I’m halfway through a playlist I didn’t mean to finish, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars my little sister stuck to the ceiling three years ago, when the thought finally hits.

Oh shit.

I came out to him.

I sit up like that’ll help me rewind time.

Not that it was some emotional monologue or anything. I didn’t even say the word “bi” at first. It was just a line. A throwaway. Some guy or girl after a set.

I’ve said it before. I’ve lived it.

But not to him.

Not to someone like Ryan Mathews.

I scrub a hand through my hair, letting the weight of it settle in. I didn’t plan it. I wasn’t testing him. It just… happened. Because I was comfortable. Because the convo was easy and I forgot to guard my mouth like usual.

And he didn’t even flinch.

That’s the part that gets me.

No weird pause. No “oh.” No follow-up questions that weren’t really questions.

Just, “Got it.”

Like I’d said I played guitar left-handed or put ketchup on eggs.

I lie back down, heart still doing a little tap against my ribs like it’s not sure if it should freak out or chill.

I don’t regret it. I don’t feel exposed or nervous or whatever people are always warning about when you “tell the wrong person.”

Ryan didn’t make it a thing.

Which somehow makes it feel like it was one.

I laugh quietly into the dark. What a mess.

Who comes out by accident in the middle of a joke?

Apparently I do.

Of all people to slip up with, it had to be the golden boy with a perfect girlfriend and a future that probably already has a five-year plan.

I pull the blanket over my face and mutter into it.

“Nice job, Ryder.”

Still, part of me’s glad it happened.

Even if he never brings it up again.

The sun’s way too aggressive for a Sunday.

I drag myself out of bed, hair a full war zone, and head downstairs long enough to steal half a bagel and a mug of coffee before retreating back to my room like a raccoon with a grudge.

My phone buzzes just as I settle back into bed. Not Ryan. Just Preston sending a reel of someone falling off a stage. I snort, heart weirdly disappointed.

After staring at my screen for a solid two minutes, I type something out. Hover. Delete. Re-type. And finally send:

Jace (10:24 AM):

Seriously, don’t tell anyone.

A minute passes. No reply.

I add:

Jace (10:25 AM):

Or else I’ll have to kiss you and whoever you tell.

Then—

Jace (10:25 AM):

Kill

FUCKING autocorrect

Jace (10:26 AM):

I meant KILL

Like with violence. Not lips.

Forget I said anything.

I throw the phone across the bed like it’s personally betrayed me. Immediately regret it. Crawl across the blankets to grab it again.

Still no reply.

Awesome.

Cool.

I bury my face in the pillow and groan into it.

Ten out of ten. Really nailed the casual vibe, Ryder.