The house was warm in a suffocating way, heat thick from too many bodies packed into too small a space, the scent of sweet liquor, cheap cologne, and burnt incense curling in the air like smoke. Twinkly lights hung from the ceiling, lazily draped over exposed beams and flickering like they were just as tired as I felt. The living room was dim, lit by a rotating LED bulb tucked into a corner lamp that washed the walls with pulses of purple and red. Laughter echoed off hardwood floors. A half-spilled drink sparkled where someone had carelessly knocked over a solo cup. Someone was playing a retro playlist—soft synth-pop drowning beneath conversations, clinking bottles, and playful shrieks.

I sat cross-legged on a fraying area rug, my long fingers clutching the fabric of my sleeves like a lifeline. I was trying to disappear. My hoodie—oversized, black, familiar—swallowed my thin frame. A frayed flannel was tied loosely around my waist, and my scuffed black boots tapped lightly against the floor with a nervous rhythm. The curls of my dirty-blonde hair hung low, partially veiling the pale, worried flush of my face. My pale blue eyes darted everywhere except at the people around me.

I didn’t want to be here. I hadn’t wanted to come at all. But Arlo, my roommate and, to my horror, something like my only friend, had begged. Pleaded. Offered to do my anatomy flashcards for a week. Arlo, draped in fishnet and velvet, had declared, “You’ve been locked in the med building like a Victorian ghost. Get laid or at least make eye contact with another mammal, Jae.”

So here I was. In a circle of ten or so people—most of them loud, popular, effortlessly beautiful. Shiny teeth. Shiny skin. Confidence that reeked of money, sports, and being told they were special since birth. A few artsy queers hovered at the edges, septum rings, platform boots, eyeliner that dared the world to look twice, but I didn’t feel like I belonged with them either. I didn’t belong anywhere in this room.

Someone spun the bottle in the center of the circle. It clinked against the floor, the glass flashing under the LED glow like a blade.

Two people were picked. They laughed, stood up, and disappeared into the coat closet. Seven minutes. Everyone hollered and cheered. When they emerged—hair ruffled, giggling, flushed—the bottle was spun again.

Then again.

And then—

It landed on me.

The room gasped like it had witnessed a minor miracle. Arlo immediately let out a shriek and started clapping.

“DOCTOR DOOM! IT’S HAPPENING!”

My stomach dropped. My palms went cold. I stared at the bottle like I could will it to change direction.

“Alright, alright!” someone cackled. “Let’s see who’s going in with the baby surgeon.”

The bottle spun again.

I didn’t look up. I didn’t want to know who it was. I was already planning my escape, debating whether vomiting would be dramatic enough to excuse me.

Then the circle erupted.

Whistles. Shouts.

“NO WAY.”

“LUCKY!”

“GET IT, JAE!”

I finally looked up.

And you were grinning.

Sitting across the circle, legs sprawled casually, one arm resting on a bent knee. Athletic. Artistic. Popular. A carved-from-sunlight kind of guy. Tattoos winding down your forearm, black nail polish chipped at the edges. Rumor had it you skated, painted, played soccer, and kissed boys with the confidence of someone who had never had to second-guess being wanted.

You stood up without hesitation.

“Let’s go, pretty boy.”

I froze.

“Don’t keep him waiting, Doom!” Arlo cackled, kicking my ankle.

Everything inside me screamed to bolt—but my limbs moved on their own. Numb. Disbelieving. I stood slowly, hoodie sleeves covering my hands, and followed you into the narrow coat closet like a lamb being led into some kind of strange, soft-lit slaughter.

The door shut behind us both with a quiet click.

Instantly, the world muffled. The music dulled to a heartbeat. The air was stale, full of hanging jackets and the faint scent of detergent and cedarwood. A lone winter coat brushed against my cheek.

It was dark, but not pitch black. A sliver of light from under the door sliced across the floor between us. Your face was barely visible, eyes catching what little light there was, mouth curved in something between mischief and warmth.

I pressed myself back against the wall, arms pinned to my sides. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

You didn’t move toward me, not yet. You leaned against the door instead, casual, letting the tension melt around you.

“Didn’t think you’d come in,” you said, voice low but not mocking. “You looked like you might run.”

My reply was quiet, strained.

“Didn’t really have a choice.”

You smiled. Not in a cruel way. Just amused. You tilted your head.

“You did. But I’m glad you didn’t take it.”

I stared at the floor.

The silence stretched, thick as honey.

Then you stepped closer—not lunging, not predatory. Just a gentle, curious closing of space. Enough to let your presence sink in.

“You’re kind of a mystery, you know.” Your voice dropped an octave, velvet smooth. “The hot boy who hides behind textbooks. Half the class has a crush on you.”

I flinched like it was a lie meant to wound.

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

I looked up.

You were watching me—not in that invasive way most people did, not like I was an object to figure out. But like I was something worth noticing. Something valuable.

Your hand reached up, slow and careful, brushing a strand of hair out of my eyes.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” you asked, voice softer now, almost reverent.

My lips parted, but no sound came out. My breath was shaking.

Then—

“I don’t know how,” I whispered.