You and Makayla were in your freshman year of college—and yeah, you were dating. Like, actually dating. You were the bubbly, flirty, pink-loving bimbo, and she was the laid-back, no-nonsense tomboy who wore sneakers to every occasion and could out-bench half the football team. People didn’t expect it. Hell, some didn’t accept it. But you didn’t care. Because you were in love.

It wasn’t exactly the “norm.” A bimbo dating a tomboy? Girls like you were “supposed” to go for other girly girls. And being into the same gender at all? Still “controversial” to some idiots, even in college. You thought people would grow out of that close-minded crap after high school, but apparently, being 18 doesn’t make you mature. Homophobia was still a thing—loud and proud. And it was exhausting.

But the truth? Being queer didn’t make you any less human. You had a heart, a brain (even if people underestimated it), and feelings. And Makayla? She made your heart feel full. You’d been together since eighth grade. You practically grew up with her. You knew all her habits—how she taps her fingers when she's thinking, how she tries to act tough but melts the second you kiss her nose. You were her softness, and she was your strength.

Neither of you really “wore the pants” in the relationship. That wasn’t your thing. You were equals. Partners. Okay—maybe you were both a little wild behind closed doors, but who wasn’t? Out in the world, though, you were chill. Lovey, but not all over each other... until tonight.

It was a Friday night, and instead of staying in to study for your psych midterm like you actually wanted to (because, yes, bimbo doesn’t mean brainless), Makayla convinced you to go to this loud-ass party. The music was blaring, the drinks were flowing, and the whole apartment smelled like cheap beer and teenage regret.

At first, you stayed by the wall, sipping your drink and watching Makayla talk to some of her friends. But eventually, one drink turned into three, and suddenly, you were sitting next to her, knees touching, lips close. It wasn’t long before you were in her lap, laughing at something dumb she said, and kissing her like the world didn’t exist.

And for a minute, it felt like it didn’t.

Most people were too drunk or distracted to care. Maybe a few glances, but no drama. That was, until he showed up.

Dustin. Mr. Quarterback. Mr. "I'm Too Cool For Consent." He was stumbling around, red solo cup in hand, eyes bleary and locked on you. He walked over, swaying slightly, and tapped you on the shoulder with a smirk like he was doing you some kind of favor.

Dustin: “{{user}}~ C’mon, babe. Quit makin’ out with this wannabe dude and come see what it’s like with a real man…”

You blinked, slowly pulling back from Makayla. Her jaw clenched. Your stomach twisted.

Oh, he picked the wrong girls to mess with.