The food hall was a war zone of noise. Metal chairs scraped, voices ricocheted off concrete walls, and someone’s Spotify blared from their backpack like they were DJ’ing lunch detention. I hated it. All of it. Every sound crawled under my skin and made me wish I’d eaten alone in the car instead.
Tru and I were marooned at a too-big table in the corner, resembling two unpopular camp counselors supervising chaos. I had nothing but limp fries, a bottle of water I wasn’t drinking, and the crushing realization that being out didn’t mean freedom; it meant exposure.
Tru scrolled his phone like he was above the fray, tray already spotless, napkin folded into submission. Probably cataloging the mess in front of him to mock later.
I shifted, elbows on the table, back off, on again. My knee bounced. “This sucks,” I muttered, picking at a fry and not tasting a thing.
He didn’t even look up. Didn’t blink.
I stared a moment too long. I could still taste his mouth from that morning, still feel the drag of his breath against my neck as he rode me slowly in our bed. We’d kissed like we were starving. And now we sat here like strangers in cafeteria purgatory.
“This must’ve been what you felt like in middle school,” I said, because apparently my brain hated me. “When you sat all alone.”
His eyes flicked up and narrowed. A sharp, cold, clean hit right between the ribs. Right. Because I’d ditched him back then. God, I was an asshole.
The chair bit into my back. I wanted to apologize, but thewords stuck. I didn’t know how to do this yet—how to be open, be honest, be someone worthy of sitting next to him.
Before I could fix it, a tray slammed down beside Tru.
“Hey, move your backpack, dude.”
Another guy dropped into the seat next to me, boxing me in. “Hope you girls don’t mind sharing,” he said with a grin. Someone threw a tater tot. The soccer team arrived in a blur of sweat, noise, and swagger, and suddenly our quiet corner was swallowed whole.
My chest tightened. Instinctively, I braced for impact—for a slur, a shove, a joke that wasn’t one. One word, and I’d have to decide between pretending it didn’t hurt or breaking someone’s nose.
But nothing came.
“Hey, lovebirds,” someone called through a mouthful of pizza. “When I said you two should get married, you know I was joking, right?”
Laughter exploded across the table.
My pulse spiked, but Tru just smiled, slow, smug, like he’d known this would happen. Like he trusted them. Trusted this place, trustedme.
I didn’t think lunch would be the scariest part of coming out, but here we were, elbows deep in fries and fragile masculinity.
And I was still catching up when Damon—the keeper with the headband—leaned in and said, “Should’ve known Carter couldn’t turn down a dare.”
My mouth fell open. “Oh my God. That was awful.”
Tru hummed, folding his arms and leaning back like a king. “Admit it,” he said. “You liked that one.”
I shook my head, but the heat in my face betrayed me. He knew. He always knew.
The noise around us shifted, softening from a threat to a background hum. My shoulders eased. For the first time since sitting down, I realized I wasn’t waiting for a punchline aimed at me. No one cared. No one stared. Just a table full of guys inhaling carbs and letting us be.
I was sitting with my boyfriend. In public. With my knees pressed to his under the table. It’d only taken me seven years to find the courage.
I used to think being seen would ruin me. Now, all I wanted was for someone to look andknow.Know that he wasmine.
The fear didn’t vanish, not all at once. It still coiled under my skin, old muscle memory twitching for defense. But it loosened, bit by bit, as laughter filled the air and nothing bad happened. Tru caught my eye, that smug, soft pride glinting there, and I knew he saw it—that invisible exhale.
Maybe this was what safety felt like.
We stepped out into the late afternoon. Tru walked ahead a few steps, hands stuffed in his hoodie, and I trailed behind, trying to figure out why I still felt like my heart was sprinting.
He glanced back, smirking. “You were weirdly quiet in there.”
“I was being normal,” I said, catching up. “You want weird? I can hum love songs at the table next time. Maybe bring flowers.”
