Too Close for Comfort

Jordan wiped the sweat off his brow and leaned against the pole of the basketball hoop, catching his breath after a relentless round of solo drills. It was late, the court dimly lit by overhead lights, the campus eerily quiet. He had come out here to clear his head, to forget about James Calloway, to focus on his game, his future.

But, of course, James fucking Calloway had to ruin that too.

Jordan spotted him walking toward the court, hands in his pockets, an infuriatingly slow stride, like a predator sizing up his prey.

Why is he even out here?

James didn't acknowledge him at first, just dropped his bag by the bench and pulled off his hoodie, revealing a toned torso Jordan absolutely was not looking at.

Except, maybe he was.

Shit.

Jordan turned his attention back to the hoop, gripping the ball harder than necessary. Focus, Miles.

But then he realized something—he had stopped moving, his hands locked around the ball as his eyes kept flicking back to James.

Like a damn creep.

He snapped himself out of it and went for a shot, trying to bury the fact that he had just been watching Calloway. He hated that guy. His arrogance. His stupid smirk. His entitled everything.

So why the hell was his gaze being drawn back to him like a magnet?

And then, as if to make it worse, James started stretching, arms behind his head, torso flexing, movements slow and lazy like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Jordan swore under his breath and focused on his next shot. Missed.

James chuckled.

"Something bothering you, Miles?"

Jordan ignored him and went for another shot. Missed again.

James smirked. "Babe, is my presence that distracting?"

Jordan spun around, glaring. "Shut it, Calloway."

But James just grinned, the kind of grin that Jordan really wanted to wipe off his face.

Then James did the worst possible thing. He peeled off his shirt.

Jordan was definitely screwed.

His grip on the ball loosened, his jaw clenched, and his brain short-circuited for a solid two seconds before he yanked his eyes away.

James, of course, noticed.

"Like what you see?"

Jordan scoffed. "Seriously?"

James took a step closer, tilting his head like he was studying him. "You sure? Because your face says one thing, but…" His smirk deepened. "Your dick says another."

Jordan's stomach flipped.

Oh, hell no.

"Go fuck yourself," he muttered, shoving past him.

James leaned in, his breath hot against Jordan's ear.

"Nah, I would rather do the fucking with you involved."

Jordan stiffened. Every muscle in his body locked up.

James just walked off, that cocky smirk never leaving his face.

Jordan stood frozen, gripping the ball so tight his knuckles turned white.

He is going to be the death of me.

The tension had been building for weeks. It lingered in every glare, every sharp-tongued insult, every unspoken challenge between them. Jordan could feel it in the way James looked at him—like he knew something Jordan hadn't even admitted to himself yet.

And now, after what had just happened on the court, after that whispered taunt, Jordan was still rattled.

But James? James looked as smug as ever.

Jordan stormed off toward the locker room, heart pounding, hands clenched into fists. He needed distance, needed to get away before he did something stupid. But before he could even make it inside, a strong hand grabbed his wrist, stopping him in his tracks.

"Hold up, Miles," James said, his voice low.

Jordan yanked his arm away. "What the hell do you want, Calloway?"

James stared at him for a long second, something unreadable in his expression. Then, without warning, he grabbed the front of Jordan's jersey and kissed him.

Jordan brain cells stopped working,his body locked up, and for a split second—just one—he didn't react.

Then the shock wore off.

He shoved James, hard enough to make him stumble back.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" Jordan hissed, breathing heavily. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his pulse hammering so loud he could barely hear himself think.

James didn't look the least bit apologetic. If anything, he looked challenging. His jaw was tight, his eyes locked onto Jordan's like he was daring him to run.

"Tell me you didn't want that," James said, stepping closer again.

Jordan clenched his fists. He should walk away. Should tell him to fuck off. Should throw another punch, something.

But James grabbed his wrist again, fingers strong, firm, unrelenting.

Jordan should've pulled away. Should've shoved him again. Should've—

James kissed him again.

This time, Jordan didn't shove him.

This time, Jordan kissed him back.

It was rough at first—angry, desperate, messy. His fingers curled into James' shirt, gripping him like he wasn't sure whether to push him away or pull him closer. But James wasn't hesitating. His hands were already on Jordan's waist, holding him steady, like he knew exactly how this was going to end.

And Jordan hated him for it.

Hated that he was right.

Hated that when James' teeth scraped against his lower lip, a shiver ran down his spine.

Hated that his body was betraying him, his lips parting, letting James deepen the kiss.

Then, just as suddenly as it started, Jordan wrenched himself away, chest heaving.

His mind was spinning. His skin burned where James had touched him.

No. No, no, no.

He took a step back, shaking his head. "This—" His voice was hoarse, his breathing uneven. "This can't happen."

James wiped his thumb over his lips, staring at him with a knowing smirk.

"It already did."