The alarm buzzed like a mosquito trapped in a tin can. Ethan groaned, arm flinging out to silence it. He'd gotten home just past 3 a.m., after a long shift at the bar, and now—barely three hours later—he had class.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his face with both hands. The room was still dark, the fan still broken, and the heat already creeping in. He shuffled to the sink, brushed his teeth with one hand while scrolling through class notes on his phone with the other. His reflection stared back at him—wet hair, bare chest, and those dark circles under his eyes.
But somehow, they didn't make him look weak.
The shadows beneath his eyes were soft but unmistakable—smudged like charcoal, not from age, but from nights spent working, surviving, dreaming too hard. They didn't make him look worn out. They made him look lived-in. Like someone who'd already seen too much for twenty, but still carried it with a kind of quiet heat 🔥. The kind that made people glance twice, wondering how exhaustion could look that good.
He threw on a faded black tee and jeans, swung his bag over one shoulder with a casual flick, and stepped out into the morning light. The sun hadn't fully risen, but the streets were already stirring. Motorbikes zipped past, vendors set up their stalls, and the air smelled faintly of fried dough and humidity.
On the way to college, Ethan passed a few classmates.
"Yo, Ethan," one called out.
He nodded, offered a lazy smile. "Morning."
Another girl waved shyly. He waved back, not flirtatious—just warm enough to make her blush.
Then came his best friend, Kai, pedaling up beside him on a beat-up bicycle.
"You look like shit," Kai grinned.
"Thanks. I aim for consistency," Ethan replied, adjusting his bag.
They walked side by side, Kai pushing his bike as they chatted.
"Did you finish the CAD model for the bridge project?" Kai asked.
"Halfway. I'll do the rest tonight—after work."
"You're insane."
"Probably. What's the professor saying about the load calculations?"
Kai launched into a breakdown of the structural stress points, and Ethan nodded along, absorbing it all. Despite the fatigue, his mind was sharp. He didn't complain. He never did.
In class, Ethan sat near the back, not to hide—but to observe. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were locked onto the board. He took notes with quiet precision, pen gliding across the page. There was something magnetic about the way he focused—like the world narrowed to equations and diagrams, and everything else faded.
He didn't fidget. Didn't check his phone. Just leaned forward slightly, brows furrowed, jaw tight. Tired, yes. But composed. Controlled. Hot in a way that made people glance twice and wonder what it was about him that pulled their attention without asking for it 🖤.
When class ended, he headed to the library. Two hours of research—scanning textbooks, scribbling formulas, sketching rough designs. His fingers were stained with graphite, his eyes heavy, but he kept going.
Then his stomach growled.
He packed up, jogged down the steps, and grabbed a bun from a convenience stall outside. It was warm, cheap, and gone in three bites. He walked briskly to the bus stop, earbuds in, music low. Something moody. Something with bass.
The bus pulled up, and he climbed aboard, sliding into a corner seat. He leaned his head against the window, watching the city blur past—concrete, neon, people. His reflection flickered in the glass, half-shadowed, half-lit 🎧.
At the other end of the bus sat Joss.
He wore a plain white shirt, sleeves rolled up, and dark slacks. No jewelry. No flash. Just clean lines and quiet power. His hair was neatly styled, his posture relaxed—but there was something about him that made people instinctively look away. Like they could sense the weight he carried.
Joss was a gang leader—not the kind that barked orders in alleyways, but the kind who negotiated territory over whiskey and silence. He managed deals, kept peace between rival groups, and made decisions that didn't leave room for softness. His days were filled with noise—phones ringing, men shouting, money moving. But once in a while, he took the bus. Not because he had to. But because it was the only place no one expected him to be.
He sat quietly, watching the city through tinted lenses, letting the hum of the engine drown out everything else.
And then he saw Ethan.
Just a glimpse—wet hair still clinging to his forehead, shirt slightly damp from the heat, jaw set, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. The kind of beauty that didn't ask for attention but demanded it anyway.
Joss didn't stare. He just watched. Briefly. Curiously.
When the bus stopped near the bar, Ethan stood, adjusted his bag, and stepped off. Joss's gaze followed him for a moment longer, then turned back to the window.
Two men. Two corners. One riding because he had no choice. The other because he needed silence.
Parallel lines. Not yet touching.