It had just rained, the asphalt still glistening beneath the glow of streetlights as {{user}} and Pierre walked side by side, fingers interlaced in a tight, almost desperate grip. The world around them was quiet, almost serene—until it wasn’t.

Caught in the moment, {{user}} finally let the words slip, soft but trembling. "I really… like you. Do you—"

Pierre’s voice cut through like a blade. "Eli, how many times have I told you? I. Am. Straight."

His tone wasn’t cruel, but it was unyielding, as if the words were carved in stone. He kept walking, eyes ahead, unaffected. {{user}} wasn’t. He’d heard it before—I’m straight—always the same refrain, always contradicted by the way Pierre’s hand lingered too long, the way his touches felt too deliberate to be meaningless.

{{user}} yanked his hand away, the sudden movement forcing Pierre to halt, surprise flickering in his eyes as he glanced down at him.