“Yeah.” But he didn’t stop kissing me.
“Étienne—”
“Tonight,” he promised, pulling back to look at me. His eyes were dark with want. “Tonight, we’ll have time. I’ll make it worth the wait.”
Heat pooled in my groin, and my cock thickened. “That’s not helping me behave.”
“Good.” He kissed me once more, then stepped back, his own dick hard. “Come on. I really do need to get ready now.”
We finished showering with admirable self-control, dried off, and got dressed. The whole routine felt domestic in a way that made my chest light. This was what it could be like.
I wanted this forever.
The thought hit me so hard I had to steady myself against the counter.
Forever meant coming out. Meant facing my family and possibly losing them. My father’s respect. My mother’s love, conditional as it had always been on being the right kind of son. Sunday dinners. Holiday gatherings. All of it, gone. Replaced by disappointed phone calls that would eventually stop coming. By prayers for my soul instead of conversations. By a photo of me turned face down in my mother’s living room, too painful to look at but too precious to throw away completely. I’d become the person they whispered about at church, the cautionary tale, the son who chose sin overfamily. And they’d believe—truly believe—that cutting me off was an act of love
Could I do that? Could I choose this—choose him—over safety?
“You okay?” Étienne appeared beside me, concern in his expression.
“Yeah. Just thinking.”
“About?”
“Later. You need to go.”
He studied my face for another moment, then nodded. Kissed me quickly and grabbed his duffel.
After he left, the house felt too quiet. Only a couple of weeks ago, being home alone would have been ideal; now, it made me jumpy.
Étienne got back from practice around noon, bringing pizza from the Italian place I liked. We settled on the couch with our laptops—him reviewing something for the team, me catching up on game tape I’d missed.
Except he wasn’t reviewing team stuff.
I could see his screen from the corner of my eye, could see him scrolling through articles, clicking links, reading intently.
After about twenty minutes, curiosity got the better of me. I glanced over and caught a headline:“What Does It Mean to Be Bisexual?”
Étienne noticed me looking and quickly closed the tab, his face flushing. “I was just…”
“It’s okay.” I set my laptop aside. “What are you reading?”
He hesitated, then opened the browser again. “Articles. About being bisexual. About coming out. About… all of it. I just—I want to understand. Want to know what this means.”
I moved closer, looking at his screen. He had multipletabs open. Personal essays from bisexual men. FAQs about bisexuality. Coming out stories.
“How long have you been researching?” I asked.
“Since I figured it out.” He scrolled through one article. “I needed to know I wasn’t alone. That other people felt this way. That it was real.”
My gut loosened. He wasn’t just curious or experimenting. He was trying to understand this part of himself.
“And?” I asked. “What have you learned?”
“That bisexuality is valid. It’s not a phase or confusion. Being attracted to both men and women doesn’t make me greedy or indecisive or any of the other things people say.” He looked at me. “That there are other people like me. A lot of them.”
“Yeah. There are.”
