I stare at it for a minute. If I posted Damien’s face, everyone would know in seconds, and neither of us is ready for that. But this—his hand on my skin, the little details only I know to look for—that’s mine.
I post the picture, crop it tight on just our hands, and caption it with a single blue heart.
It feels weird to be this happy after believing it wasn’t possible for so long. My brain keeps trying to tell me I shouldn’t trust it, that something’s bound to ruin it. But tonight, the world is quiet. The space between my ears isn’t vibrating with panic, and I let myself soak it in.
My phone pings with reactions before I even set it down, but I ignore them, letting the contentment settle deep in my chest.
I’m halfway to making myself a cup of chamomile tea when there’s a knock on my door. I frown as I look at the time: it’s nearly eight. My heart is already in my throat when someone bangs on my door loud enough to make me jump this time.
Then I hear a familiar, theatrical voice echo through the hall, “Open up, Bluebird! We’re here to rescue your sad ass from whatever tragic playlist you’re moping to.”
Sage. There’s a thump and a muffled curse—Nate. “We’re kidnapping you, so put on something slutty. Or whatever your version of slutty is.”
I groan but smile, my heart pounding as I walk toward the door. I crack it open slightly and find them both beaming before they burst through my door with all the subtlety of a tornado.
A green beanie barely contains Sage’s blond locks, and there’s a glitter star sticker on his cheek. Nate, though—Nate is avision.Lacy mesh crop top that barely covers his chest but shows off his panther tattoo, black painted nails, and jeans that ride low on his hips. He looks both ridiculous and gorgeous—utterly himself—and I stare for a second too long, caught between envy and awe.
“Don’t ogle, darling, you’ll make me blush,” Nate teases, flinging an arm around my shoulders.
“Sorry,” I mumble, but the truth is, I wish I could be that free. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t worry about who’s watching. He just exists, bright and unapologetic. “Shoes off, please. I don’t like shoes in my place.”
Sage groans at my order but obeys. Nate tilts his head as he removes his boots. “We’re getting you out. You’ve been hiding for days, and it’s time to be fun again. No excuses.”
I try to protest, but Sage is already walking toward my bedroom. “We need to talk about your wardrobe. You’re not auditioning for Sad Boy Autumn.”
“I have clothes,” I argue, grabbing jeans and a soft long-sleeved shirt before he can make any more comments about the state of my laundry. “And I’m not going out looking like that,” I nod at Nate, who just grins, entirely unbothered.
“Why not?” Nate throws himself on my bed, feet dangling off the edge. “This is the freest I’ve ever felt. Besides, half of campus wants to sleep with me or murder me. I like to keep them guessing.”
Sage snorts, flicking a stray sock at me. “Hurry up. We’re late for brunch, and there’s a vintage store sale—”
“Brunch? It’s eight o’clock at night!” I exclaim, but Sage just grins.
I don’t wait for an answer and fumble my way through my closet, pulse racing as I try to decide if I even have anything that counts as slutty before I head to the bathroom to get changed. I swap my pajamas for a pair of black skinny jeans and the only shirt I own that could be described as daring—a tight, long-sleeved mesh top layered over a white tank.
It’s not slutty by any definition Sage or Nate would use, but it feels like a lot to me, and that’s enough. Tonight, I decide, I won’t second-guess.
“Look at you! God, that’s adorable,” Sage says when I walk out of the bathroom. Then he squints at my face. “Did you put on eyeliner? Tell me you put on eyeliner.”
Nate pushes past him, looking me up and down with a wicked grin. “This is perfect. You look like a queer indie film protagonist about to have a coming-of-age moment.”
“Shut up,” I mumble, but I’m already smiling. I shove my feet into boots, grab my wallet, and try not to look at my reflection too long in the mirror.
Sage bounces on the balls of his feet. “Alright, first stop: thrift store. Nate wants to play dress-up, and I want to find something heinous just for fun.”
Nate tugs me into the hallway and slings an arm around my shoulder, his bracelets rattling. “This is an intervention, Adams. You don’t get to hide in your hobbit hole anymore. Not on our watch. Tonight, we force you to remember you’re hot.”
They don’t wait for me to second-guess. We’re out the door and in Sage’s car before I can panic, and I’m bundled up in Damien’s hoodie because I just had to bring it along with me. Sage drags us through three thrift stores.
Why there are thrift stores open past 5 p.m., I’ll never know.
I try on a vintage floral button-up at Nate’s insistence, and I actually like how it fits. Nate pulls out a handful of crop tops and half-jokingly holds them up to my waist. I manage to laugh instead of bolting, and Sage nearly cries at the sight of me in a rainbow cardigan.
We end up with three bags between us, half of which are full of things we’ll probably never wear but had to try for the laughs. Sage pays for everything with a flourish and announces, “Next stop: gelato, then the art gallery.” Nate immediately demands double chocolate and pistachio.
We eat gelato outside the gallery, sprawled on a bench. The air is cool but not cold, and for a while, the world feelsmanageable. At the night gallery, Nate drags us to every abstract piece, making up increasingly ridiculous stories about what the squiggles mean.
I meander past a wall-sized painting made up of a thousand tiny, mirrored pieces, and I catch my own reflection—a mess of blue hair and eyes a little brighter than they were this morning.
