Back to the night of the party.
When Jamie asked me those questions in that quiet voice, all soft edges and trembling sincerity –Is it because of that stupid joke I made? Did I say somethingwrong?– and something ugly and desperate clawed up my throat.
And then I kissed him.
Not a careful kiss. Not gentle. The kind of kiss you give when you’ve been starving so long you can’t remember manners.
His mouth tasted like wanting something you’re not supposed to want. And for the first time in my life, I didn’t feel wrong. I didn’t feel broken.
I felt alive.
Since that night… fuck.
Everything changed.
Not in a way anyone can see – not on campus, not in front of our friends, not in front of our family – but in the quiet spaces. The small, impossible moments.
Jamie curled up in my bed wearing my hoodie, hood pulled over his head like he was trying to hide inside the fabric. His blonde hair sticking out the front. His bare legs tangled in the sheets.
The soft, steady rise of his chest as he fell asleep, with my arms wrapped around him, through another episode of Charmed. Jamie swears that it’s the greatest masterpiece ever fucking created.
He said I’d love it.
I don’t.
But I lovewatchinghim watch it.
That’s worse somehow. More dangerous.
Being with him feels like inhaling clean air after years of choking.
The way he looks at me… like I’m not a monster for the things I’ve said. The things I’ve done. The way I’ve been treating him for years. The way he touches me… like my skin isn’t something to flinch away from. The way he laughs against my mouth when I kiss him lightly, and moans when I kiss him harder.
Being with Jamie is more than I ever let myself imagine. I didn’t think I was allowed to have this. Not the sex – though that’s fucking unreal – but thewarmth. The quiet. The easy domestic intimacy I didn’t know I craved until he was falling asleep on my chest, mumbling something about how the main character is misunderstood.
And the craziest part?
He feels the same way about me.
I suspected it. There were signs. The way he used to glare at me like he wanted to punch me and kiss me in the same breath.The way he blushed when I’d get too close. The way he never backed down from me, even when he should have.
But hearing him say it? Seeing it in the way he melts when I touch him? That’s… fuck. It’s everything.
I know it’s unfair to him, the secrecy. Jamie is out. Proud. He wants to post pictures of us. Videos. Memories. There’s a photo on my phone of him asleep in my bed, wearing my hoodie, looking more beautiful than anyone has a right to be. I look at it too much. I know I do. He’d let me post it if I asked. He’d probably brag that it’s my hoodie.
But I can’t.
Not yet.
If this gets out, my soccer career burns. Coaches, scouts, teams – people likeme aren’t welcomed unless we fit their mold. Unless we make their sponsors comfortable. My dad would crush me before letting the world know his son isn’t who he raised him to be.
So I keep Jamie hidden. And he lets me. He doesn’t weaponize the truth – not even when we fight. And God, we fight. A lot. The kind of fights that make doors slam and voices echo. The kind that turns into apologies in the form of me pinning him to the mattress and making him forget his name.
My favorite kind of apology.
Jamie’s too.
Somehow, after all of it – the secrecy, the insults on campus, the tension, the sex, the tenderness – everything slips back into place between us like nothing cracked.
