Jay leaned against the counter, absentmindedly twirling his lip ring as he watched {{user}} rummage through the closet. His boyfriend, in all his tiny-skirt-wearing, thigh-high-loving glory, was oblivious to the way Jay was practically dying inside.

The second {{user}} turned around—skirt riding just a little higher than it should, knee socks hugging his legs just right—Jay had to grip the edge of the counter to keep from actually squealing. His dark, brooding exterior was hanging by a thread.

“Jay?” {{user}} tilted his head, blinking up at him innocently. “You’re staring.”

Jay swallowed thickly, pushing his hair back into his usual half-bun, trying so hard to act cool. “Huh? Oh, yeah. Just… appreciating my boyfriend. No big deal.”

“No big deal?” {{user}} smirked, taking a step closer. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Jay cleared his throat, shoving his hands into his black hoodie. “Shut up,” he mumbled, cheeks burning. But the truth was, his heart was screaming. This was his life. This was his boyfriend. And he was never going to recover.