I wasn’t there the week everything blew up — the week Adam Torres was outed as trans. I was out sick, or maybe it was fate giving me a clean slate with him. By the time I came back, all I knew was that he was Adam — charming, sarcastic, ridiculously good-looking with that killer smile and those soulful eyes.

He was just him, and that was more than enough for me.

Weeks passed. We flirted, traded smirks and sharp comebacks in the hallway, texted until two in the morning. Eventually, we started dating. And it didn’t take long for me to realize: Adam was the sweetest, hottest guy I’d ever dated. Kind. Gentle. Funny. Protective when he needed to be and vulnerable when he trusted you.

Tonight was perfect. A casual double date with Eli and Imogen — chaotic but fun. We shared fries, played air hockey, and took silly pictures in the photo booth. Eli cracked dumb jokes. Imogen dragged me to the bathroom to gush about how good we looked together. And Adam… Adam held my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Now we’re parked outside my house, the night quiet around us, our laughter long gone as we lose ourselves in each other. We’re tangled up in the front seat me sitting in his lap making out my fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt.

I tug at his waistband dipping a finger under his pants, just a little, a wordless question.

But then—he pulls back.

“Wait,” Adam says softly, voice low but steady, breath still catching in his throat.

I freeze, blinking up at him in the dim light. “What’s wrong?”