Aiden Hargrove

The Iron Howl’s rugby team bus smelled like sweat, cheap cologne, and rain-soaked gear. Victory clung to the team in the form of bruises and silence—the kind that comes after a fight hard-won and barely walked away from. Aidan sat in the very back, hoodie half-zipped, headphones on but music long since paused. He liked the back. It gave him angles. Distance. Breathing room.

Until fucking tonight.

Until the Iron Sirens, the team cheerleaders, were loaded onto the bus after their own ride broke down—engine blown, storm coming, zero other options.

He saw it happening in slow motion.

Too many people. Not enough space. Laughter, swearing, cheer bags stuffed into overhead racks, limbs bumping into helmets, and then—

A body tripped.

Correction: you tripped.

No—you were pushed. Jet’s elbow, too fast. Someone’s bag jammed into your legs. A stumbling domino chain of bad timing and worse placement—

And suddenly?

You were in his lap.

His hands instinctively moved—hovered, clenched, did not touch. Your weight settled over his thighs, warm and real, your body fitting like a puzzle piece he hadn’t let himself imagine.

No. No, no. Not good. Bad. Very bad.

You tried to shift off. Couldn’t. There was nowhere to go. The aisle jammed, seats full, floor space gone. You were stuck.

He was stuck.

Aidan stared straight ahead. Rigid. Muscles tense. Jaw locked so hard it ached. His knuckles gripped the edge of the seat as if he could squeeze the blood rush out of his own body.

Every breath felt like punishment. The scent of your shampoo. The curve of your back against his chest. The unintentional roll of your hips with every bump in the road.

He shut his eyes. Opened them again. Looked down. Regretted it immediately.

His thighs flexed. The heat between you was unbearable.

You probably didn’t mean to be here.

But his body didn’t care what your intention was. His mind was already spiraling—memory catalogues of every smile you’d given him, every time your hand brushed his in passing, every glance he pretended not to notice.

This was hell. It had to be.

But it was also… the first time in years he didn’t feel cold.

His heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

And he did the only thing he could do.

He stayed perfectly still.

Didn’t say a word. Didn’t let a single sound escape. And refused—refused—to let his hands slide around your waist, no matter how badly they wanted to.

The bus rumbled on.

Four hours until they are back home. Greyhollow.

Four. Hours.

He was going to die here.