Tourmented by jock in love triangle — Chapitre 1 · Two doors, one choice

— Hey, Liam.

Not my name. Lee.
I didn’t correct him. I kept my head down, fingers frozen on my keyboard, the code on my screen blurring into meaningless symbols. Behind Marcus, two of his teammates—Derek and some other guy whose name I never bothered to learn—snickered like cartoon henchmen.

— Yo, Liam, what’s that shirt? Did your mom pick it out?

My shirt was a plain gray henley. Unremarkable. But Marcus’s gaze dragged down my collar like he was cataloging every thread, and my skin prickled under the attention.

— Leave him alone, Marc. Derek’s voice, bored. Dude’s gonna cry.

Marcus didn’t look away from me. His mouth curved.

— Nah. He’s not gonna cry. Are you, Lee?

The correction landed like a slap. He did know my name. He’d always known.
I said nothing. Packed my laptop with hands that trembled minutely, shoved it into my bag, and walked out of the student center. Their laughter followed me through the glass doors and into the October wind.
That was how it started. Small. Almost harmless.

---

Two years.
Two years of Marcus fucking Chen appearing in doorways and hallways and coffee shops like a summons I couldn’t refuse. Two years of his voice carrying across crowded rooms, always finding me, always landing on some fresh insecurity.

— Nice haircut, Lee. What’d you do, lose a bet with a lawnmower?

— Whoa, Lee’s got a date? What’s the matter, Tinder run out of normal people?

— Dude, you actually like that band? Jesus. No wonder you eat alone.

His friends laughed. I learned to laugh too, this hollow bark that made me hate myself. Anything to make it stop faster.
The worst was Rachel.
Sophomore year, second semester. Rachel with her crooked smile and her vintage band tees and the way she’d trace my palm with her finger while I talked about neural networks. She didn’t understand a word of it, but she listened. She looked at me.
We lasted three weeks.
Marcus found us at O’Malley’s, the off-campus bar where I thought I’d be safe. He materialized beside our booth with a pitcher of beer and that million-dollar grin, and within ten minutes he’d told Rachel about the time I “supposedly” cried during a group presentation freshman year. Embellished. Made it sound like I’d sobbed into my flash cards.
Rachel texted me the next morning. Hey. I think we should just be friends.
I didn’t cry. But I stopped going to O’Malley’s. Stopped going anywhere that wasn’t the library or my apartment. Mapped routes between classes that minimized exposure, calculated risk like I was navigating a minefield.
Didn’t matter. Marcus always found me. Always had something to say.
And always—always—watched me leave.

---

Spring semester, senior year. April. The kind of afternoon that makes people forget winter exists, sunlight pouring through the library windows in sheets of gold.
I’d claimed a corner table on the third floor, books spread around me in a fortress of distraction. My thesis on convolutional neural networks wasn’t going to write itself.

— Is this seat taken?

I looked up.
The guy standing across from me wasn’t Marcus. That was the first thing I noticed. He was taller than me but not by much, with dark curls falling across his forehead and glasses that kept slipping down his nose. His hoodie had a faded Super Mario Bros. logo. He carried a laptop under one arm and a thermos in the other hand, and he was smiling at me like he’d already decided we were friends.

— Uh, I said eloquently.

— Cool if I sit? Everywhere else is packed, and you’ve got like, four chairs here. He gestured at my spread. I promise I’m quiet. I’ve got headphones.

Something about his voice. Unhurried. Unthreatening. The opposite of every interaction I’d had for two years.

— Yeah, I heard myself say. Go ahead.

He sat. Plugged in his laptop. Put on headphones that were comically large, neon green, and proceeded to ignore me completely for the next hour.
His name, I learned later, was Noah.

---

It happened gradually, the way good things do.
Noah started appearing at my table every Tuesday and Thursday. He’d nod hello, set up his workstation, and dive into whatever project consumed him. After two weeks, the headphones came off. After three, he started asking questions.

— What are you working on?

I explained my thesis. He didn’t glaze over. He asked follow-ups—smart ones, the kind that suggested he actually understood the difference between supervised and unsupervised learning. By the fourth week, we’d established a ritual: study for two hours, then walk to the campus coffee shop where he’d order something with too much caramel and I’d get black tea, and we’d talk about everything except the thing I was terrified he’d notice.
The way I flinched whenever a door slammed. The way I scanned every room before I entered it.

— So, Noah said one afternoon, stirring his caramel monstrosity with a wooden stick, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.

My pulse stuttered. Here it was. The polite rejection. The sorry, I’m not actually interested in being friends.

— Ask.

— Are you seeing anyone?

The question landed like a stone in still water. Ripples spreading outward, disturbing everything.

— I—no. Why?

Noah shrugged, but his cheeks went pink.

— Because I’d like to take you to dinner. Friday. If you’re free.

I stared at him.
His blush deepened.

— Or not. Forget I said anything. I’m bad at reading signals, my last boyfriend said I was like a golden retriever—

— Yes.

— Just barging into things without—wait, really?

— Yes, I said again, and the word felt like breaking a window. Shattering something that had kept me contained.

Noah’s smile took over his whole face.

---

Friday. Seven PM. I changed shirts four times before settling on a dark blue button-down that didn’t make me look like I was attending a funeral. Ran product through my hair. Stared at my reflection and tried to see what Marcus saw when he looked at me. Something weak. Something worth breaking.
The restaurant was Italian. Candlelight. Noah had made a reservation.
He pulled out my chair. He asked about my day and listened to the answer. He told me about growing up in Portland, about his two cats (Mochi and Donut), about transferring schools because he’d wanted a fresh start after a messy breakup.
After dinner, we walked through the campus arboretum. The cherry trees were blooming. Petals drifted down like confetti in the streetlight glow.

— I’m glad I transferred, Noah said. He was close enough that our shoulders brushed with every step. I almost didn’t. Almost stayed somewhere comfortable even though it wasn’t right for me.

— What changed your mind?

He stopped walking. Turned to face me. In the half-dark, his eyes were very serious.

— I decided I deserved better.

The kiss came without warning. His hand on my jaw, gentle. His lips tasting of the wine he’d ordered with dinner. I made a sound—something embarrassing, something unguarded—and Noah pulled back just far enough to whisper, Was that okay?

My answer was to kiss him again.
We ended up at my apartment. The one-bedroom I’d rented off-campus after the dorms became unbearable. I fumbled with my keys while Noah pressed against my back, mouth tracing the curve of my neck, and everything felt like a dream I was about to wake up from.
Inside. Door closed. Noah’s hands finding the hem of my shirt.

— Tell me if you want to stop, he breathed.

— I don’t.

— Tell me anyway.

I pulled him toward the bedroom.
Noah was methodical. Careful. He undressed me like I was something worth unwrapping, pausing to press his lips to every newly exposed inch of skin. My collarbone. My sternum. The soft place below my ribs that made me squirm. His curls tickled my stomach and I laughed, and the sound startled me—when was the last time I’d laughed during this? During anything?

— You’re beautiful, Noah murmured against my hipbone.

I wanted to argue. Wanted to deflect with sarcasm the way I always did. But his fingers were working my belt loose and his breath was warm through the fabric of my jeans and the words died in my throat.
He took his time with my cock. Drew it out until I was gripping the sheets, jaw clenched, every nerve ending singing. His mouth was hot and wet and devastatingly precise, and when I warned him I was close he only hummed in acknowledgment and doubled his efforts.
I came with a cry that might have been his name.
Afterward, I returned the favor. Learned the geography of his body with my tongue—the freckle behind his knee, the scar on his ribs, the way his fingers twisted in my hair when I took him deep. He was vocal in a way that undid me. Unashamed. Mine.
Later. Both of us sweaty and breathless. Noah’s head on my chest, tracing patterns on my palm.

— Lee?

— Mm.

— I know we haven’t known each other long. But I really like you.

Something cracked open inside my ribs. Light pouring in.

— I really like you too.

---

Monday. The campus quad. Noah had brought sandwiches and we were eating on a bench near the fountain, his ankle hooked over mine beneath the seat.
The sun was warm. The sky was blue. I had mustard on my chin and Noah was laughing, reaching up to wipe it away with his thumb, and I thought: this is what normal feels like.
Then a shadow fell over us.

— Well, well. Look at this.

Marcus.
He stood with his arms crossed, Derek flanking him like a loyal Doberman. The sun behind his head made a halo of his hair. Angelic. Demonic. Something in between.
Noah looked up, curious.

— Can I help you?

— Just admiring the view. Marcus’s gaze slid to me. Didn’t know you were into guys, Lee. Should’ve said something.

My stomach bottomed out.
Noah’s expression didn’t change.

— I’m sorry, who are you?

— Marcus Chen. Football. You’ve probably seen me.

The smile stayed on Noah’s face, but something behind it went cold. He turned to me.

— Lee, you know this guy?

I couldn’t speak.
Marcus answered for me.

— We go way back. Right, Lee? Old friends.

— He’s not your friend, Noah said quietly.

The word hung in the air.
Marcus’s grin faltered. Just for a moment.

— Excuse me?

— You heard me. Noah stood. He wasn’t as tall as Marcus, not as broad, but he planted himself between us like a wall. Whatever this is—whatever you’ve been doing—it’s over. Leave him alone.

— Or what?

— Or I’ll make sure the entire campus knows their star quarterback spends his free time harassing people half his size. Think the athletic department would like that?

Derek shifted uncomfortably.

— Marc, come on. Let’s go.

But Marcus wasn’t looking at Derek. He wasn’t looking at Noah. He was looking at me, and his eyes were something I’d never seen before. Something raw. Something cracked open.

— Lee, he said, and his voice was different. Stripped. Can we talk? Just for a second.

— No, Noah said.

— I wasn’t asking you.

The quad had gone quiet. Other students watching. I could feel their eyes like insects crawling over my skin.
Two years. Two years of swallowing humiliation. Two years of shrinking. Two years of Marcus Chen’s voice in my head even when he wasn’t in the room.

— No, I said.

The word came out stronger than I felt.
Marcus flinched. Actually flinched, like I’d struck him.

— Lee—

— He said no. Noah stepped backward, his hand finding mine. Let’s go.

We walked. Past Marcus. Past Derek. Past the fountain and the cherry trees and the life I’d been living for two years. I didn’t look back. If I’d looked back, I would have seen Marcus still standing there, arms at his sides, something crumbling behind his perfect face.

---

A week passed.
Noah and I fell into a rhythm. Study sessions. Dinner dates. Nights spent tangled in my sheets, learning each other’s bodies with the dedication of scholars. He made me laugh. He made me forget.
But Marcus didn’t go away.
I saw him everywhere. Outside the computer science building. Across the quad. Sitting alone in the back of the lecture hall during Advanced Algorithms, which he didn’t even take, just watching. Always watching. His friends nowhere in sight.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t approach. Just looked at me with those fractured eyes, and every time I looked away first.
Thursday night. Noah was in the shower. I was in my kitchen, pouring two glasses of wine, when the knock came.
Sharp. Urgent.
I opened the door without thinking.
Marcus.
He was soaked. Rain plastering his hair to his forehead, rivulets running down his face. His sweatshirt was dark with water. He was breathing hard, like he’d run here.

— I need to talk to you. No preamble. No smirk. The arrogance was gone, stripped away by something I didn’t recognize. Please. Five minutes.

— You can’t be here.

— Five minutes.

Behind me, the shower stopped. Noah’s voice, muffled: Lee? Everything okay?
I stepped into the hallway and pulled the door mostly shut behind me.

— What do you want?

Marcus’s throat worked. His hands were shaking. From cold or something else, I couldn’t tell.

— I can’t stop thinking about you.

The words landed like a physical blow.

— What?

— I can’t— He broke off, laughed, a jagged sound. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. Every time I close my eyes, I see your face. The way you looked at me on the quad. Like I was nothing.

— You wanted me to be nothing.

— I know. His voice cracked. I know. And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Lee, I don’t—I didn’t know how to—

— How to what?

He stepped closer. I could smell him—rain and cedar and something sharp, something close to desperation. His hand came up, hovered near my face, didn’t quite touch.

— I think I’m in love with you.

The hallway tilted.
Marcus Chen. Star quarterback. The boy who’d made my life hell for two years. Standing in my doorway with rain in his hair and wreckage in his eyes, saying words that didn’t belong in his mouth.

— You don’t even like men, I whispered.

— I don’t know what I like. His voice broke open. I just know I like you. I’ve always—it was always you. Every comment, every joke, I just wanted you to look at me. I wanted your attention. Any attention. And I took the only way I knew how. I know it was wrong. I know I’m—I know I’m fucked up. But please. Please don’t go back inside. Please don’t choose him.

The door opened.
Noah stood in the threshold, towel around his waist, water beading on his shoulders. His expression was unreadable.

— Lee, he said quietly. What’s going on?

I looked at Noah—kind, patient Noah, who’d kissed me like I mattered and defended me without hesitation. Then I looked at Marcus—Marcus, who’d tormented me for years, who was standing here soaking wet and shaking, telling me he loved me.
Two doors. Two futures.
And I had no idea which one to walk through.