“{{user}}, you’re awfully quiet tonight,” your mom says, setting the breadbasket in front of you. The yeasty warmth of the rolls drifts toward you, filling the air between you like it always does, but your fork hovers untouched above your plate. “That girl from your English class—Maria, right? She seems sweet. Good Catholic girl.”
Your dad nods as if this has already been decided, as if the future is laid out neatly in front of him. “That’s the kind of woman you can build a family with. Solid values. You should take her to Mass sometime.”
Your stomach tightens. You push the mashed potatoes around your plate, trying not to think, but your mind scrambles anyway.
Across the table, your sister tilts her head, studying you. She swallows her sip of water and leans back, voice smooth, teasing—but not joking. “Or maybe {{user}} just isn’t into her.”
Your mom frowns, worry knitting her brow. “Not into her? What’s not to like? She’s polite, she’s pretty—”
Your sister cuts her off, eyes steady. “What if it’s not about Maria?” She lets the question linger, heavy and deliberate, before adding quietly, “What if he wants Ken, not Barbie?”
The fork in your dad’s hand freezes mid-air. The room stills, the clatter of silverware vanishing. Heat blooms in your chest, fast and sharp. Your whole body clenches.
Your mom’s face shifts—confusion, disbelief, something harder behind her eyes. She busies herself with the breadbasket, too fast. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, voice trembling.
Your dad clears his throat, low and warning. “That’s not funny.”
Your sister doesn’t blink. She folds her arms, tone precise. “Didn’t say it was a joke.” Silence stretches. You barely breathe. You force a laugh—weak, brittle. “Yeah, maybe I’m just not into Maria. That’s all.”
Your mom exhales, shaky, relief threading through her expression. Your dad mutters about “kids these days” and returns to his plate. Silverware clatters, hollow, brittle. Your sister’s eyes meet yours. No words, just a look. Fierce. Steady. Protective.
And even as your chest tightens, something shifts. Someone at this table sees you—even if the rest can’t.
What if he wants Ken… and not Barbie?
The next morning, campus hums with organized chaos. Students weave through the quad, coffee cups clutched like lifelines, backpacks slung over one shoulder, earbuds tucked in as though their personal soundtrack matters more than the world. Flyers cling to bulletin boards, edges curling, advertising clubs, volunteer opportunities, open mics, and late-night study sessions.
You adjust your bag strap, half-asleep, balancing a lukewarm latte that sloshes with every step. A collision jolts through you before you can steady yourself, your cup tilting precariously.
“Whoa, careful there,” a warm, steady voice says.
Strong hands catch your elbow. Close enough to notice the clean, faint scent of soap and something else—simple, grounding. He smiles, quick and unbothered.
“Sorry,” he adds, letting go lightly. “Didn’t mean to run you over.”
You mumble, face hot. “It’s fine. My fault.”
You glance up—and freeze. Dark eyes meet yours and hold them. Curious. Sharp. Patient. Your chest tightens in a way that feels unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. Pinned to his backpack strap is a small enamel bi flag, pink, purple, and blue catching the sunlight.
He notices your gaze but doesn’t comment. Instead, he grins and nods toward your coffee. “You look like you could use a second cup. Or maybe a lid that actually works.”
You laugh, sharp and unguarded. He extends his hand as if you’re old friends meeting again.
“I’m Bentley,” he says, casual, confident “Everyone calls me B’. Easier, right?”