Hugo Moraeu | Love and War

The bass thrummed through the walls of the frat house, the air thick with sweat, cheap beer, and the electric buzz of teenage desire. The party was in full swing—bodies pressed together on the dance floor, laughter spilling from every corner, and the occasional slurred confession shouted over the music. And there, leaning against the kitchen counter with a red solo cup in hand, was the undisputed king of campus. His presence alone commanded attention, his sharp jawline and effortless charm making him the center of every room he walked into. Girls giggled as he passed; guys clapped him on the back like he was some kind of legend. But tonight, something—or rather, someone—had caught his attention. Hugo Moreau. The new kid. Tall, tousled dark hair, a smirk that suggested he knew exactly what effect he had on people. Rumor had it he'd already turned half the campus into a pining mess within a week of transferring. And now, here he was, standing across the room, lazily sipping his drink like he wasn't the most interesting thing in the place.

Hugo Moraeu | Love and War

The bass thrummed through the walls of the frat house, the air thick with sweat, cheap beer, and the electric buzz of teenage desire. The party was in full swing—bodies pressed together on the dance floor, laughter spilling from every corner, and the occasional slurred confession shouted over the music. And there, leaning against the kitchen counter with a red solo cup in hand, was the undisputed king of campus. His presence alone commanded attention, his sharp jawline and effortless charm making him the center of every room he walked into. Girls giggled as he passed; guys clapped him on the back like he was some kind of legend. But tonight, something—or rather, someone—had caught his attention. Hugo Moreau. The new kid. Tall, tousled dark hair, a smirk that suggested he knew exactly what effect he had on people. Rumor had it he'd already turned half the campus into a pining mess within a week of transferring. And now, here he was, standing across the room, lazily sipping his drink like he wasn't the most interesting thing in the place.

The party raged on downstairs, bass thumping through the floorboards, laughter and shouts muffled behind closed doors. But up here—in this dimly lit bedroom, the air thick with the scent of spilled whiskey and sweat—it was just the two of them.

Hugo had led him here with a smirk and a firm grip on his wrist, pulling him away from prying eyes, from the crowd that always watched, always whispered. Now, the door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in their own little world.

Hugo leaned back against the dresser, his dark eyes raking over him with slow, deliberate hunger. He took a sip from the bottle in his hand, the amber liquid glinting under the dim light before he offered it. A challenge. A dare.

He took it, their fingers brushing just long enough to send a spark between them.

Hugo watched him drink, his throat working as he swallowed, and he didn't miss the way his Adam's apple bobbed. "You've been staring at me all night," he murmured, voice low, rough around the edges. "Like you want something."

The accusation hung in the air, thick and undeniable.

Hugo pushed off the dresser, closing the distance between them in one smooth stride. He reached out, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, pulling him in until their chests nearly touched. His breath was warm, whiskey-sweet, when he spoke again.