Straight Until Our Dorm Room: An MM College Bi Awakening Slow Burn Romance

I always had a plan. Every angle mapped, every risk contained. Sharing a shoebox dorm with my economics project partner was just another variable to manage. He was the straight-arrow type, all rigid lines and denials, swearing up and down that guys didn't do it for him. But two weeks in, and that cramped space turned traitor. Our shoulders brushing over scattered notes. His knee nudging mine under the desk in the dead of night. I caught him staring, eyes wide like he'd glimpsed something forbidden.

God, it undid me. I'd built walls of cool detachment for a reason, hiding the mess beneath - that raw ache for someone who saw through the strategy. Him most of all. He fought it harder, cheeks flushing when our hands collided reaching for the same highlighter, bodies locked inches apart in a near-miss that left us both breathless. Late nights bled into dawn, laughter over takeout dissolving into something heavier. Exploratory fingers on skin, sweat gleaming under the desk lamp's glow. He whispered he wasn't that guy, even as he leaned in. My control cracked wide open.

Now the project's do-or-die deadline looms, his straight-guy armor splintering with every stolen touch. One wrong move, and we tank our grades, his self-respect shatters, I lose the only anchor that's ever felt real. But pulling away? That would hollow me out worse. This slow unraveling between us - denial twisting into hunger - it's either our salvation or our ruin. What breaks first: his walls, or the fragile thing we're building in the dark?

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E-bog: 23. april 2026