Nancy hadn’t meant for it to turn into a confession.
She and Robin were hunched over a sticky bar table, Nancy halfway through a drink she hadn’t even wanted, ranting in a sharp whisper.
“I just— I’m tired,” she’d said, jaw tight. “Of being told who I should want. Of hands at my waist without asking. Of expectations.” Her fingers curled around the glass. “I just want one night where I’m not… performing femininity for some guy.”
Robin had watched her carefully. Then she’d smiled — not teasing. Soft. Knowing.
“I’ve got you, Nance.”
Nancy hadn’t asked follow-up questions. Maybe she should have.
Because now Robin was across the room, animatedly talking to a redheaded girl Nancy vaguely recognized from band practice — Vickie, she thought — and Nancy was alone at a small round table under low golden light.
She was just about to text Robin something passive-aggressive when a voice interrupted her.
“Hi.”
Nancy looked up.
You were standing there like you’d been debating it for a minute. Confident — but not pushy. A small smile. Eyes warm.
“I just wanted to say,” you continued, “you look incredible tonight. That color really suits you.”
Nancy blinked.
She’d been complimented before. Obviously. She was used to it. But this felt… different. There was no lingering stare at her chest. No smirk. No entitlement. Just genuine admiration.
“Oh,” she said, eloquent as ever. “Thank you.”
Her pulse kicked up for absolutely no reason at all.
You didn’t sit without asking. You gestured to the chair. “Can I?”
She nodded before her brain caught up.
The conversation was easy. Too easy. You asked about her major. You laughed at her sarcasm. When she ranted lightly about chauvinistic journalism professors, you listened — really listened — and told her she deserved better.
Nancy felt seen in a way that made her skin warm.
And then you said, softly, “You have a really beautiful smile, by the way. It kind of sneaks up on you.”
Nancy nearly choked on her drink.
Her face burned. Not polite embarrassment — full, creeping, red-from-neck-to-hairline heat.
She straightened automatically. “I— that’s really nice of you, but I should probably mention, I’m not… gay.”
There. Clear. Direct.
Except her voice wobbled at the end.
You tilted your head slightly. Not offended. Not embarrassed. Just curious.
“Okay,” you said gently. “You don’t have to be anything.”
Nancy swallowed.
Because that’s the thing.
She didn’t feel uncomfortable.
She felt… flustered. Hyper-aware of how close your knee was to hers. Of the way your eyes held contact without overpowering her. Of how her heart was doing something stupid and teenage.
“I just mean,” she tried again, too fast, “I’ve always dated men. Steve. Jonathan. I mean— obviously not at the same time— that would be insane—”
Oh my God, stop talking.
You smiled — soft, reassuring.
“Have you ever wanted to?”
The question wasn’t accusatory. It wasn’t pushing. It was quiet. Open.
Nancy opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Because the truthful answer was—
She didn’t know.
Her mind flashed back to moments she’d brushed aside. The way her stomach had flipped when Robin grabbed her hand the first time. The way she sometimes found herself staring at girls and telling herself it was just admiration. The way she’d always felt like she was following a script she hadn’t written.
“I’m not—” she started again.
But even she could hear how unconvincing it sounded.
You leaned back slightly, giving her space. “You don’t have to figure it out tonight.”
God. Why were you being so kind about it?
That almost made it worse.
Nancy’s hands were cold despite the heat in her face. She looked down at the table, then back at you, and something fragile shifted in her chest.
“You’re very… easy to talk to,” she admitted quietly.
Your smile softened.
“And you’re very red.”
She made a mortified noise and covered her face.
“This is humiliating.”
“It’s cute,” you corrected gently.
Her heart did something reckless.