Dating Isabella while having feelings for Dante required skills Adrian didn't know he possessed—emotional compartmentalization, strategic avoidance, and an increasingly convincing performance of "good boyfriend."
When he was with Isabella, Adrian focused with laser intensity. He listened to her stories about pre-med drama, asked follow-up questions, remembered details about her research project and her complicated relationship with her father. He held her hand, opened doors, paid for coffee, did all the things someone who was fully invested would do.
He just had to carefully avoid certain campus locations, redirect conversations away from his roommate situation, and ignore the constant background hum of awareness that told him exactly where Dante was at any given moment.
It was exhausting.
The first real test came in the form of the exhibition basketball match—intramural versus varsity.
Adrian stood on the court in his intramural uniform, stretching his hamstrings and trying not to think about the fact that Dante was across the gym doing the same thing in varsity gear. The game was supposed to be friendly, a fun exhibition to build campus community and let the varsity team show off before their real season started.
It didn't feel friendly.
Coach Stevens, who ran the intramural program, gathered Adrian's team for a quick pep talk.
"Look, we're not going to win. Let's be realistic. But we can play hard, make them work for it, show what we've got. Tyler, you're on Marcus Reid—he's their point guard, super fast. Chris, take number fifteen. Adrian—" He paused, checking his clipboard. "You're on Dante Alaric. Try to keep up."
Adrian's stomach dropped. "Can't someone else—"
"You're our best defender. If anyone can slow him down, it's you."
The game started, and within thirty seconds, Adrian understood exactly what he'd signed up for.
Dante guarded him with aggressive intensity that bordered on illegal—hands constantly checking Adrian's hips and shoulders, body positioned to block every movement, face inches away during defensive stances.
Adrian drove toward the basket. Dante's hand pressed against his lower back, forcing him off-balance.
"Foul," Adrian called.
"That wasn't a foul," Dante said, his voice low and rough. "That was barely contact."
"Your hand was on my back."
"You ran into me."
They were standing too close, breathing hard, sweat already making Adrian's shirt stick to his skin. Dante's dark eyes were intense, focused entirely on Adrian in a way that made his brain short-circuit.
The ref blew the whistle. "Play on."
It continued like that—constant physical contact, bodies colliding on every play, Dante defending Adrian with a single-minded focus that felt personal. Every time Adrian touched the ball, Dante was there, close enough that Adrian could smell his sweat and shampoo, close enough to feel body heat radiating between them.
Adrian scored on a three-pointer, creating just enough separation to get the shot off. Dante's hand had been in his face, almost touching, but not quite enough for a foul.
"Nice shot," Dante muttered as they ran back down court.
"Thanks."
It was the first word they'd exchanged in days that wasn't through text or absolutely necessary.
The game was brutal. The varsity team was faster, more coordinated, had actual plays instead of the intramural team's "whoever's open, shoot" strategy. But Adrian's team fought hard, and Adrian personally scored eighteen points—all while Dante guarded him relentlessly.
Final score: 78-43, varsity.
Adrian stood at half-court afterward, bent over with hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. His whole body ached from the constant physical contact, muscles burning, lungs heaving.
Dante approached, extending his hand. "Good game."
Adrian looked up, found Dante watching him with that same complicated expression from the dining hall—longing mixed with frustration mixed with something Adrian didn't have words for.
He shook Dante's hand. Their palms pressed together, both slick with sweat, and the contact sent electricity shooting up Adrian's arm.
"You're a good player," Dante said quietly, not letting go of his hand. "Better than you think you are."
"I scored eighteen points and we still lost by thirty-five."
"You scored eighteen points against me. Most people can't do that."
They stood there, hands still clasped, neither willing to be the first to pull away.
Marcus jogged over, breaking the moment. "Great game, man. You've got skills." He clapped Adrian on the shoulder. "We should practice together sometime. I could teach you some defensive techniques."
"Sure," Adrian managed, finally dropping Dante's hand. "That would be cool."
Dante's jaw clenched, a muscle jumping near his ear—a tell Adrian had learned to recognize as jealousy or frustration or both.
The second test came via Psychology 101.
Professor Martinez announced group projects analyzing competition dynamics in social settings. She'd randomly assigned eight-person teams, and Adrian's stomach sank the moment he saw the list:
Team 4: Hayes, Alaric, Chen (Isabella), Vasquez, Reid, Thompson, Park, Williams
Of course. Of course Adrian and Dante would be assigned to the same team. Of course Isabella would be there too. And Marcus. Because the universe had a sick sense of humor.
Their first meeting was in the library study room, all eight of them crammed around a table with textbooks and laptops.
"Okay," Isabella said, taking charge naturally. "We need to pick a specific competition dynamic to analyze. Sports, academics, professional environments, social hierarchies—any suggestions?"
"Academic competition," Elena suggested. "We could survey students about grade comparisons, competition for scholarships, that kind of thing."
"Or romantic competition," Marcus offered. "Like when multiple people are interested in the same person. That creates interesting social dynamics."
Adrian felt rather than saw Dante tense beside him.
"Sports makes the most sense," Dante said, his voice carefully neutral. "We have more direct access to data—game stats, team dynamics, measurable outcomes."
"But everyone does sports," Isabella countered. "We should pick something more unique."
The meeting continued, but the air in the small room grew progressively thicker. Adrian was hyperaware of Dante sitting three feet away, could feel the tension radiating off him in waves. Every time Isabella spoke, Dante's shoulders would tighten infinitesimally. Every time Marcus made a joke and the group laughed, Dante's jaw would clench.
They ended the meeting fifteen minutes early because nobody could breathe properly anymore.
"That was the most uncomfortable group project meeting I've ever experienced," Elena muttered to Adrian as they packed up. "And I once had to work with my ex-boyfriend and the girl he cheated on me with. What is going on with you three?"
"Nothing. We're fine."
"Adrian, I could cut the tension in that room with a knife. You, Dante, and Isabella are absolutely not fine."
Adrian didn't have a response to that.
The third and most brutal test came disguised as a fun double date.
Isabella had suggested dinner at Tavola, an Italian place near campus, with Elena and her girlfriend Maya. Adrian had agreed because that's what good boyfriends did—they went on double dates and socialized and pretended everything was normal.
The four of them were halfway through appetizers, conversation flowing naturally, when the hostess led Marcus and Dante to a table across the restaurant.
Adrian's entire body went on alert.
"Oh, what a coincidence!" Isabella waved at them. "Marcus! Dante!"
Marcus waved back, looking genuinely surprised to see them. Dante's expression was carefully blank, unreadable.
"They should join us," Isabella said, already signaling the server. "We have room."
"Babe, maybe they want privacy—" Elena tried.
Too late. The server was already rearranging chairs, Marcus and Dante were approaching with their menus, and suddenly the comfortable double date had become something much more complicated.
They squeezed two more chairs around the table—Dante ending up directly across from Adrian, Marcus beside Isabella, everyone sitting too close in the cramped space.
"This is cozy," Marcus said with forced cheer. "Double date becomes triple date."
"We're not—" Dante started, then stopped. "We're just getting dinner. Two friends. Having dinner."
"Right," Marcus agreed quickly. "Friend dinner."
The server took their orders. Adrian requested wine, then when the server left, immediately regretted not ordering something stronger.
Conversation limped along, drowning in subtext nobody was acknowledging.
"So, Adrian," Marcus said, clearly trying to fill the awkward silence. "How's intramural going? You played really well at the exhibition match."
"It's fine. We're not going to win any championships, but it's fun."
"You scored eighteen points against Dante. That's impressive."
"Dante was going easy on me," Adrian said, trying to deflect.
"I absolutely was not." Dante's voice was sharp, the first full sentence he'd contributed to the conversation. "I guarded you as hard as I guard anyone."
Their eyes met across the table. Adrian saw frustration and something else burning in Dante's dark eyes—pride, maybe, or vindication that Adrian had held his own.
"Well, it was a good game either way," Isabella interjected smoothly. "Adrian's been really dedicated to practice. He's gotten a lot better."
"He's always been good," Dante said quietly. "He just doesn't believe it."
The words hung in the air, too intimate for the context, revealing too much.
Elena and Maya exchanged glances. Marcus studied his menu with sudden intense focus. Isabella's hand found Adrian's under the table, squeezing gently.
The food arrived, providing temporary distraction. Adrian drank his wine too fast, ordered a second glass, felt the alcohol blur the edges of his discomfort without actually eliminating it.
Dante barely spoke throughout dinner. He pushed food around his plate, responded when directly addressed, but volunteered nothing. His shoulders were tight, jaw clenched, every line of his body radiating tension.
Adrian knew this because he'd spent the entire meal watching Dante instead of paying attention to Isabella.
Which was how he noticed when Marcus casually touched Dante's arm during a story about basketball practice, and Dante flinched—subtle, almost imperceptible, but definitely a flinch. How he saw Dante's knuckles go white around his fork every time Isabella laughed at Adrian's jokes. How Dante's eyes kept finding Adrian's across the table, holding contact for just a second too long before looking away.
Adrian was reading Dante's emotional state with scary accuracy, cataloging micro-expressions and body language tells like he'd been studying for this exact test his entire life.
"You okay?" Isabella whispered, leaning close. "You've been quiet."
"I'm fine. Just tired. Long day."
"We can leave after this if you want. I know crowds aren't really your thing."
She was being kind, understanding, perfect. Adrian felt guilt settle heavy in his stomach.
They split the check, said goodbyes in the parking lot. Marcus and Dante headed toward Marcus's car—apparently they'd driven together, which Adrian definitely wasn't jealous about.
The drive back to campus was quiet. Elena and Maya talked softly in the back seat while Isabella navigated. Adrian stared out the window, replaying every moment of the disastrous dinner.
"That was weird, right?" Elena said eventually. "Please tell me I'm not crazy and that was objectively the most uncomfortable dinner of all time."
"It was pretty tense," Maya agreed.
"Dante barely said anything," Isabella observed, her voice carefully neutral. "He seemed upset about something."
"He's going through stuff," Adrian said, the words automatic. "Basketball pressure, classes, whatever."
"How do you know he's going through stuff?"
Adrian realized his mistake too late. "He just—he's seemed off lately. In the dorm."
"You two still not talking?"
"We talk. Just not... extensively."
"That must be hard. Living with someone you have complicated history with."
There was something in Isabella's tone that made Adrian look at her, but her expression was focused on the road, unreadable in the dim light from the dashboard.
That night, Adrian called Sage while walking across campus.
"I need you to tell me I'm not crazy," he said without preamble.
"You're not crazy, but you are an idiot. These are separate issues."
"Sage."
"What happened now?"
Adrian explained the dinner, the awkwardness, the way he couldn't stop watching Dante, couldn't stop cataloging his moods and micro-expressions.
"Here's the thing," Sage said when he finished. "You know more about Dante's emotional state than your actual girlfriend's. You can tell when he's jealous, when he's frustrated, when he's upset, but you can't tell me what Isabella's feeling half the time. That's not normal rivalry, Adrian. That's not even normal friendship."
"What is it then?"
"You know what it is. You've known for weeks. You're just too scared to admit it out loud."
"I'm dating Isabella. I'm trying to make that work."
"Why? Because you actually want to be with her, or because it's easier than dealing with your feelings for Dante?"
Adrian didn't answer.
"That's what I thought," Sage said softly. "Look, I love you, but you need to make a choice. Either commit to Isabella fully—really commit, not this half-assed performance you're doing—or let her go and figure out the Dante situation. This middle ground is going to destroy all three of you."
"It's not that simple."
"It actually is. You're the one making it complicated."
After they hung up, Adrian returned to the dorm to find Dante already there, sitting on his bed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, laptop open but clearly not working on anything.
The room was dark except for the blue glow of Dante's screen. Adrian could see his profile in the dim light—the curve of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way he held himself like he was bracing for impact.
Adrian should have gone straight to bed. Should have maintained the careful distance they'd established. Should have done literally anything except what he actually did.
"Can't sleep either?" Adrian asked quietly.
Dante looked up, surprised. "No. You?"
"Too much in my head."
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on them.
"That dinner was awful," Dante said finally. "Sorry. I know Isabella was trying to be nice, but I just—I couldn't—"
"I know."
"You know?"
"Yeah. I could tell you were uncomfortable. You barely said anything all night."
Dante's expression shifted to something vulnerable. "You were paying attention?"
"I'm always paying attention to you," Adrian admitted before he could stop himself. "I don't know how to not pay attention to you."
The silence that followed was heavy, charged with electricity.
"Are you happy?" Dante asked suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper. "With Isabella. With how things are. Are you happy?"
Adrian should have said yes. Should have defended his relationship, insisted everything was fine, maintained the performance.
Instead, caught off-guard by the raw vulnerability in Dante's voice, he told the truth.
"I don't know."
Dante's breath hitched, audible in the quiet room.
"Me neither," he said after a long pause. "Happy, I mean. I'm not happy either."
Adrian's heart hammered against his ribs. This was the most honest they'd been with each other in weeks—maybe in years. The admission hung between them, fragile and dangerous.
"Why not?" Adrian asked, even though he was terrified of the answer.
Dante looked at him across the darkened room, his eyes reflecting the blue light from his laptop screen.
"You know why."