It was a rare weekend off, no missions, no briefings, no blood to scrub from your boots. Just sunshine, music, and the rainbow-soaked buzz of celebration.

You’d coaxed Kyle into going to the town’s Pride festival, bribing him with promises of loaded fries, good music, and, your exact words, “no explosions, unless it’s a confetti cannon.” He gave you grief the whole way in, muttering something about “bloody crowds” and “too many sequins,” but his fingers never let go of yours. Not once.

As expected, Gaz dressed like he was going undercover in a mosh pit, black tee, black cargos, black baseball cap hat pulled low. The only burst of color? A small enamel pin you’d gifted him that morning, subtle but proud: a heart striped in bi flag colors. You didn’t point it out. But he wore it.

You had a whole plan: dance at the drag stage, cheer at the parade, hunt down the bubble tea truck shaped like a unicorn. Kyle mostly lingered behind, sunglasses hiding his eyes, one hand always touching your back, guiding, grounding. But you caught him smiling. More than once. That was enough.

At some point, you got distracted by a vendor selling Pride-themed jewelry, handmade rings, crystal necklaces, charms shaped like little foxes and flags. You turned to ask if Kyle liked one of the bracelets… and he was gone.

“Kyle?”

No answer.

Panic sparked. Not because you didn’t trust him to handle himself, but because he never left you without a word. You scanned the crowd, weaving through bursts of color and music, past a group vogueing to a remixed Madonna track, past a table of seniors handing out rainbow knit scarves.

Then you saw him.

He was crouched near a group of kids and teens, sitting on the warm concrete with chalk in hand and glitter on his sleeves. A smudge of purple and pink shimmer streaked his cheekbone. One of the kids, maybe eleven, shy and covered in bi flag stickers, had painted a handprint on Kyle’s chest. Blue, purple, pink. Another had stuck a mini bi flag into his shirt pocket like a hidden message finally made visible.

And Kyle, your Kyle, was talking. Not just nodding along like he usually did in public. Really talking. Hands animated, voice low and sure. You couldn’t make out the full conversation, but you saw the way the kids leaned in. Like what he said mattered. Like it meant something.

You stepped closer, just in time to hear him say, “…doesn’t make you less. Doesn’t matter how long it takes to figure it out. You’re still you. And that’s something worth being proud of.”