"What's up, baby gay?"
"Holy, fuck on a football field!"
I nearly jump out of my skin. Sylas drops onto the bench beside me, crossing his long legs elegantly. He's wearing ripped jeans and a crop top that says'Gender is a Scam’in glitter.
"Jesus, you scared me."
"Good. Keeps you on your toes." He eyes me up and down. "I hear you locked down that gorgeous twink doctor-to-be. About time someone appreciated that ass."
Despite everything, I laugh. "Yeah. We're dating now."
"Mhmm." Sylas cocks his head, studying me. "So why the long face, honey? You look like someone scuffed your Jimmy Choos."
I stare at him blankly.
"Designer shoes, sweetie. Very expensive. Never mind." He waves a manicured hand. "Spill."
"It's nothing."
"Bitch, please. I can smell relationship drama from fifty yards. It's my superpower." He shifts to face me fully. "Talk to Auntie Sylas."
I full-on snort laugh at him. "God Sylas… Never change."
Maybe it's because I'm desperate. Maybe it's because Sylas has this weird way of making you feel like he actually gives a shit. Either way, I find myself talking.
"Doc's being weird. Like, really weird. Snapped at me during his interview prep, told me I wouldn't understand what's wrong, then hit me with 'it's not you, it's me' before practically running away."
"Oof. The classic."
"Right? And I just... I don't know what to do." I pick at my sweatpants. "Never dated a guy before. Maybe there's some rule I'm missing or?—"
"Stop."
"What?"
"Stop spiraling. It's giving off anxiety, and that's my brand." But his voice is gentler than usual. Actually, he seems gentler. The whole manic energy thing he usually has going drops down so he’s at a normal person's energy level.
It's weird. I squint at him. "Why are you being so... not you? Stop it… It's freaking me out."
Sylas throws his head back and cackles. "Oh, honey, you really are a baby gay." He pats my arm, his touch surprisingly comforting. "Listen. Dating a guy is very different yet completely the same as dating a woman."
"That makes no sense."
"You. Must. Talk. To. Him." He emphasizes each word with a finger poke to my chest. "Gay boys are just as stupid about feelings as straight people. Maybe more. We just have better fashion sense while we're being idiots. Well, most of us."
He looks me up and down, then sighs, "You do have grey sweatpants going for you, so that's something at least." I think he's talking to himself now more than to me.
"But he said?—"
"He said he has stuff going on. Not that he wants to break up. Not that you did anything wrong. Stuff. Going. On." Another poke and I am getting a sore spot between my pecs. "You know what that usually means?"
"...No?"
"Family shit. Money shit. School shit. Life shit that has nothing to do with your beautiful himbo ass, but he's too stressed to say it right."
Fuck. That actually makes sense.
"So what do I do?"
