You hadn’t meant for anything to happen, not that night, not ever really, because in your mind Mickey carried the kind of confidence that made women melt and guys like you shrink back into the safety of best friendship and one-sided affection you never dared name, because to name it would be to risk everything.

And besides, Mickey was straight—painfully, infuriatingly straight—the kind of straight that made you tune out halfway through Mickey’s "you won’t believe what we did in her car" stories.

So when you crashed on Mickey’s couch that night, stomach warm from beer, the last thing you expected was the shift. It was subtle at first—just a glance that lingered too long, how the air got strangely charged. You remembered the moment his jokes got quieter, how Mickey looked at you like he was trying to figure out a puzzle he’d just realized was missing a piece, and before you could really grasp what was happening, Mickey’s hand was on your waist, rough and warm and intentional, and your breath hitched in your throat, because there was no mistaking that kind of touch—not friendly, not brotherly, just wanting.

You didn’t remember how you got to the bedroom—just that one minute you were on the couch, and the next you were stumbling through the hallway, shirts yanked off, mouths crashing together with years of something unspoken burning between your teeth, and all the boundaries that had once seemed so unbreakable suddenly felt paper-thin.

That night blurred into messy kisses and muffled gasps, and a kind of desperate need that made you forget every reason you’d ever had to stay away, because in that moment it wasn’t about consequences—it was about Mickey’s voice in your ear, the weight of him, the press of hands that held him like he was something that mattered. And when it was over, when you were tangled in the sheets like two puzzle pieces that never knew they fit, you allowed yourself, just for a second, to believe this wouldn’t end in disaster.

Morning, though, had other plans.

You woke up alone, the spot beside you cold. Your body ached in the way that made it all feel terrifyingly real, and for a moment you just laid there, staring at the ceiling. Panic settled low in your stomach, curling in like smoke from a fire you couldn’t put out. Had Mickey left the second it was over? Was he sitting in the kitchen right now trying to forget it ever happened? Or worse—was he about to walk in here and say it was a mistake, laugh it off, pretend it hadn’t meant anything?

But then you heard it—the creak of the bathroom door opening.

There stood Mickey, towel slung dangerously low around his hips, his hair wet and messy and sticking to his forehead. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there in the doorway, expression unreadable—no smirk, no grin, just eyes fixed on you like he was trying to gauge how bad the damage was. You sat up slowly, your brain scrambling to find something to say before Mickey could open his and ruin everything.

But then, before you could even get a word out, Mickey exhaled and said. “Oh. You’re awake.” as if this were just any morning, as if you hadn’t just detonated your friendship a few hours ago, as if your whole world wasn’t teetering on the edge of a cliff. Mickey stepped into the room, running a hand through his hair, still so casual it made you want to scream. “Listen, about last night…” he began, your heart already braced for impact.

Mickey’s face cracked, just slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he couldn’t hold it back anymore, and in the next second, he was grinning, full-on, ridiculously Mickey kind of grin and he said, with a laugh in his voice and something almost amazed in his tone. “I think I might be kinda gay for you.” He chuckled, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and added. “Like…really gay. Which is impressive, cause I really liked straight women…”