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a hand, just shifts his weight onto one leg so his hip juts out a bit. He’s wearing wide-buckled boots that come up almost to his knees. His pants are insanely tight. That’s a strange thing to notice… Cam snaps his eyes up and the boy’s—Wren’s—smile only widens. He leans forward and eyes Cam’s notebook. He smells like rain. Cam has to close his eyes against a disorienting wave of dizziness; it’s a little frightening but also inexplicably good .
    “Stats, hmm?” Wren shifts the strap of his satchel, stretching his shirt to reveal a little more skin.
    “Yeah,” Cam forces himself to breathe normally. What is wrong with him? “Not my thing.”
    “You should get a tutor,” Wren says. “You’ll get it down in no time.”
    “Final Wednesday.” Cam shrugs and tries not to feel stupid. Obviously Wren knows this, since they share the class. “Not a lot of time.”
    There’s another long silence in which they just stare at each other; it’s not awkward, but something else, and Cam’s unable to look away. A flush starts to rise through his body.
    “I should go,” Wren says. His eyes never leave Cam’s. They’re the color of May grass, and when they settle on Cam’s that something hot, that something new, flares and falls deep in his stomach.
    “Studying?” Cam manages faintly.
    “Not exactly.” Wren gestures toward the stacks. “Research.”
    “Oh,” Cam says. His fingers buzz, and his skin, his muscles, his lips.
    “I’ll see you later,” Wren says lightly, and bites his lip around a flirtatious smile. Cam has seen that sort of smile countless times as he watched others engage in that dance. He’s never had such a look directed at him—not like this. It’s disorienting, how much it makes him want more.
    Cam turns to watch Wren go. He probably looks a fool, but he cannot take his eyes from Wren as he disappears into the stacks.
    Cam closes his eyes and tries to breathe, and all he can see is the slim width of Wren’s shoulders under that shirt, the fit of his jeans and those boots miraculously making his legs look miles long.
    He lets a moment pass and inhales as slowly as he can. His fingers shake. Something is insisting inside him, pulling and pull­ing, wanting him to follow. When deep breathing doesn’t work, and when trying to name the feeling and put it away doesn’t work, when acknowledging that he hasn’t any idea what the hell is hap­pening doesn’t seem to make a difference, Cam does what he can’t seem to help doing and follows.
    Wren doesn’t have to wait long; maybe a touch longer than he expects, when he broadcasted so clearly. He sets his bag on the floor, leans against the wall between rows of books and props one foot against the wall. He doesn’t untether, not for a second, not when Cam is in his blood like this. Impatiently, he pulls a little, touches the desire inside Cam’s body and compels him to come closer.
    Getting to look at Cam, to examine his face close up and for a longer period, was lovely. His triangular chin and slightly slanted eyes, a deep chocolate brown Wren’s not seen before, are stunning and sensual. Something steady burns inside those eyes.
    Wren tugs harder, and finally, satisfyingly, Cam is there. His eyes are wide and he looks unsure, but it doesn’t really matter, not when Wren’s eyes meet his, not when Cam’s hands, wide and hot, come up to frame Wren’s face. Wren’s eyes want to flutter shut; he tilts his head back and feels them grow heavier as his body’s imperative rises. He covers Cam’s hands with his own and exhales brokenly.
    “I don’t—” Cam says, pressing and molding his body until it is curled around Wren’s. It thrills him, the sharp bright desire flaring in Cam. Wren breathes him in, waiting. Cam is all boy and heat, and his lips are so, so close. Wren flattens his shoulders against the wall and shifts his knee so Cam can crowd closer, opens his mind and uses his gift to project his desire, hot and strong