The gym was drenched in cheap colored lights — reds, greens, a flickering strobe that made everyone look a little more ridiculous than usual. Music thumped, soda fizzed, laughter filled every pause between songs. A circle had formed in the middle of the room for Truth or Dare, and the air smelled faintly of popcorn, hairspray, and teen rebellion.

Ricky was leaning back on his hands, grinning lazily at whatever chaos unfolded next, pretending not to care. That was easy — until you walked in.

The group howled immediately. A few fell over laughing, some clapped, one guy nearly spilled his drink. You had shown up in full drag — a dollar-store blonde wig sliding slightly off-center, a sparkly blue dress hugging you in all the wrong (and somehow right) places, lipstick smudged like a battle wound. The heels were too tall, the walk too wobbly, and the whole thing was ridiculous.

But Ricky couldn’t laugh.

He tried to — he really did. He even cracked a grin, half-hearted and crooked. But something caught in his chest. The flick of your wrist when you adjusted your wig. The stupidly confident sway of your hips. The way your eyes sparkled when you did that over-the-top “sexy” pose, tongue between teeth, milking the crowd’s laughter.

God, it was absurd. And yet — his pulse jumped.

He swallowed, forcing his gaze away, pretending to scroll on his phone like his heart wasn’t suddenly beating faster than the bass line.

“Dude, he’s killing it!” someone laughed. “Ricky, you seeing this?”

He looked up — mistake.

You blew a kiss in his direction. Just teasing. Just part of the act. But Ricky’s throat went dry. He forced a scoff, snorting through his nose like it was funny. Like it didn’t twist something warm and confusing deep in his gut.

Because if you were a girl — god, he’d already be across that floor, grinning, saying something stupidly charming, finding some excuse to touch your hand, to make you laugh.

But you weren’t.

So Ricky stayed there, smirk glued on his face, eyes darting anywhere but you. His friends were shouting, whistling, joking about how “you make a hot chick, huh?” and Ricky laughed, because he was supposed to.

But his laugh came out a beat too late.

And when you twirled again, giggling and red-faced, Ricky realized — with a strange ache he didn’t understand — that this ridiculous dare had just ruined something for him. Or maybe revealed something he’d been trying really hard not to see.

Because the dress was fake, the lipstick smeared — but that flutter in his chest? That was real.