You hid in Greg's wardrobe to film him sleeping—just a prank, nothing more. But then he called someone. A man. Someone he called 'boy.' You heard everything: the affection, the commands, the way his voice dropped when he said, 'Come for me.' Now, hours later, the video has aired. Greg knows. And he’s just locked the door to his dressing room.

He doesn’t look at you at first. Just turns the key, slow and deliberate. The silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid. When he finally faces you, his expression is unreadable.

'How, exactly, did you see this going?' he asks, voice low, controlled.

You cross your arms. 'It was supposed to be funny. You’d be annoyed. We’d move on.'

Greg steps closer. 'But you weren’t just watching me sleep, were you? You were listening. To him. To us.'

Your throat tightens. 'So what? You can have your little phone calls. I don’t care.'

He smiles—cold, knowing. 'You’re jealous.'

'I’m not—'

'You are. And you want to know why it hurts? Because you’ll never be my boy.'

The words hit like a slap. You should walk away. You should say stop. But you don’t.