Private Eyes

The movie was barely two weeks old—some coming-of-age drama with a retro soundtrack and indie festival buzz. Ethan didn’t care about any of that. What hooked him was the trailer: two boys on opposite ends of a high school hallway, one too angry to admit he was lonely, the other too soft to know better. It felt familiar in a way that unsettled him.

It wasn’t available anywhere. Not legally.

So now he was three links deep on a sketchy torrent site, hunched over his laptop like he was committing a felony—which, in a roundabout way, he was. He sat cross-legged on the twin XL mattress, back against the cinderblock wall of his dorm room, feet tucked under the comforter like that somehow made him less complicit. The room smelled faintly of Febreze and the stale remnants of a sub sandwich he forgot to throw out yesterday. His hoodie sleeves were pulled over his hands—a subconscious ritual he always did when he was about to do something he maybe shouldn’t.

The first link was a dead mirror. The second looked promising until his VPN crapped out midway through the download. He tried reconnecting. No luck. Now the third link—which required disabling two browser safety settings and temporarily allowing pop-ups—landed him on a glossy, overdesigned landing page for something called StreamRaider.

It lasted two seconds. Then:

“This website you’re trying to access has been blocked by your system administrator.”

The block page wasn’t dramatic. Just plain gray with a dull orange banner across the top, the university’s crest off to the left like a stamp of dry disappointment.

“Of course,” Ethan muttered. He clicked the back button. Nothing. Tried refreshing. Still blocked. He switched to incognito mode and tried again.

Blocked. Turned off Wi-Fi. Tethered to his phone’s hotspot. Blocked again.

“Jesus.”

The whole operation had taken the better part of an hour, and now he had nothing to show for it except a silent room and a tab full of broken promises. His stomach gave a low, hollow growl, like even his body was unimpressed. He closed his laptop with a dull thud and stood, the floor cold against his bare feet. He padded across the room, stepping over a pile of unfolded laundry—mostly hoodies and gym shorts—and opened the mini fridge out of habit. An expired yogurt, half a Gatorade, and a single plastic spoon stared back at him.

He sighed. The student union was still open for another hour.

It was only a few minutes’ walk, but the night air caught him off guard—cooler than he expected for early October. He didn’t bother changing out of his pajama pants, just threw on sneakers without socks and tugged the hood up as he stepped outside.

Campus was quieter than usual. A few scattered voices echoed from somewhere behind the library—maybe a group of freshmen walking home from a late seminar. He took the long way across the quad anyway, cutting diagonally across the lawn that was always too wet in the morning and too dead in the afternoon.

As he approached the glass doors of the student union, he spotted the light still on in the campus bookstore. A student worker was slouched behind the counter, scrolling on her phone, face lit ghost-blue from the screen.

Inside, the air smelled like popcorn and floor cleaner. The snack bar was open, technically. Just two underpaid students behind the counter half-heartedly wiping things down while a looping video played overhead reminding everyone that “dining dollars don’t roll over.”

Ethan stepped up and scanned the menu like he hadn’t memorized it two years ago.

“Y’all still got those buffalo chicken wraps?” he asked, his voice a little scratchy from not speaking aloud all evening.

One of the workers—a guy with a fading mullet and a name tag that read Dante—gave him a nod. “Yep. Probably two left in the warmer.”

“I’ll take one.”

“Chips or fries?”

“Fries.”

“Cool.”

He paid with a tap of his ID and stepped aside, watching the fryer hiss to life as Dante dropped a metal basket into the oil. The other worker—a girl with a shaved head and glitter under her eyes—prepped the wrap like it was a ceremony. She didn’t speak, just moved with sleepy precision.

Ethan leaned against the counter, trying not to check his phone again. The notification badge on Reddit stared back like a sore tooth.

Somewhere down the hall, someone dropped a water bottle. It clattered like a firecracker, echoing off the linoleum and painted cinderblock walls. Ethan flinched. No one else seemed to notice.

He suddenly felt tired. Not sleepy—just worn down in a way that felt structural. Like it lived in his bones now.

Behind the counter, the fryer beeped.

“Hot,” Dante said as he scooped the fries into a paper boat.

Ethan nodded his thanks, grabbed his food, and made his way to one of the high-top tables near the window. The glass looked out onto a sidewalk still slick from the afternoon drizzle, reflecting the sodium-orange glow of the campus lamps.

He sat down. Unwrapped the sandwich. Took a bite. It burned his tongue. But at least it wasn’t blocked.

He was halfway through the fries and down to the dry part of the wrap when the song stopped him mid-chew. A muffled bassline floated in from somewhere to his right—the kind of sound that bleeds through thin earbuds or cheap Bluetooth speakers. Nothing unusual. Except—

It was OneRepublic. Ethan knew that voice anywhere. But it wasn’t any song he recognized.

Which was saying something. He’d gone deep down the Ryan Tedder rabbit hole before—Spotify, live performances, even unreleased demos from fan forums that hadn’t seen the light of day since 2017.

But this? This wasn’t out yet.

It was that song. The one he’d only ever heard six seconds of on a leaked Instagram Story—then it disappeared. Pulled before anyone could repost it. He remembered the lyrics like an itch in the back of his brain:

You keep your secrets in stereo / I hear them better when I’m low…

He stood up slowly, wrapper still in one hand, grease seeping through. The sound was coming from across the room—tucked behind the vending machines, past the unused game tables and the wall of ancient corkboard flyers no one read. A pair of guys were slouched at one of the booths in the corner, legs stretched out like they owned the space.

One of them had earbuds in.

The other? Headphones. Over-ear. Not quite noise-canceling, but loud enough that Ethan could hear the faint shimmer of the chorus as it spilled out into the empty union.

He walked past on instinct, pretending to check his phone. Then circled back, just slow enough to seem like he was still deciding whether to grab something from the vending machine.

The kid wearing the headphones looked up and saw him.

And smiled.

Not a who are you kind of smile. More like yep, I know why you’re here.

He pulled one side of the headphones off and nodded at the chair across from him.

“You know the song,” the guy said, as if that wasn’t strange at all.

Ethan hesitated, then slid into the booth. Up close, the guy looked his age—maybe a little younger. Soft brown curls, skin the color of raw honey, and a faint scar that cut through one eyebrow like a misplaced comma. His hoodie read “Toulouse” in white embroidery. No idea what that meant. He had a laptop open in front of him, screen brightness turned low, and a sticker on the corner that said: root:godmode

“How the hell do you have that?” Ethan asked, still not sure if he was being pranked.

“Internet,” the guy said casually, adjusting one of the sliders on his audio app. “But, like… not your internet.”

Ethan stared.

The guy held out his hand. “Carter.”

“…Ethan.”

They shook. Carter’s grip was warm, easy.

“I’ve been trying to find that song for weeks,” Ethan said. “It vanished before anyone could even rip it.”

Carter grinned. “Not vanished. Just moved.”

He tapped something on his screen, then hit pause.

“I could pull the full album if you wanted,” he said, like it was nothing. “But I’m guessing that’s not the only thing you’ve been trying to get.”

Ethan blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Carter gave him a look. Not smug, not invasive. Just accurate.

“You have the face of someone who’s tried six torrents in two hours and still couldn’t watch Call Me Winter.”

Ethan’s mouth fell open. “How do you—?”

“Dude. The Wi-Fi here is basically a one-way mirror. You think IT security doesn’t have a kill switch for every sketchy domain on that block list?” He leaned in. “They just log everything and wait for people to either give up or screw up.”

“…So you’re saying you can get around it?”

Carter shrugged. “I already have.”

And just like that, Ethan didn’t care about the rest of his fries.

“Can you help me?” he asked. “Like—actually help me?”

Carter nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. I’ll hook you up.”

Ethan wasn’t sure what he expected—a little deflection, some conditions, maybe even a cocky what’s-in-it-for-me shrug. But Carter didn’t ask for anything. He just reached into his backpack and pulled out a thumb drive.

“This’ll boot a portable OS off your laptop,” he said. “Sandboxed. Spoofs your MAC address and routes you through a rotating series of encrypted proxies. Nothing too crazy—just enough to confuse the firewall into thinking you’re a guest lecturer in Amsterdam.”

Ethan held the drive like it was radioactive. “You made this?”

“I built it for fun last semester. You’d be surprised how many short films are locked behind geoblocks and studio red tape.”

“Is this… legal?”

Carter raised an eyebrow. “Is your VPN?”

Fair point.

Ethan tucked the drive into his hoodie pocket.

“I’ve never seen you around,” he said.

Carter shrugged. “You probably weren’t looking.”

He stood, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.

“Install it tonight,” he said. “Should get you where you want to go.”

Then, as he started to walk away, he added over his shoulder:

“But don’t forget—nothing online is free. Everything has a cost. Even if it doesn’t look like it right away.”

And with that, he disappeared into the quiet fluorescent glow of the hallway.

Ethan sat there for a minute longer, fries forgotten, thumb drive warm in his pocket, and the fading echo of a song no one was supposed to have.

The walk back to the dorm felt shorter somehow. Same cracked sidewalk, same flickering lamp outside the psychology building, same brittle chill in the air—but now it all pulsed with a strange new current. Like he was in on something. Like the world had revealed a seam he never noticed before.

He didn’t run. But he didn’t dawdle either.

By the time he keyed into the building and jogged up two flights, the grease from his fries had started to settle in his stomach, but his mind was buzzing. The kind of quiet, focused adrenaline that reminded him of opening up a sealed envelope—not knowing if it held good news or a warning.

The room was just as he left it: messy, humming, safe. His roommate Derek still wasn’t back. Probably wouldn’t be until morning. The bunk above was untouched—blankets still askew from that rushed 10am exit Ethan had half-slept through.

He dropped his keys onto the desk, kicked off his shoes, and sat cross-legged on the bed again. The flash drive felt heavier this time as he pulled it from his hoodie pocket.

He plugged it in. His laptop blinked once, then dimmed. A black screen. Text rolled down like film credits in reverse.

Booting virtual OS...
Connection established.
Location: Zürich (spoofed).
Encryption status: Active.
Logs: Disabled.
Traces: Masked.

It didn’t look like much—just a stripped-down interface, browser pre-installed, and a folder labeled simply: Carter’s Stuff.

He clicked on it.

The folder opened to reveal three things:

1. A readme file that said “Don’t do anything stupid.”
2. A shortcut called OmniSearch—a custom browser with no bookmarks, no history, no rules.
3. And a clean, 1080p copy of the movie.

Ethan didn’t even hesitate. He double-clicked the file, and it opened in a media player that wasn’t his. No buffering. No ads. No warnings.

Just a clean, unbroken stream of the opening credits—white serif text over a dusky suburban sky. Melancholy piano keys. The kind of slow, intentional pacing that made you lean forward instead of slouch back.

He watched for twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes. Long enough to get pulled in. Long enough to forget how late it was.

Then he paused.

Not because he was bored. Because now he was wondering what else this could do.

He tapped the keyboard. The browser launched instantly. No login, no tracking. A tab blinked open like it was waiting.

He typed a site—one he knew would normally trigger a block warning.

Gone. It loaded. Fast. Clear.

He stared at the homepage. Thumbnails, all of them graphic. Videos labeled with tags he didn’t usually let himself click. Not because he wasn’t interested. But because he always thought he shouldn’t be.

He glanced around the room, instinctively, even though he knew he was alone. The glow from the screen lit his face—too bright in the dark.

His heart was beating faster now. Not scared. Not really. Just… exposed. In a new kind of way.

He hovered over one of the videos. It wasn’t something he’d watched before. In fact, it wasn’t something he’d admit out loud. Two guys. College-aged. One of them looked like he could’ve lived down the hall.

Ethan hesitated. Then clicked.

The video played without a hiccup. No warning. No blur. No block.

He turned the volume down to nearly mute and leaned forward, eyes fixed on the screen, breath shallow.

The door was locked. His roommate was gone. The firewall was down.

The video didn’t ease into it. It started already in motion—soft skin against softer skin, mouths already open, hands already hungry. It was the kind of thing Ethan never let himself look at too long, the kind of video he’d scroll past out of guilt or fear or some buried instinct that still made him flinch at the sight of too much want.

But now? There was no firewall. No breadcrumbs. No trace.

Just him, alone in a dim dorm room, his laptop casting a halo of heat and color across the sheets.

He shifted, leaned back against the wall, and let his hand drift down. Over the elastic waistband of his pajama pants. Beneath.

His breath caught on the first stroke. He didn’t rush it. Didn’t fumble with headphones. Just moved slow and quiet, the hum of the laptop fan filling the space where nerves used to live.

There was something thrilling about it—the danger wrapped in comfort. The soft echo of the video playing low. The idea that no one knew. That this moment was his.

His thumb grazed the head, hips rolling forward, eyes fluttering shut.

And then—

The door burst open.

“Jesus!” Ethan scrambled, yanking his hand free as if the laptop had electrocuted him. The video was still playing, full-screen, unforgiving. He fumbled for the trackpad, but—

Too late.

Carter stood in the doorway. Same hoodie, same backpack. Eyes calm. Amused.

“I see everything’s working out for you,” he said, voice low and effortless.

Ethan froze, hand still half-hidden beneath the fabric, every nerve in his body ringing.

The video kept playing.

Carter didn’t blink.

And just like that, the firewall wasn’t the only thing down.

“Dude—what the hell?” Ethan’s voice cracked mid-sentence as he scrambled to close the tab. His hand yanked free, eyes wide, ears hot. “How do you even know which room is mine?”

Carter just leaned casually against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised like this was somehow funny. “I checked the campus directory,” he said simply, like that answered everything. “It’s not that hard. Your name’s tied to your student Wi-Fi profile. You signed in downstairs.”

“That’s—creepy!” Ethan grabbed the nearest hoodie and shoved it into his lap. “You can’t just—what are you doing barging in here?”

“You didn’t lock the door.”

“You didn’t knock.”

“I figured you’d be busy,” Carter said, smirking. Then, casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world: “And I was right.”

Ethan felt his face burn hotter. “How did you know what I was doing?”

Carter’s grin widened, lazy and unbothered. “That’s the first thing everyone pulls up,” he said, walking inside now like the space belonged to him. “I hand someone a key to the internet’s basement and nine times out of ten, porn’s the first door they open.”

He tossed his backpack onto the desk chair, took in the room like he was evaluating its vibe, then nodded toward the laptop. “Queue it up.”

Ethan blinked. “Wait… what?”

“The video,” Carter said, toeing off his shoes like he planned to stay. “Play it.”

Ethan’s head jerked back slightly, like he hadn’t heard right. “You want to watch it?”

“Yeah.”

“Together?”

Carter shrugged. “It’s better with company.”

Ethan opened his mouth. Closed it.

This guy—who he met less than an hour ago—had just barged into his dorm room, caught him mid-stroke, and now wanted to watch porn with him like it was a group project?

“What is this, a thing?” Ethan asked. “You just… do this?”

“Not always,” Carter said, settling onto the foot of the bed like the debate was already over. “Just when the vibe’s right.”

Ethan stared at him. Then stared at the screen. Then back at Carter, who was already leaning back on one arm, legs stretched out, the waistband of his sweatpants riding just low enough to show a sliver of hip. Comfortable. Confident. Like he’d done this before—like this was just a Tuesday night.

Ethan swallowed. He still hadn’t hit play.

Carter noticed.

“You’re overthinking it,” he said, voice low. “It’s not a contract. It’s just a video.”

But Ethan was still frozen. “You don’t even know me.”

“Sure I do,” Carter said, eyes steady. “You’re curious. You like rules but you like breaking them more. You thought this would just be a download and a dopamine hit, but now you’re wondering what else is out there.”

Ethan felt the air tighten in his lungs.

“I don’t—”

But the rest of the sentence dissolved.

Because Carter’s hand had moved.

Not suddenly. Not dramatically. Just… deliberately. Sliding past the drawstring of his pants and slipping inside like it belonged there. Like this was a shared secret, not a transgression.

Ethan stared.

He could feel the static charge crawling across his skin. Not fear. Not quite arousal either. Just this live-wire sensation of being locked in a moment that was veering fast off the edge of something familiar.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t stop him.

And Carter didn’t ask.

He just whispered, without taking his eyes off Ethan: “Queue it up.”

Ethan didn’t say yes. Not out loud.

But he stood anyway. Crossed the room. And turned the deadbolt with a soft click that somehow echoed louder than it should’ve.

When he turned back around, Carter was watching him—not smug, not smug yet, but like he already knew how this scene would end.

Ethan sat down on the bed again, a few feet from Carter this time, their knees barely not touching. He pulled the laptop into his lap, hesitated over the trackpad, then opened the browser. The last tab blinked open right where he left off—bodies, skin, movement, heat.

He hit play.

For a while, neither of them said anything. The only sound in the room was the low murmur of the video—heavy breathing, muffled moans, the wet rhythm of something Ethan couldn’t let himself fully name yet. He kept his eyes on the screen, even though he could feel Carter’s presence like static just to his right.

His heart was racing again, not like panic now, but like anticipation. Like standing at the edge of a pool at night, cold air on your back, warm water below, not sure if you’re going to jump or let the moment pass.

He stole a glance sideways.

Carter’s hand was still in his pants.

But now it wasn’t just resting there. His wrist moved. Barely—but it moved.

Ethan’s mouth went dry. He turned back to the screen, pulse hammering in his neck. The actors on screen were deep into it now, their movements matched, desperate, all hands and heat and aching want. And suddenly watching it didn’t feel so strange anymore.

It felt… charged.

And yeah—a little dangerous. But maybe also a little hot.

The thought hit him sideways: I’m watching porn with a stranger in my dorm room. And I’m kind of into it.

He didn’t move at first. Not right away. But then—slowly—his hand crept back beneath the waistband of his pants. He let it rest there for a moment, just to test the space. His fingertips grazed against skin, already warm, already wanting. He exhaled quietly and began to move.

Carefully. Quietly. Trying not to breathe too loud, not to break the spell.

That’s when Carter reached forward and clicked something on the screen.

The video changed. New scene. New angle. A threesome now. All guys.

Ethan barely had time to process before Carter, still stroking himself beneath the fabric, muttered, “Damn. That guy’s cock is insane.”

Ethan jolted, something sharp and hot threading through his gut at the casual comment. Like Carter had opened a door Ethan didn’t even realize was unlocked.

His own grip tightened, pace unsteady now. The room was thick with tension—the kind that hummed under the skin and blurred the lines between voyeur and participant.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look over. But from the way Carter’s breath hitched beside him, Ethan knew.

They were synced. Rhythms overlapping. Breaths staggered. Movements buried deep in cotton and heat and want.

Two strangers. Side by side. Both deep inside their own pants. Both watching the same screen.

And before Ethan could even think to stop it—he didn’t want to.

The sound of skin on skin was unmistakable now—not from the video, but beside him. Quiet but constant. The slick rhythm of Carter’s hand moving with no shame, no pause.

Ethan didn’t look. He couldn’t. He was too busy trying to keep his own pace steady, his hand working beneath the waistband of his pajama pants, slow and deliberate, knuckles grazing fabric with every upward stroke. His breathing had shifted, too—shallower now, pulled tight in his chest.

Carter broke the silence first.

“Mmm. Fuck,” he exhaled, low and under his breath but unmistakably real. “He’s so into it.”

Ethan blinked, eyes still glued to the screen, which was now zoomed in on a guy getting taken from behind, his mouth open, jaw slack, sweat on his back.

“Look at that,” Carter murmured, his voice a rough whisper. “Bet he didn’t think he’d be down for this either. Until he was.”

Ethan’s hand stuttered. Just for a second. That comment hit a little too close.

Carter noticed.

“Hey,” he said, softer now. “You good?”

Ethan nodded without looking. “Yeah.”

He thought that would be enough.

But Carter kept going.

“You like that part?” he asked. “The way he opens up for both of them?”

Ethan swallowed, hard. He tried to answer, but it came out more like a breath than a word. So he nodded again.

Carter didn’t push. But he didn’t stop either.

He shifted slightly on the bed, his thigh brushing against Ethan’s for the first time—warm, firm, just enough contact to say we’re not separate anymore.

Ethan’s heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his ears.

“Don’t be shy,” Carter said, a little more playful now. “We’re already past that.”

Ethan exhaled, jaw tight. He let his eyes flick over for the first time.

Carter was watching the screen—but his head was tilted back slightly, mouth parted, hand deep in his pants now, moving slow and steady. The front of his sweatpants was damp with heat, the outline of his grip impossible to miss.

“God,” Carter muttered, “I love this part.”

Ethan’s stomach turned in on itself, a hot twist of embarrassment and arousal. His own hand started moving again—slower this time, matching Carter’s rhythm without even thinking about it.

Carter caught the change.

“There you go,” he whispered. “That’s it.”

Ethan closed his eyes for a second. And that was the first time he let out a sound—not a word, just a low, caught breath, like letting go of something he didn’t know he was holding.

Carter smiled. Ethan didn’t see it, but he could feel it.

“Feels better with someone else, huh?” Carter said.

And Ethan didn’t—couldn’t—answer. Not yet.

But his body already had.

TO BE CONTINUED…