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Peter had always hated how steady Chris Argent was.
How level-headed, how deliberate, how damn gracious he could be—even when Peter was all sharp corners and unfiltered thoughts, stomping through the world like every inconvenient feeling should be detonated, not discussed.
They’d hated each other at first.
Or at least, that’s what Peter told himself when they clashed in freshman seminars—Chris with his Socratic calm, Peter with his hair-trigger mouth. They disagreed on everything: justice, accountability, the necessity of fire drills. Chris argued with logic. Peter argued like he wanted to kiss the person he was trying to ruin.
They hadn’t stopped circling each other since.
And now?
Now Peter was walking across campus, half-hungover, sleep-deprived, and juggling a half-spilled coffee when he caught sight of him.
Chris.
On a bench under the tree by the quad, all relaxed limbs and polite posture.
And her.
The girl next to him was the kind of pretty that belonged in yearbook superlatives—Best Smile, Most Likely to Ruin Peter’s Day. She was leaning in too close, touching Chris’s arm, laughing like she had a right to it.
Worse—Chris was laughing back.
Peter’s stomach twisted. His pace doubled. His thoughts spiraled.
He’d seen that laugh. Once. Maybe twice. Not since the parking lot fight where Peter had said too much and Chris had walked away before he could take it back. Not since he’d looked at Peter like loving him would be easier if Peter came with a warning label.
And now this girl—this random cardigan-wearing seminar-thirst trap—got the laugh Peter hadn’t seen in weeks?
No.
Absolutely not.
“Oh,” Peter said, sharp and smiling like a lit match. “This is how I find out?”
Chris’s head turned, eyes narrowing slightly like he already knew this wasn’t going to end well.
“Peter—”
Peter turned to the girl, voice like poisoned honey. “Hi. Sorry to interrupt your flirt-to-graduate pipeline, but I just wanted to clarify—are you his girlfriend, or just auditioning for the role?”
She blinked. “Um—”
“Because he told me he was busy,” Peter barrelled on, pacing half a step, as if proximity could reframe reality. “But clearly, very busy being a lying, smiling, arm-touched—” He cut his gaze back to Chris. “You let her touch your elbow.”
Chris exhaled. Like he was already two breaths past done.
“Peter—”
“No! You let her do the graze! The graze, Chris! That’s a second-date move.”
Chris turned to the girl—Claire, maybe—with the kind of weary calm that only came from knowing Peter wasn’t going to stop unless someone left the battlefield. “Claire, could you—?”
“I got it,” she said, clearly entertained. She gathered her bag, offered Peter a very non-apologetic smile, and left like she couldn’t wait to tell someone about this.
Once she was gone, Chris turned back and crossed his arms like armor.
“What exactly do you think is happening?”
Peter scoffed, expression contorted with disbelief. “You’re on a date.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re smiling.”
“She told me her cat’s name is Garbage.”
“That’s adorable. You don’t smile like that for just anyone.”
Chris sighed. Not annoyed—resigned. “You’re insane.”
“You’re dating someone else.”
Chris stepped in. Not fast, not aggressive. Just… present. “She’s in my seminar.”
“That’s how it starts!”
“She’s writing her paper on morality in pre-Socratic philosophy.”
“That’s foreplay for people like you!”
Chris raised a brow. “People like me?”
Peter’s heart was pounding now, fists clenched. “You know. Clean-cut. Ethical. Capable of restraint. It’s like you all find each other at orientation and form a support group for people who say no to temptation.”
Chris looked at him like he wanted to laugh. Like Peter was performing, which he was, and it was infuriating that Chris could see through it even now.
“You think I’m dating someone,” Chris said slowly, “because she touched my elbow.”
Peter threw up his hands. “And you let her! That’s basically second base for you!”
Chris blinked, deadpan. “What’s first base? Prolonged eye contact?”
Peter narrowed his eyes. “Don’t be cute.”
“I’m not,” Chris said, stepping closer again. “But I am confused. Because for someone who claims not to care, you’ve practically declared war on a grad student I once shared a Google Doc with.”
Peter folded his arms tightly. “You looked happy.”
Chris inhaled deeply. Measured. Holding back something—frustration, disappointment, maybe the urge to drag Peter into the nearest hallway and end this with something that wasn’t words.
“I was being kind.”
“Be kind to me.”
“I tried. You bit me.”
“That was one time!”
It had been one time.
One night in Chris’s dorm, hours past decent, after too many energy drinks and the kind of paper-writing delirium that made Peter soft around the edges. Chris had looked up from a book and said something about Peter’s defense mechanism being sarcasm layered over genuine fear, and Peter had—
Well.
He’d leaned in.
Mouth against jaw.
A graze of teeth just below Chris’s ear.
And bit him. Not hard. But not nothing.
Chris hadn’t flinched.
Just said, “I see.”
And hadn’t brought it up again.
Peter looked away. “It was a soft bite.”
Chris stared.
Then took a final, controlled step into Peter’s space—close now. Eye-level. No more hiding behind calm.
“I am not dating her. We were discussing her dead cat, her failing GPA, and how she might plagiarize Kant just to get through the semester.”
Peter opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. Failed.
Chris tilted his head. The disappointment was there now, clear and quiet.
“You stormed across campus to accuse me of cheating on you in a relationship we’re not even in.”
Peter felt it like a gut punch. “You laughed.”
Chris’s voice softened, low and deliberate. “So ask me why I don’t laugh like that with you.”
Peter didn’t.
Wouldn’t.
Because if he asked, he’d have to hear it. And if he heard it, it might ruin him.
Chris let it hang. Waited. Then brushed his fingers lightly against Peter’s wrist. Just enough to be felt.
“I’m not dating anyone,” Chris said. “But if I was, they’d never make me this angry. Or this crazy. Or this... aware of how stupidly in love I probably am.”
Peter blinked.
Chris dropped his hand. Took a breath. Stepped back.
“Next time,” he said, voice calm again—almost bored, almost hurt, “just ask. Don’t blow up a seminar because you got jealous over a PowerPoint partner.”
Peter scoffed. “It wasn’t about the PowerPoint.”
Chris gave him a look. “It was literally only about the PowerPoint.”
“She used Comic Sans.”
Chris blinked. “You didn’t see the slides.”
“I know her type, Chris.”
Chris pinched the bridge of his nose. “What does that even mean?”
“Overly friendly. Emotionally stable. Probably uses emojis unironically. You can’t trust that.”
“You’re projecting.”
“I’m protecting.”
Chris stared. “From what, Peter? A polite grad student and her aggressively themed cat slideshow?”
“She touched your elbow.”
Chris groaned. “Again with the elbow—”
“That was intimate!”
“It was a shrug! She shrugged!”
“Don’t downplay it. I know what I saw.”
Chris threw his hands up. “Jesus Christ.”
Peter folded his arms, pouting now. “You always do this.”
Chris looked like he was about five seconds from laying down in traffic. “Do what?”
“Act like I’m crazy for noticing things. I’m observant. That’s not a crime.”
Chris’s jaw twitched. “You staged an emotional hostage situation because someone stood next to me.”
Peter sniffed. “You said she was in your seminar. You didn’t say she was attached to your aura.”
Chris’s eye twitched. “I cannot believe I’m defending spatial proximity.”
“She touched your elbow, Chris. The inside part.”
“I will end you.”
“I’m just saying, next time you plan on making some deeply intimate PowerPoint memories with a civilian, maybe give me a head’s up.”
Chris stared at him. Silent. Still.
Then:
He laughed.
It wasn’t amused.
It was the laugh of a man hanging on by threads.
“Jesus,” he said, low and stunned, “I just confessed I’m in love with you, and you’re still stuck on a goddamn elbow graze?”
Peter blinked.
Chris stepped forward—done. “You accused me of dating someone, yelled at me in front of half the political science department, and I still said it.”
Peter opened his mouth. Closed it.
“You are impossible,” Chris muttered.
“You’re dramatic.”
“You bit me in a dorm lounge.”
“You said something annoying.”
“I said your emotional defense mechanisms were outdated.”
Peter pointed. “Exactly. Who says that?”
“I did. While in love with you.”
Peter blinked. “…Wait. Was that the first time?”
Chris blinked back. “That’s your question?”
Peter frowned. “If you’re gonna confess, you should be clear.”
Chris stepped right up to him now—close enough to ruin him.
“Peter.”
“Yes?”
Chris kissed him.
Fast. Frustrated. Feral.
Peter made a noise in the back of his throat, muffled by Chris’s mouth. And then—then he melted, hands gripping Chris’s collar like it was the only stable thing in his unraveling universe.
When Chris finally pulled back, breath hot against Peter’s lips, he whispered:
“That clear enough for you?”
Peter, flushed and wrecked and totally undone, muttered:
“…She still touched your elbow.”
Chris groaned. “I hate you.”
Peter grinned. “No, you don’t.”