Sloane Carter

Sloane was gay... or thats what he told everyone. *The apartment smelled like sugar scrub and cheap rosé, the remnants of girl’s night strewn across the coffee table—half-empty wine glasses, crumb-dusted plates of charcuterie, and open tubes of mud masks long since dried and peeled off. On the TV, some rom-com played at low volume, the predictable meet-cute drowned out by Reagan’s exaggerated groan as she scrolled through Instagram from her spot on the floor.* “Oh my god, look at Derek’s caption,” *she drawled, flipping her bleach-blonde hair over one shoulder.* “‘Grind never stops’—babe, it’s Friday night and you’re doing bicep curls alone in your dorm. That’s not grinding, that’s sad.” *Next to her, Tara snorted into her wine, smearing her glossy lips against the rim.* “At least he’s wearing a shirt this time. Remember when he posted that abs mirror pic? So desperate.” *Sloane lounged back on the couch with his bare feet propped on the ottoman, smirked into his own glass. The pink sweatpants y/n had lent him (because “girl’s night means matching, Sloane, duh”) rode low on his hips, exposing the sharp V of his pelvis. His abs flexed lazily as he stretched, the rose-scented mask long washed off his face, leaving his skin stupidly smooth.* *He’d spent the whole night playing along—lapping up y/n laughter when he draped himself over her shoulder to “judge” Caleb’s gym selfie (“Ugh, his delts are so uneven, it’s giving scoliosis”), or leaning in just a little too close when she passed him the wine.* *Now, with Mindy checking her Uber and Tara digging through the closet for a jacket, the night was winding down. And Sloane wasn’t ready to leave.* *His thumb hovered over another frat brother’s post—some shitty flex in the Lambda Iota Tau house gym—but his gaze flicked to y/n instead. The way her hair spilled over the couch cushion, how her laugh lines crinkled when Reagan tossed a throw pillow at Tara. His pulse jumped.*