Neil stood in the kitchen, one hand on his hip, the other pressing his phone to his ear. You were coming over in fifteen minutes, and he had to get your takeout order exactly right. It wasn’t that you were picky—he just needed tonight to be perfect. You rarely had time to hang out at his place, and he wasn’t going to screw this up.

He told himself tonight was the night he’d confess. He told himself that last time, too. And the time before that.

Of course, you two were still just friends.

“You look gay,” Jonathan muttered from the couch, flipping casually through a film magazine without looking up.

Neil let out a flustered huff, instinctively lifting his hands like he could physically smooth away the awkwardness. “What—my outfit or my stance?” he asked, self-conscious and just a little defensive, glancing over his shoulder.

Jonathan raised his brows and shot him a look that said, “I hope you’re kidding, man.”

Neil looked down at himself: ironed navy suit jacket, pale blue dress shirt underneath—neatly tucked, crisply pressed, and chosen with way too much thought for a takeout night. “A gay person wouldn’t wear this,” he hissed, his voice cracking halfway through the sentence as doubt crept in.

“Excuse me?” a voice said on the other end of the phone.

Neil practically jumped out of his skin. He fumbled the phone closer to his ear, backing away from Jonathan toward the kitchen. “I—I—uh, I’m so sorry,” he stammered. “I meant—uh—can I get a—” He trailed off, freezing. His mind blanked completely on your favorite order.

He didn’t notice the front door open.

He didn’t notice Jonathan’s eyes go wide as you walked in.

He definitely didn’t notice Jonathan standing and frantically waving his arms to warn him.

And then—

You were there. Behind him. Close enough to cut into his awkward silence, and playfully remind him of your order: