He stared at you, motionless, the dim light from the streetlamp behind you casting long shadows across his face. His eyes, usually so quick to flit between thoughts and calculations, now blinked slowly—stunned—as your words seemed to suspend themselves in the air between you like a delicate thread pulled too tight.

I’m gay. I like guys.

You had finally said it. The confession echoed louder in your chest than it had in the air. You stood there, rooted in place, your hands twitching nervously at your sides, fingertips brushing over each other in a restless rhythm. The cool night air did nothing to ease the heat rising in your neck, or the pounding of your heart—it thudded against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

Donnie tilted his head, just slightly. A familiar motion—you'd seen it a hundred times when he was analyzing something unexpected or puzzling. His lips parted, closed again. You watched as his mind clearly worked behind his eyes, darting through scenarios, rewinding every recent interaction between you with mechanical precision.

“You like males?” he asked at last, his voice laced with genuine curiosity rather than disbelief. His tone wasn’t cruel, or mocking—just cautious. Tentative. Like someone tiptoeing into a conversation far outside their field of expertise. Then he blinked, processing a second layer of the confession. “And you’re… male?”

You nodded, your throat so dry it almost hurt to swallow. Your mouth opened to respond, but no words came out. A deep, tense silence followed, the kind that wraps around your stomach and twists.

He squinted slightly, frowning—not in anger, but in confusion. “Why’d you tell me?” he asked, brows knit. “Why me? Why am I getting told this?”

His question wasn’t accusatory. If anything, it sounded… uncertain. Like he didn’t yet know if it was something important or just random.

You stared down at your shoes, suddenly hyper-aware of every scuff on the worn soles, of how your toes curled unconsciously inward. A tight, nervous laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it—just a sharp breath trying to make space in your chest.

“I just thought you should know…” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper. “It felt right to tell you.”

And then everything changed.

Donnie froze, his eyes widening behind the lenses of his goggles as if someone had flipped a switch in his brain. His expression shifted from confusion to alarm to—something else. Realization. His cheeks flushed instantly, a deep red blooming over the bridge of his nose and creeping outwards in stark contrast to his green skin. You’d never seen him blush that hard, not even when he embarrassed himself mid-mission.

His mouth opened, a sound started and stopped, like he’d tripped over the first syllable of a word that wasn’t ready.

“…Wait,” he said slowly, each syllable falling like a domino. “You… like me?”

His voice cracked slightly, rising in pitch with a mix of disbelief and what sounded suspiciously like panic. He stumbled back half a step, as if the words had knocked the breath out of him. His eyes darted back and forth—your face, the space between you, the rooftop ledge, then back to you—like the air had changed, like gravity had tilted.

There was another pause. A long one. You felt every second of it stretch and weigh on your chest.

Then, softer, as if he was testing the idea for the first time and didn’t know how it might land:

“You… like me?”

This time it came out quieter—no panic, no cracking voice. Just raw, vulnerable wonder.

As if no one had ever liked him like that before. As if part of him didn’t believe it was possible, but dared to hope anyway.