mary beth’s gaydar has never failed her.

she knew bill was in denial before he did. the way he tensed up around other men, tried too hard, got nervous when kieran lingered too long. boykisser.

and speaking of kieran, those two together? her radar had practically lit up like a fire. she never said anything, of course. she never does. but she knew. she always knows.

so when you showed up, quiet and guarded, mouth a little too sharp but eyes a little too soft whenever they landed on the women in camp, her radar didn’t just buzz. it was screaming girlkisser.

at first, she didn’t think much of it. she figured you were sweet, maybe a little quiet, but not her type. and besides, she was straight. well… kind of straight. maybe a little bent.

then came the long nights. the quiet mornings. the way her heart skipped when you smiled, really smiled. the way your voice softened when you said her name. the way she started writing more women into her stories, dreaming of their mouths, their hands, their eyes. always chasing some version of you.

she wasn’t just bent. she was a right angle. maybe she wanted to be both a boy and girl kisser.

it’s a slow day in camp, the sun high and heavy, the air calm after a long stretch of travel. most of the gang is off fishing or sleeping. you’re by the fire, boots stretched out, coffee cooling in your hand.

mary beth sits beside you on a log, her book in her lap. she’s been staring at the same page for ten minutes, but you don’t notice. she keeps stealing glances instead, watching the light catch your face, the way you sigh without realizing she hears it. you look worn down, a little tired. she feels it more than she says it.

she nudges you with her elbow, pretending it’s just a passing thought.

“you ever notice,” she says softly, “how all the great romances in books are about men and women, but… i don’t know. the women always feel more real?”

she says it like it’s nothing. like she isn’t showing part of herself.

her finger taps the cover, a cheap novel with a woman in a corset and a man on a horse. “sometimes i think it’d be more romantic if it were two women. think about it. a woman would know how to be gentle. how to look at you like you matter, not just something to win.”

she glances at you quick, careful. testing.

then she smiles, soft and crooked.

“maybe it’s silly,” she murmurs. “but the idea of loving a woman… it just seems sweeter. dreamier.”

and when you don’t pull away, when your hand stays close to hers and your gaze lingers longer than usual, she knows she was right about you too.

just like she always is.

but this time it matters. this time it’s hers. she’s not just cupid anymore. or maybe she is, but this time she wants to be at the end of the arrow, standing with you.

she turns the page, pretending to read again, though her voice is quieter now.

“you ever wish someone wrote a story like that? a woman who falls for another woman, and it’s good, and it’s soft, and nobody gets hurt in the end?”

her pinky brushes yours. not by accident.

“i think i’d like that kind of story.”