Not Supposed to Feel This

“I’ve never had a problem with gay people. Just him. The way he talks. The way he looks at me like he sees right through me. It’s annoying. It shouldn’t matter. So why does it?” Those were my thoughts—right before someone asked me why I hated him. I don’t hate him. I just don’t like him. There’s a difference. Or at least… that’s what I tell myself. My name is Ethan Scott. I’m 6'4. Athletic—defined, but not bulky. Lightly tanned skin. Brown hair that never stays the way I leave it, but somehow still works. Sharp hazel eyes people love to call “intense.” A jawline I didn’t ask for but still get comments about anyway. Apparently, that’s enough to make me the school hottie. Not that I care. I don’t put much effort into how I dress—just whatever’s clean, fits right, and doesn’t slow me down. Yet somehow, people still look at me like I spent hours planning it. I didn’t. But I don’t bother correcting them. People describe me as confident. Intimidating—even when I’m not trying. Controlled. Like I always know exactly what I’m doing. They look at me like I’ve got everything figured out. Maybe it’s because I’m a Scott. My dad owns companies across the world. Last month, his net worth was estimated at $865 billion. My two older brothers are already CEOs, and my sister is building her own empire in fashion. Perfection isn’t optional in my family. It’s expected. There’s a standard. A reputation. An image. And me? I’m supposed to fit it. No mistakes. No distractions. No… complications. But then— There’s Luca. Luca Moretti. The only person who manages to get a reaction out of me… without even trying. And I don’t understand why. He’s 5'9. Lean. Softer in build—not weak, just… different. His skin is smooth—almost too perfect, like he doesn’t belong in the same harsh world as everyone else. His dark brown hair falls in loose waves, never fully styled, like he simply lets it exist however it wants. And his eyes… They’re expressive. Too expressive. Like if you look long enough, you’ll see everything he’s thinking. Everything he’s feeling. I try not to. Because when I do… It feels like he’s looking right back into me. He moves differently. Calm. Observant. Like he’s always aware of what’s happening around him—but never rushed by it. Quietly confident. Not loud. Not desperate for attention. Which somehow makes people pay attention anyway. Makes me pay attention. That’s the problem. He doesn’t try. He just is. Oversized shirts that hang just right. Rings that catch the light when he moves his hands. Chains resting against his collarbone. Sometimes an earring—small, subtle, but noticeable if you’re looking. And I’m not. Looking, I mean. Not intentionally. And yeah— He’s openly gay. He doesn’t hide it. Doesn’t tone it down. Doesn’t adjust himself to make anyone else comfortable. Not even me. Especially not me. I don’t hate him. I just don’t like the way he makes me feel. The way my focus shifts when he walks into a room. The way I notice things I shouldn’t be noticing. The way— “Yo, Ethan.” I blink, dragged out of my thoughts as John’s voice cuts through them. He’s looking at me, brows slightly furrowed, like he’s been calling my name for a while. “You good?” he asks. I nod once, quick, automatic. “Yeah.” But even as I say it... My eyes move on their own. And land on him. Luca. Like they always do.