It started as a whim.
The student council was helping to organize the autumn sports festival, and Evan had volunteered to assist the track team with timing and setup. But when one of the sprinters pulled a hamstring mid-warmup, the coach's eyes swept over the group and landed on him.
"You look fit enough—run a few laps, help us fill the heat."
Evan almost refused. The old voice in his head whispered: You're not one of them.But something else—quieter, sharper—pushed back. Show them you can.
The late afternoon sun was merciless, baking the red track until the air shimmered. Sweat already prickled along his spine before the run even began.
When the whistle cut through the air, he launched forward—legs driving like coiled springs released, calves knotting and uncoiling with every stride. The first lap burned away hesitation; the second filled his chest with fire. By the third, he was overtaking varsity runners, catching their sidelong glances of surprise.
His T-shirt clung damp against him, outlining the firm plane of his chest, the taut stretch of his stomach. The peaks of his shoulders and the curve of his biceps flexed with every pump of his arms, veins rising faintly along his forearms.
The final stretch was a tunnel of soundless heat. His lungs screamed, but he pushed harder, crossing the line just half a step behind the lead.
He slowed to a walk, dragging in air like a man starved of it—and then, almost without thinking, peeled his shirt over his head.
It wasn't for show. He just wanted air on his overheated skin. But under the summer light, his body seemed carved for it—the cut of his chest, the smooth line tapering over his abs, sweat sliding over each ridge like molten glass. His skin was sun-warmed, flushed from exertion, every deep breath making his ribs expand, muscles shifting under the surface.
A campus news photographer—baseball cap, press lanyard—froze mid-click, then fired shot after shot. Her voice carried just enough for nearby students to hear: "Oh… wow."
Within the hour, the moment hit the campus network.
Unknown runner outpaces varsity at track practice.
The headline wasn't the point. The photo caught him mid-step, shirtless, sun turning the droplets on his skin into sparks, jaw set with focus. By evening, the comments piled in:
"Who is he? That body…"
"Not varsity? Someone fix that immediately."
"Forget the team—look at his shoulders."
Evan saw it later, sitting on the edge of his bed. For a long time, he just stared at the screen—at himself—wondering if this was really the same guy who once hid behind thrift-store shirts and kept his head down.
The next morning, Evan made his way toward the student council office, He'd even thrown on his oldest hoodie, hoping to blend in, the faded fabric hanging loose enough to hide everything that photo had shown. But the stares still came—quick glances that lingered a beat too long, smiles traded between strangers as he passed. backpack slung over one shoulder, telling himself it was just another day.
It didn't feel like one.
The photo from yesterday's track run had spread like wildfire—pinging through group chats, popping up on campus feeds, even landing in a "Top 10 Hottest Sports Fest Moments" thread. He'd tried to ignore it, but as he crossed the quad, eyes followed him.
A pair of first-years lounging on the grass nudged each other and waved. "Morning, track star!" one called, grinning.
Evan gave a quick nod, feeling warmth creep up his neck.
Near the main hall, two guys passing by clapped him on the back. "Bro, that sprint yesterday? Legendary. You joining the team or just here to make us look bad?"
And then there were the girls.
A freshman with a pixie cut jogged up beside him, cheeks a little flushed from the run.
She brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her camera strap swinging against her side. "Emma Collins," she said with a smile. "I was the one who took that photo yesterday. Figured you might want the full set… maybe I could send them to you—if I had your number."
She shifted a step closer, the edge of her shoulder brushing his arm, a light touch that could have been an accident—except for the way her fingers lingered near his wrist, as if testing how close she could get before he pulled away. A quick laugh slipped out of her, soft and a little shy, like she was hiding the fact she'd rehearsed this in her head.
Evan blinked. "Uh—"
She tilted her head, smiling like she already knew the answer. "Or Instagram works too. Just… y'know, so I can send you more pictures if you break another record." She winked before darting off to her giggling friends, leaving him half-smiling, half-bewildered.
By the time he stepped into the student council office, the air inside was cooler, calmer—until he heard her voice.
"Evan?"
He turned.
Lila was leaning against the window frame, sunlight tracing the outline of her figure. She wore a pale blue dress today, her hair loose and glinting gold in the light. In her hand was her phone—screen angled toward him.
It was that photo.
Her brows lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise cutting through the usual calm in her eyes. "I remember you from the cafe—quiet guy in the thrift-store shirt. Never thought taking it off would be… like this."
Her gaze flicked down to his torso and back up to his face, a slow smirk curving her lips. "You've been hiding that body from everyone? What a crime."
Evan opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
"Seriously," she went on, voice low and teasing, "those shoulders… that chest… you know you've got half the first-years whispering about you, right? If you show up at the sports festival like that, we'll have to hire crowd control."
"I… was just filling in," he managed.
"Mhm." She stepped closer, her perfume brushing past him like a warm breeze. "Well, keep… filling in. It suits you."
Before he could reply, another council member called her name. She walked away with a little half-smile over her shoulder, leaving Evan standing there, heart pounding and ears hot.
As he waited for his interview, more people came and went—some sneaking curious glances, others offering quick nods of recognition. Twenty-four hours ago, they wouldn't have known his name.
Now, they knew.
And somewhere in this building, Daniel Roth—perfect suit, perfect smile—was still the man everyone expected to follow.