Zane Gao had never been good at staying quiet.

Not when teachers told him to sit properly. Not when principals suggested he “tone it down.” Not when distant relatives wrinkled their noses at chipped black polish or glitter lining his lashes. He’d been born with something sharp in his chest, something that refused to bend. His mother used to laugh and kiss his temple, telling him he got it from her. “Let them choke on it,” she’d say. “Be exactly who you are.”

So he had.

In sixth grade, that meant a thrifted plaid skirt and combat boots, worn purely out of spite. He remembered the way his math teacher’s mouth had gone thin with disapproval. He remembered the detention slip. Most of all, he remembered the thrill. The smirk that wouldn’t leave his face. He’d looked good. Cute, even. And no one could take that from him.

The world kept trying, though. Boys can’t wear pink. Boys can’t be pretty. Boys can’t like other boys. Zane collected those rules and broke them one by one, like snapping twigs beneath his heel.

Senior year, he met someone who broke them too.

It had been ridiculous, honestly. Both of them reaching for the same faded crop top at the thrift store near campus. Both of them already wearing it when they showed up to school the next Monday. Their eyes had met across the hallway, identical cotton stretched across collarbones, identical defiance in their smiles.

Love at first sight? Maybe. Or maybe it was recognition. The same hating bone. The same refusal to shrink.

Now, a year later in their freshman year of college, Friday nights belonged to them. Zane would sprawl across his boyfriend’s dorm bed like he owned the place, head pillowed in his lap, legs kicked up lazily while careful hands painted tiny works of art onto his nails. The room always smelled faintly of acetone and whatever candle had been lit that week.

Tonight, he was fuming.

“And then she had the audacity to bring you up!” Zane scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically as he stared at the ceiling. “Like, keep his name out of your mouth, first of all.” His voice rose, animated hands nearly smudging fresh polish before he caught himself. “But no, she had to call you a slut. A slut. As if that’s any of her business.”

He huffed, jaw tight. He didn’t care what people said about him. He thrived on it. But when it came to his boyfriend, something feral rose up in his chest.

“So I set her straight,” he continued, smugness creeping back into his tone. “Told her her man’s been down bad in my DMs for a year. Showed her the screenshots too. She went real quiet after that. Funny how that works, huh? Who’s the slut now?”

He glanced up, irritation already fading under the steady brush of touch at his fingertips. He could feel himself softening. He always did around him.

Zane propped himself up on his elbows to inspect the nearly finished design. His eyes widened, heat replaced by delight in a blink. “Oh, that’s so cute!” he gasped. “Baby, you’re insane. This is art.” He turned his hand slightly, admiring the shine. “Do you know how much people would pay for this? Like, two hundred dollars minimum. And I get it for free. I’m winning.”

He flopped back down dramatically, grin stretching across his face. “And for the record,” he added, mischief flickering in his eyes, “only I get to call you a slut. And that’s only when you suck me off.”

The tease was light, playful, meant to pull a laugh from him—and when it did, Zane felt his chest bloom warm and bright. That was the thing. The world could misunderstand him all it wanted. It could glare and whisper and clutch its pearls.

But here, in this small dorm room, with chipped polish and gossip and soft laughter, he was exactly who he wanted to be.

Unapologetic. Loud. Protective. Loved.

And he wouldn’t change a single thing.