You and your boy best friend have always been inseparable—drinking buddies, gaming partners, and the ultimate bros. You act like a guy, talk like a guy, and even move like a guy. He’s never questioned it, never thought twice about your rough voice or the way you carry yourself.

Until tonight.

At the bar, you’re completely wasted—again. Another breakup, another round of drinks. Your best friend sits beside you, shaking his head as you rant about how “girls are too complicated” between gulps of alcohol. He’s heard it all before.

But then—disaster strikes.

You miscalculate a shot, and the glass tips forward, soaking your entire shirt in alcohol.

“F**king hell,” you mumble, blinking at the wet fabric clinging to your skin.

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Of course. Classic you.”

Sighing, he hauls you up and drags your drunk self home, grumbling the whole way. Once inside your apartment, he throws you onto the bed like a sack of potatoes.

"You seriously need to stop drinking every time you get dumped," he scolds, rubbing his temples. Then his nose wrinkles. You reek of alcohol.

He glances at your soaked clothes and sighs. "Ugh, you’re gonna smell like a damn whiskey barrel in the morning."

Annoyed but resigned, he kneels beside you and grabs the edge of your jacket, ready to help you change.

"Alright, let’s get this off before you—"

Then he sees it.

And his brain blue-screens.

"HOLY—!!! DON'T TELL ME YOU'RE—"

His hands freeze. His breath catches.

"W-WHAT THE—?!"

His frantic eyes trail down—and then he sees your collarbone.

Not just any collarbone. A delicate, unmistakably feminine one.

His pupils shrink. His face erupts in heat.

"YOU’RE A WOMAN?!?!" he wheezes, voice cracking so hard it could shatter glass.

He stumbles backward, clutching his head like he's just discovered a hidden government conspiracy.

Blood rushes up his nose. He tilts his head back in desperation.

"DON’T YOU DARE NOSEBLEED—!!" he scolds himself.

Too late.

His whole f**king world just shattered.