Let me tell you about the night that changed everything. The night I stopped being invisible and started turning myself into a walking catastrophe you could smell coming before you saw it.
But first, who I was before any of this hit. Gabriel Hare—Gabriel as in the angel of mischief, Hare as in the creature known for its enthusiasm in matters of reproduction. The name fit better than my parents ever intended. My father was Brazilian (surname Coelho originally), but he switched to the English version when I was born. In his defense, he probably didn’t foresee raising a son who’d take the symbolism literally.
I’m 6’2″ of trouble with green eyes and a sly crooked smile sharp enough to get me into bed and stupid enough to get me into drama. Dark hair, dyed black and growing shaggy—last cut five months earlier for prom. People call me sassy. I call it weaponized honesty.
I’d spent my whole life hiding in oversized clothes, ashamed of my body, running from mirrors. Then something shifted at the end of senior year. Braces off, glasses to contacts, and I decided to try dressing like I had a shape—especially an ass—and maybe deserved to be seen. I emulated the coolest nerd of the time: Seth Cohen from The O.C. Layered shirts (long sleeves under short sleeves), slim jeans instead of baggy ones, messy hair that looked accidental but took effort. Four years of swimming had given me lean muscle, defined shoulders, decent arms, and an ass that caught nods from older guys at the YMCA like they were grading livestock.
Nobody back home noticed because I’d hidden it so well. Honestly? I didn’t notice either until a summer abroad before college, when I realized some people actually wanted to sleep with me. (Plot twist: several did.) But that’s a story for another time.
The revolution starts at hazing week, early fall semester of my freshman year.
Early September—still warm enough that you’d sweat through your shirt by noon, but the evenings carried that first hint of cool air that meant summer was dying. The kind of weather where you’d start the night in short sleeves and end it wishing you’d brought a jacket. Perfect for bad decisions.
The seniors were running a “charity auction” to raise money for kegs—because nothing says philanthropy like funding your own alcoholism. They put us freshmen on a raised platform like livestock at a county fair; upperclassmen would bid on us. No real promise of what the bid got you—just vague implications. A date? A dare? Bragging rights? The ambiguity made it worse, like we were surprise bags of freshman meat.
The party was packed. Music thumped so loud you felt it in your chest. Red cups everywhere, crushed and abandoned by morning. That electric energy of a college party where everyone’s still figuring out who they’re going to be and nobody’s committed yet. The room smelled like spilled beer, cheap cologne, and possibility. Mostly spilled beer.
I arrived feeling a little lost, still figuring out how to navigate any of this, when Diego found me.
Diego. Let me tell you about Diego.
I’d met him at a frat party earlier that week—this stocky guy with long dark hair pulled back in a samurai bun, sun-tanned southern Mediterranean skin, chubby in a way that somehow worked on him, very hairy but no facial hair, and an energy that said he was always three seconds away from starting mischief.
“Gabriel!” he called out, grinning. “Come meet some people.”
He led me through the crowd to two girls standing near the makeshift bar.
One was 5’1″ Cherokee with waist-length black braids, terracotta skin, and the kind of confidence that made heads turn when she walked in. New money showed in how she dressed and moved—like she owned every room. She had teasing energy that pulled you into whatever joke she was telling. Five feet of menace wrapped in silk.
Next to her stood a slightly taller girl with long straight hair and gold skin—curvy in a way that made people stare then feel embarrassed about it: substantial chest, wide hips, strong legs. Something soft and kind about her face; she radiated the energy of someone who’d apologize even if you bumped into her.
“Gabriel, this is Isabella,” Diego said, gesturing to the shorter one. “And that’s Lila. They wanted to meet the new guy everyone’s talking about.”
Isabella looked me up and down with an assessing gaze that made me stand up straighter. “So you’re the one all the gay guys are lining up to bid on tonight.”
I blinked. “What?”
Diego and Isabella burst out laughing. Lila smiled softly, like she’d heard this joke before. Probably because Isabella weaponized teasing for sport.
“The auction,” Isabella explained. “It’s happening in about an hour. And apparently half the gay guys on campus have pooled their money to bid on you.”
“Why the fuck would they do that?”
“Because,” Diego said, grinning, “everyone thinks you’re gay.”
I stared at him. “What?”
Isabella leaned in conspiratorially. “There was a party earlier this week. You told someone your sexual preference was ‘anything goes.'”
Which, okay, maybe I had said—but in my defense, tequila was involved and I thought it made me sound mysterious, not marketable.
Sooooo, FLASHBACK TIME!
(Or almost a flashback, because I was too drunk by the end of the night.)
Three nights earlier, my very first college party.
Not the hazing-week auction, but one of those generic “welcome back” frat things you see in movies: sticky floors, bad pop remixes, sweat thick enough to qualify as a biohazard-level mist.
I showed up alone—didn’t know anyone yet and was too stubborn to sit in my dorm pretending I didn’t care. Clutched a red cup like a life raft and did exactly what every freshman swears they won’t do: hugged the nearest wall and tried to disappear.
That’s when Diego found me.
He moved through the room like a politician in a swing state—saying hi to everyone, clapping guys on the shoulder, kissing girls on the cheek. It looked like he’d made it his personal mission to welcome every new face on campus.
He spotted me instantly—some poor lost soul in a graphic tee plastered against the drywall—and zeroed in like I was a missing puppy.
“You look terrified,” he shouted over the music, thrusting a fresh cup into my hand. “I’m Diego. Official Party Tour Guide for Confused Freshmen.”
I laughed despite myself. “Is that an elected position or did you just declare it by force?”
“Little of both.” His smile was pure trouble. The good kind. (I would learn later that mischief should be his second name.) “First college party?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Yes,” he said, absolutely merciless. “But don’t worry, you’re doing better than the guy in the corner throwing up in a potted plant. Come on, I’ll introduce you to people before you fuse with this wall.”
He dragged me through the crowd, narrating as we went.
“That’s the D&D table that swears it’s not a D&D table (not that they were playing it, they were you know… D&D folk). That girl will absolutely try to sell you weed by the end of the night… Avoid that guy unless you want to join improv. The worst fate imaginable, trust me.”
We traded a few quick jokes, and I could feel my shoulders loosening. Diego had that kind of energy that made you feel like you’d known him for years, even though we’d met thirty seconds earlier. Or maybe we just connected—two goofs attract each other.
“Where’s your girlfriend?” I asked at one point, after he mentioned her.
“Home.” He rolled his eyes. “She hates these things. Says they smell like armpit and desperation. She’s not wrong. But somebody has to keep the freshmen from dying.”
After a while, he clapped me on the back. “All right, Gabriel Hare. You’re officially inducted. I’m going to go rescue the next lost lamb. But before that—tequila!”
By “tequila,” he meant three shots each, slammed back in quick succession, before disappearing into the crowd to “save the next freshman from slaughter.”
I ended up near a cluster of guys who were clearly very comfortable with each other—laughing, touching each other’s arms, leaning in close to be heard. It wasn’t flirtation, not that I recognized at the time; it was that easy physical warmth I’d never really seen between men back home.
I hovered nearby, partly because they seemed friendly in a way I understood, partly because they were the only people actually speaking loudly enough to cut through the music.
One of them noticed me drifting in their orbit and waved me closer with a casual “Yo, freshman—come over here!” the same way you’d call a puppy you wanted to pet.
They were talking about people at the party—classic gossip disguised as “observation.”
“That girl over there?” one said, jerking his chin toward a hippie-looking chick dancing barefoot near the kitchen doorway. “She’s definitely a freak in bed. Look at her. That’s flexible energy.”
Another one laughed. “Yeah, man. That one’s the real freak. She looks like she knows every position in the Kama Sutra and invented a few extras.”
“Facts,” someone muttered. “Flexible girls are always wild.”
One guy nudged his friend.
“Bro, you talk big, but you only ever do missionary.”
They kept going—positions, weird stories, locker-room nonsense—like commentators calling a game, each one trying to top the last.
Then one of them turned to me and grinned.
“So what about you, man? What’s your preference?”
Same tone, same energy, same conversation.
My drunk freshman brain did the obvious thing:
“Oh. Uh… yeah. Anything goes.”
There was a beat.
A breath.
Then—
“Ohhhh shit,” someone whispered.
Another guy’s eyebrows shot up. “Damn, freshman’s adventurous.”
A third clapped me on the back. “Respect. Didn’t peg you for that.”
Suddenly they were all looking at me.
Leaning in.
Smiling way too much.
Hands on my shoulders like we were old friends.
And I?
I just grinned along, thinking I had finally blended in.
I didn’t get the subtext. I didn’t even know there was subtext.
But the girl standing behind me did.
I hadn’t even noticed her—arms crossed, ponytail high, watching the whole thing with this sharp little half-smile, like she’d just uncovered prime gossip.
That was Eve.
She heard every word.
And she wasted no time spreading the story.
The memory crashed back. The frat party. The drunk conversation. Oh, fuck.
“I thought he was asking about positions,” I said, and they lost it again.
“That’s amazing,” Isabella said, wiping her eyes. “Best thing I’ve heard all week.”
Looking at her—eyes sparkling with mischief, that curved smile pulling me in—I felt something click. I leaned closer, giving her my best flirtatious grin. Bold move, stupid move, didn’t matter. “Well, I can prove I’m not gay if you want.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?”
“Really.” I stepped in. “What do you say?”
She glanced at Diego, then back at me, amusement dancing across her face. “Okay, hotshot. Prove it.”
I leaned in and kissed her—going for a quick test, but she turned it real fast. Hot, open-mouthed, confident. She took control before I knew what hit me, hand sliding up my chest, tongue brushing mine in a practiced way that buckled my knees.
She kissed like I was a fun project she planned to ace—making sure I felt every second of it.
When she pulled back, I was breathless.
“Not bad,” Isabella said, catching her breath. “But not as good as you, babe.”
Lila snorted softly. “Flatterer.”
Isabella grabbed Lila by the waist and kissed her—slow, deep, intimate in a way that heated my face. Lila kissed back just as fierce, her hand sliding down Isabella’s side to the hem of her short dress. She gripped it, lifting enough for us to see the curve of Isabella’s ass, fingers pressing like a claim.
The air thickened. Diego whistled low. I couldn’t look away.
When they broke apart, Lila turned to me with a small, amused smile, wiping her lower lip. “You taste like him.” She caught my shocked look and added, casual as ever, “Relax. It’s not a complaint. Honestly? It was kind of hot seeing her kiss a guy for once.”
I stammered, brain catching up. “Are you… gay?”
“Very,” Isabella confirmed, looping an arm around Lila’s waist. “And very together.” She grinned. “Consider yourself privileged, Gabriel—you’re the first guy I’ve kissed since realizing your kind isn’t for me.” She tilted her head, inspecting me. “But you’re so… not masculine. It’s cute.”
Lila nudged her. “Be nice.”
“I am being nice,” Isabella laughed, pulling Lila closer. “He’s fun. We should keep him around for more experiments.”
Diego, watching like it was his favorite TV show, burst out laughing. “Oh, this is perfect. Freshman is a menace. Eve is going to lose her mind.”
“Eve?” I asked.
“The girl who started the rumor,” Diego said. He scanned the crowd and waved. “Eve! Get over here!”
A girl detached from a group near the wall and walked over. I felt my chest tighten. She moved like she knew eyes were on her—and didn’t mind. 5’4″ curves in tight jeans and fitted tank, tawny skin catching the light, black hair in a sleek high ponytail, kohl liner sharpening her dark eyes. Lebanese pride in her walk, that prominent, unapologetic nose making her unforgettable.
“What?” she said, crossing her arms as she approached—playful mock-annoyance.
“Tell Gabriel what you told everyone about him,” Diego said.
Her eyes flicked to me, recognition hitting. Cheeks flushed. Posture stiffened for a second. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You told everyone he’s gay,” Isabella said helpfully. “Started a whole rumor.”
Eve flushed deeper, arms crossing tighter. “He said ‘anything goes’! What was I supposed to think?”
“That you could’ve asked,” I said, stepping closer with my crooked smile.
Her gaze dipped to my mouth, then snapped back up. “You were surrounded by guys hitting on you. It seemed obvious.”
“Well, it wasn’t.” I softened my tone. “Want me to prove it?”
Her breath hitched.
For a beat, she looked ready to say yes.
Then she glanced over her shoulder—at a tall guy, military hair, broad shoulders, huge biceps. Her ex, hovering nearby, pretending not to watch.
The wall slammed up. Shoulders squared. “You’re going to have to try harder than that,” she said, turning away.
But halfway through, she glanced back—quick, betraying everything.
Diego whistled low. “Oh, she wants you. Bad.”
“She’s only pretending to be cool because her ex is right there,” Isabella added. “But yeah. She’s hooked.”
“So what do we do?” I asked.
Isabella’s grin turned wicked. “We rig the auction.”
