him in. He wasn't touching him, but he was everywhere. The heat radiating from his body was immense.
"Why?" Daniel asked. His voice was a whisper, but it carried the weight of a scream. "Why can't you do it anymore?"
Steve looked up, trapped in the dark gravity of Daniel’s eyes. He could see the flecks of gold in the iris, the dilation of the pupil. He was shaking. He couldn't stop shaking.
"Because it's fake," Steve breathed. The truth was clawing its way up his throat, tearing him apart. "Because every time you touch me, I have to remind myself it’s a lie. Every time you smile at me, I have to calculate the angle. I’m tired, Daniel. I’m so tired of being the only one who…"
He stopped. He had said too much. The ominous feeling in the room spiked. This was the end. He had broken the cardinal rule of the fake relationship: don't catch feelings. He waited for the sneer. He waited for the polite, cold dismissal.
"The only one who what?" Daniel leaned in closer. His breath ghosted over Steve’s injured lip. "Say it."
"No."
"Say it, Steve."
"I love you!" The confession tore out of him, ragged and ugly. Steve squeezed his eyes shut again, bracing for the impact. "I love you, okay? It’s not a game for me. It never was. I’m in love with you and it’s killing me to pretend that I’m just some… some prop in your life."
He waited. One second. Two seconds. The silence stretched, thin and taut as a wire.
Then, a touch. Not a grip, not a guide. A hand cupping his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheekbone with agonizing tenderness. The touch was hesitant, shaking slightly—a flaw in the perfect statue.
"Look at me," Daniel whispered.
Steve shook his head.
"Steve. Look. At. Me."
Slowly, painfully, Steve opened his eyes. Daniel was close. Dangerously close. But the anger was gone. In its place was an expression of such devastating vulnerability that it looked foreign on Daniel’s face.
"You think you're the only one?" Daniel asked, his voice cracking. "You think I stood between you and the world for three months because of a contract?"
"You… you needed a distraction."
"I needed you," Daniel corrected fiercely. "I have always needed you. Since the first day of sophomore year when you quoted Camus in the back of English lit. I didn't approach you for a deal, Steve. I invented the deal so I could have an excuse to be near you. Because I was too much of a coward to just ask."
Steve blinked, the world tilting on its axis. "What?"
"It was never fake," Daniel said, his forehead resting against Steve’s now. "Not for a second. Not for me. The only lie was telling myself I could handle being this close to you without losing my mind."
The realization hit Steve like a physical blow. The stolen glances. The lingering touches. The ferocity of Daniel’s protection. It hadn't been an act.
"But… you never said anything," Steve whispered.
"I was terrified," Daniel admitted, a bitter laugh escaping him. "I thought… if you knew the intensity of it… the sheer, consuming weight of what I feel… you’d run. I thought the contract was the only way to keep you."
The air in the room shifted. The oppressiveness of the heat vanished, replaced by a different kind of tension—something live, arcing, and desperate. The distance between them was nonexistent.
"I'm not running," Steve said, the words barely audible.
Daniel’s gaze dropped to Steve’s mouth. "Can I?"
"Yes."
The kiss wasn't gentle. It couldn't be. It was a collision, a release of three months of suppressed desire and fear. Daniel kissed him with a hunger that felt like starvation, devouring the space between them. Steve gasped, his hands finding purchase in the expensive fabric of Daniel’s blazer, pulling him closer, anchoring himself.
Daniel groaned low in his throat, his arms wrapping around Steve’s waist, lifting him slightly, crushing him against the wall. It tasted of blood and salt and terrifying, absolute need. The pain in Steve’s lip was a dull throb, distant and irrelevant compared to the heat of Daniel’s mouth, the weight of his body, the frantic beat of his heart against Steve’s chest.
They broke apart only when air became a necessity, foreheads resting together, breathing the same recycled, dusty air.
"You are mine," Daniel murmured, the words vibrating through Steve’s sternum. "No more contracts. No more pretending. You are mine, Steve."
"Yours," Steve agreed, the word feeling like a benediction.
Daniel pulled back slightly, his thumb tracing the cut on Steve’s lip again, his eyes darkening. The softness vanished, replaced by the sharp, protective edge that Steve now recognized as love. "I’m going to kill Richter."
"Daniel—"
"Metaphorically. Maybe. Economically, certainly." Daniel straightened, adjusting his blazer, pulling the mask of the untouchable prince back into place, but his hand never left Steve’s waist. "But first, we are going to the nurse. Then I am driving you home. And tomorrow, you are walking into that school holding my hand, and if anyone looks at you sideways, I will end them."
Steve looked at him—really looked at him. He saw the fear lingering behind the arrogance, the love masked as control. He saw the boy beneath the armor.
"Okay," Steve said, a genuine smile breaking through the pain. "Okay."
Daniel opened the heavy fire door, and the sound of thunder rumbled in the distance, low and ominous. The storm had finally broken. The world outside was still dangerous. Richter was still there. The whispers and the stares would be worse than ever now that the lines were blurred. But as Daniel laced his fingers through Steve’s—firm, unyielding, possessive—Steve stepped out of the dark and into the hallway.
The air smelled of rain and impending violence, but for the first time in his life, Steve wasn't afraid of the storm.