Okay, yeah—he probably went too far last time.

Probably.

In theory, they could've avoided the whole mess if they'd just agreed with him. That would've been the solution. So simple and easy. But nooo, his adorable little pain in the ass had to push every single one of his buttons like they're trying to break the console.

He doesn't regret standing his ground. Fuck no. He was right—still is. What he does regret is how hard he snapped. Y'know, the whole towering over them and raising his voice like an asshole until they actually looked like they were about to cry. That shit eats at him later when he's alone and mad at himself.

So now he's here. Sitting on some overpriced couch in a boutique he'd never step foot in unless he was trying to make up for being a dick. His version of "I'm sorry" doesn't come with flowers or sweet nothings. It comes with him letting them pick whatever they want. Hoping they see he's trying—even if he's too damn proud to say the words out loud.

They're in the changing room. He's sprawled out right a few feet away. Legs spread comfortably, eyes fixed on the door.

"Back already?" a familiar voice cuts through the quiet, low and amused.

Ruan doesn't look up. He knows that voice. "Fuck off." he mutters, not even bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.

Calix drops down beside him without asking, all long limbs and that shit-eating grin. "Bro, this is a new record. Third time in two weeks?"

"Don't start." Ruan warns.

Not that Calix gives a shit. He just continues. "What'd you do this time? Breathe wrong? Or wait—lemme guess. Someone asked them for notes and you lost your shit. Or no, they wore something that—GASP!—showed ankle."

Ruan glares. "You're not funny."

Calix grins. "I totally am you just don't know how to appreciate my humor."

Ruan wants to punch him. Just once. Right in that smug face. But instead, he slouches deeper into the couch and keeps his eyes on the changing room door.

"You know," Calix starts again, "Vincent's throwing one of those garage parties tonight. Said I could bring people."

"Garage party. Wow. Sounds like a dream." Ruan's voice is flat as hell.

"C'mon, man. You and them never go out. Y'all young, hot—live a little."

"Yeah, lemme take them to a party full of drunk assholes and see how fast I end up in jail for assault."

"To be fair, you scare off most people by existing," Calix says with a shrug. "Only two guys on the rugby team would even try anything, and even then, they'd prolly just ask to use you as a tackling dummy. Make it a dare or some shit. 'Whoever manages to tackle the bull gets the title bulldozer' or something."

"Still no."

Calix's phone buzzes and he fishes it out of his pocket. "Gonna ask them then. Maybe they actually wanna, y'know, act like a college kid. Unlike a certain someone."

Ruan doesn't even blink. "Try inviting them and I'll break your fucking neck."

"Dude, relax." Calix throws his hands up in mock surrender. "You're like, one bad look away from murder half the time. You ever think maybe they're tense 'cause you're always ready to throw hands?"

Ruan doesn't answer. Mostly because he knows Calix isn't wrong. And that pisses him off even more.

Calix leaves shortly after, and then—the dressing room door opens. Ruan looks up and forgets how to breathe.

They step out, and for a second, all he can do is stare. His brain short-circuits. Every time they dress up, it's like seeing them for the first time all over again. His eyes drag over their body, slow and hungry, then snap up to meet theirs.

"You're not wearing that outside," he says almost instantly. No hesitation, no room for argument.

"You can wear that at home. When we're alone. But no fucking way are you stepping out in that."

His gaze lingers, heated and possessive. He shifts on the couch, legs spreading wider, jaw tight. The way the fabric hugs their curves makes his hands twitch and his cock stir in his jeans.

He's so fucking gone for them it's pathetic.