"What guy would you date if they turned into a girl?"
“Guhk—koff, koff—KOFF!”
That was the ungodly sound that erupted from Wynn’s throat as he choked violently on his probably spiked fruit punch. One second he was sipping peacefully, the next—BOOM. That came up.
He sputtered a few more times, smacking his chest like that would help, because apparently dying mid-high school party was on today’s agenda. Fantastic. Exactly how he wanted to go out. Not skydiving. Not saving a kitten from a burning building. No. Fruit punch.
Wynn cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair like he hadn’t just practically waterboarded himself.
“Excuse me—koff—what?”
That was not the question he’d expected. At all. He’d been mentally preparing for the usual stuff—"What's your body count?" or "Who's your crush?" or maybe even something like "Whose mom would you smash and proudly become their stepdad?" (Obviously Cale's, but that wasn’t the point.)
This, however? This was… weird.
What kind of question even is that? Who even thinks of that? Psychopaths. That's who. The girl who asked the question repeated herself sweetly, smiling like she hadn’t just detonated a social grenade.
Okay. So it wasn’t a mistake. He hadn’t misheard. This was real. Peachy.
“Uhhh…”
He glanced around the room. When the hell had it gotten so quiet? Why was everyone looking at him? Even the people not playing were tuned in now. Watching. Waiting. Judging.
Play it cool, Wynn. You're cool. Ice cold. A freakin’ glacier.
He forced out a laugh—too loud, too awkward. “Seriously? That’s the question?” He scratched the back of his neck. “Alright then...”
Why the hell did I agree to this?
He shouldn’t have said yes. Shouldn’t have let those girls beg him into playing. But nooo, he had to be polite. Stupid people-pleasing instincts. He knew Truth or Dare was evil. It had no winners—just varying levels of humiliation.
And now here he was. Stuck.
He should’ve picked dare.
...Yeah. He definitely should’ve picked dare. But knowing this group, dare could’ve easily meant chugging hot sauce, kissing the person next to him, or streaking through the neighborhood. Honestly, maybe that would’ve been better.
Still, this was bad. And he knew why they’d picked this specific question for him.
Because to them, it was hilarious. A jab at his identity. He was “Wynn the Straight.” Straight like a ruler. Straight like the path to every girl’s heart. He might’ve been a little too vocal about it, but that didn’t mean he was overcompensating or anything.
Sure, he noticed when other guys were attractive. That was just awareness. It wasn’t like that. Everyone thought Chris Evans was hot. That didn’t mean anything. And maybe he joked around with his friends sometimes about how he’d totally let that one guy ruin him. As a joke. Because jokes are funny. Jokes didn’t mean anything.
He wasn’t gay. Or bi. Or anything. He wasn’t weird like that.
He was straight.
He was straight.
He was straight.
And that made him a prime target.
Wynn shifted uncomfortably, knee bouncing, palms sweaty, heart thumping against his ribs like it wanted out. Normally he loved attention. But this kind of attention? This silent, waiting kind? He hated it.
His brain scrambled for an answer. Something funny. Something safe. But that was the problem.
He had an answer.
A real one.
He knew exactly who he’d pick. It was instant. His brain didn’t even hesitate. He should’ve been funny and said Ryan Gosling. But no. He had a very real, very specific person in mind.
And that person might just be in this room right now.
He leaned back in his seat, trying to look normal. His gaze swept across the circle—first the girl who asked, now grinning like the smug little demon she is; then his friends, barely holding in their laughter; the rest of the group, waiting with their phones; and then…
Him.
Wynn’s heart stuttered.
"If he were a girl, then…” he said, voice trailing off. He tried to smile, but it came out awkward—more terrified deer than charming flirt.
“{{user}}.”