I tell myself I’m here for the story.
That’s the lie I’ve been feeding myself since we pulled into the parking lot, since we parked my old truck between a minivan with a rainbow flag duct-taped to the antenna and a souped-up Honda that’s vibrating so hard I can feel the bass through the asphalt. I’m a journalist—well, I’m a journalism major, which is close enough when you’re trying to convince yourself you have a reason to be somewhere that scares you. The assignment was optional: Cover a community event outside your comfort zone. Professor Hartley said it with a wink, like she knew exactly what she was doing, like she could see right through the nineteen-year-old jock sitting in the back row of her Intro to Feature Writing class.
So here I am. Cade Mercer, all six-foot-two of me, wearing a black tank top that shows off the shoulders I built in four years of high school wrestling, standing in the pulsing heart of my first Pride celebration with my best friend Logan Reyes pressed so close I can smell the mint of his gum.
“You good?” Logan’s voice cuts through the wall of sound, and I feel it in my chest before I hear it—the way his breath ghosts across my ear, the way his hand finds my shoulder to steady himself as a group of people in glitter and harnesses push past us.
I nod, but I don’t trust my voice yet. The warehouse is a cathedral of noise and color, all exposed brick and steel beams wrapped in strings of lights that shift from pink to blue to gold. There’s a stage at the far end where a drag queen in a dress made of what looks like shredded disco balls is lip-syncing to something I don’t recognize, her movements so sharp and precise they feel like a language I’m only beginning to learn. The air is thick with sweat and perfume and something sweet—vape smoke, maybe, or the fog machines that keep sending plumes across the dance floor like low-hanging clouds.
It’s overwhelming. It’s beautiful. It’s nothing like the world I grew up in.
“Cade.” Logan’s hand squeezes my shoulder, and I turn to face him fully. He’s shorter than me by a few inches, built compact and solid from years of soccer and the kind of restless energy that never lets him sit still. His dark curls are already starting to stick to his forehead from the heat, and his brown eyes are wide, catching every flash of light like they’re trying to drink it all in. He’s wearing a simple white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, the top three buttons undone, revealing a sliver of his chest and the silver chain he never takes off. He looks good. He always looks good, but tonight there’s something different—a looseness in his shoulders, a softness around his mouth that I’ve never seen before.
“I’m good,” I finally say, and I have to lean in to make sure he hears me. “Just taking it in.”
Logan grins, and it’s the same grin I’ve seen a thousand times—the one that says he’s about to drag me into something I’ll either love or regret. “That’s the point, man. You’re supposed to take it in. Let it get under your skin.”
He says it like it’s easy. For him, maybe it is. Logan’s always been the one who moves through the world like he belongs everywhere, like every room is just waiting for him to walk into it. He’s bi—came out junior year to a chorus of we know, dude from the soccer team and a shrug from his parents that was probably the most supportive thing they’ve ever done. Me, I’m still figuring it out. Still figuring out if there’s anything to figure out. I’ve kissed girls, dated a few, felt something that might have been attraction or might have been just… going through the motions. But I’ve never kissed a guy. I’ve never even let myself look at one long enough to wonder.
Except for Logan.
But that’s different. That’s just… that’s just us. That’s the way we’ve always been—shoulder to shoulder, back to back, finishing each other’s sentences and stealing each other’s fries and falling asleep on each other’s couches after late-night gaming sessions. That’s friendship. That’s the kind of bond that doesn’t need a label.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
“Come on,” Logan says, and he grabs my wrist, pulling me deeper into the crowd. His hand is warm and calloused, his grip sure, and I let myself be led because that’s easier than thinking. We weave through clusters of people—a group of lesbians in matching flannel, a guy in a mesh top and leather pants who winks at me as we pass, a couple of older men dancing slow and close in a corner, their gray heads bent together like they’re sharing a secret. The music shifts, the bass dropping into something heavier, more insistent, and I feel it in my bones, in the soles of my feet, in the space behind my ribs where my heart is starting to beat in time with the kick drum.
Logan finds a spot near the center of the floor, not quite in the thick of it but close enough that the crowd presses in on all sides. He turns to face me, still holding my wrist, and there’s a look in his eyes that I can’t quite read—something bright and nervous and hopeful all at once.
“We’re here,” he says, and it sounds like a declaration.
“We’re here,” I repeat, and I don’t know why my throat feels tight.
For a moment, we just stand there, the two of us, while the world swirls around us in a kaleidoscope of color and sound. Logan’s hand slides from my wrist to my palm, and he laces our fingers together like it’s nothing, like we’ve done this a hundred times. We haven’t. We’ve bumped shoulders, we’ve wrestled on the floor of his basement, we’ve fallen asleep with our legs tangled together after marathon movie nights—but we’ve never held hands. Not like this. Not in public.
“Logan,” I start, but I don’t know what I’m going to say next.
He shakes his head, a small, quick motion. “Just dance with me, Cade.”
And I do.
I don’t know how to dance—not really, not the way the people around us are dancing, all fluid hips and loose limbs and bodies moving like water. I’m a jock. I know how to wrestle, how to lift, how to throw a football in a tight spiral. I know how to move with purpose, with force. But this is different. This is surrender.
Logan lets go of my hand and starts to move, and I watch him like I’m seeing him for the first time. His hips find the beat immediately, his shoulders rolling back, his head dropping as he lets the music take him. He’s not self-conscious—he’s never self-conscious—and there’s something hypnotic about the way he moves, the way his body seems to speak a language I didn’t know I could understand.
I try to match him, stiff at first, my arms hanging awkwardly at my sides. But then his hands find my waist, and everything changes.
His palms settle on my hips, firm and sure, and he pulls me closer until there’s barely a breath between us. I can feel the heat of him through my tank top, through his thin button-up, through all the layers of space I’ve always kept between us without realizing it. His fingers dig in just slightly, and my hands come up to rest on his shoulders because I don’t know what else to do with them.
“Like this,” he says, and he guides me, his hips moving against mine in a rhythm that feels ancient and new at the same time. “Just feel it. Don’t think.”
I try. God, I try. But thinking is all I’ve ever done when it comes to Logan—thinking and analyzing and cataloging every moment we’ve shared, trying to figure out where the line is, trying to make sure I never cross it. But the line is blurry tonight, smudged by the neon lights and the bass and the way Logan is looking at me like I’m the only person in this entire warehouse.
The music swells, and we move together, our bodies finding a sync that feels almost supernatural. I stop thinking about where my feet are, stop worrying about whether I look stupid, stop doing anything except feeling—the press of his chest against mine, the slide of his hands from my hips to my lower back, the way his breath catches when I pull him closer. The crowd fades into a blur of color and sound, and it’s just us, just this, just the electric space between our bodies that’s been humming with unspoken things for years.
I don’t know how long we dance. Time stops meaning anything in here. But at some point, the beat shifts, drops into something slower, heavier, more intimate. The lights dim to a deep purple, and the air feels thicker, charged with something I can’t name. Logan’s hands slide up my back, and I feel his fingers trace the line of my spine through the thin fabric of my tank top.
My mouth goes dry.
“Cade,” he says, and his voice is different now—lower, rougher, like he’s been holding something back and it’s starting to crack through.
“Yeah?”
He doesn’t answer with words. He answers with his body, pressing closer, tilting his head up so that his lips are inches from mine. I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the tiny scar above his left eyebrow from when he fell off his bike in seventh grade, the way his pupils are blown wide despite the dim light.
I should step back. I should laugh it off, make a joke, break the tension before it becomes something we can’t take back. That’s what I do. That’s who I am—the guy who makes the plan, who laughs first, who keeps things light so they never have a chance to get heavy.
But I don’t step back.
I lean in.
“Are you okay?” The words come out careful, softer than I meant them to, and I feel the question hang in the air between us like a held breath.
Logan’s eyes search mine, and I see it—the same realization that’s dawning in my own chest, the same terrifying, exhilarating, impossible truth. He’s not just dancing with me. He’s not just going through the motions of a night out with his best friend. He’s seeing me, really seeing me, and what he’s seeing is making his hands tremble against my back.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “I’m okay.”
And the way he says it—like he’s stepping off a ledge, like he’s trusting me to catch him—makes something crack open inside me. The wall I’ve been building for years, brick by careful brick, starts to crumble, and I don’t try to stop it.
“I need to tell you something,” he says, and his voice shakes on the last word.
“Tell me.”
He looks around, at the crowd pressing in on all sides, at the strobes cutting through the haze, at the drag queen on stage who’s now holding a microphone and laughing at something we can’t hear. Then he looks back at me, and his hand finds mine again, squeezing tight.
“Not here,” he says. “Too many people. Too loud.”
I nod, and I let him pull me through the crowd, past the bar, past a hallway lined with people making out against the walls, past a door marked PRIVATE that Logan pushes open without hesitation. We step into a small side room, dim and quiet except for the bass that vibrates through the walls like a second heartbeat. There’s a couch against one wall, a few stacked chairs, and a single bulb overhead that casts everything in a soft, amber glow.
Logan closes the door behind us, and the noise cuts off like someone hit a mute button. The silence rings in my ears, and I realize I can hear my own breathing, ragged and too fast.
“Okay,” I say, and my voice sounds strange in the quiet. “We’re here.”
Logan doesn’t move. He stands with his back to the door, his hands pressed flat against the wood, his chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile. His curls are a mess, his shirt is untucked, and there’s a flush on his cheeks that has nothing to do with the heat.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” he says, and the words come out in a rush, like he’s been holding them in for so long they’re spilling out whether he wants them to or not. “About us. About tonight. About every night we’ve spent together for the past four years.”
“Logan—”
“Let me finish.” He pushes off from the door, takes a step toward me, then another. “I know this could ruin everything. I know we’re supposed to be just friends. I know there’s a hundred reasons why this is a bad idea. But I don’t care, Cade. I don’t care anymore.”
He stops in front of me, close enough that I can see the pulse beating in his throat, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin.
“I want you,” he says, and the words hit me like a physical blow. “I’ve wanted you for so long I can’t remember what it felt like not to.”
The room spins. The walls tilt. My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
“Say something,” he whispers. “Please.”
I open my mouth, but the words don’t come. Instead, I reach out, my hand shaking, and I touch his face—his jaw, the curve of his cheek, the soft skin just below his eye. He leans into my palm like he’s been starving for contact, and the sound he makes, a tiny, broken sigh, undoes me completely.
“I’ve thought about it too,” I say, and the confession tastes like freedom. “I’ve thought about it so many times I stopped counting. I just… I didn’t know if it was real. I didn’t know if I was allowed to want this.”
“You’re allowed,” he says, and his hand comes up to cover mine. “We’re allowed.”
The kiss, when it comes, is soft at first—a tentative brush of lips, like we’re both testing the waters, making sure this is really happening. But then Logan makes a sound in the back of his throat, and his hands are in my hair, and I’m pulling him against me, and the kiss turns hungry, desperate, like we’re trying to make up for all the years we wasted pretending.
His back hits the wall, and I press into him, my hands finding his waist, his hips, the bare skin where his shirt has ridden up. He gasps against my mouth, and I swallow the sound, wanting more, needing more.
“Cade,” he breathes, and my name on his lips is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
“I’ve got you,” I say, and I mean it. I mean it more than I’ve ever meant anything.
We find our way to the couch, a battered thing that’s seen better days, but neither of us cares. The world narrows to the space between us, to the slide of skin against skin, to the whispered words and shaky breaths and the overwhelming, terrifying, glorious truth that we’re doing this—we’re choosing this, choosing each other.
Logan pulls me down with him, and the couch groans under our combined weight. He doesn’t give me time to think, to second-guess, to panic. His mouth is on mine again, hungry and demanding, and I’m kissing him back with everything I have. His hands are everywhere—in my hair, down my back, sliding under the hem of my tank top to trace the muscles of my abdomen. I’ve never been touched like this, never been wanted like this, and it’s overwhelming in the best possible way.
“Can I?” he breathes against my lips, his fingers toying with the hem of my shirt. I nod, unable to form words, and he pulls it over my head in one smooth motion. The cool air hits my skin, and I shiver, but it’s not from cold. It’s from anticipation. From the way Logan is looking at me—like I’m something precious, something he’s been waiting for.
His eyes are dark with desire as he takes me in, and then he’s leaning forward, pressing kisses to my chest, my stomach, the line of my hips. His tongue traces patterns on my skin, and I arch into him, my hands tangling in his hair. I’ve imagined this, dreamed of this, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality of Logan’s mouth on my body, for the way he’s making me feel—seen, desired, completely and utterly wanted.
“Logan,” I gasp as his teeth scrape against my nipple, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to my cock. “Please.”
He looks up at me, his eyes shining with something that looks a lot like love. “I’ve got you,” he says, echoing my words from earlier, and then he’s sliding down my body, his hands working at the button of my jeans. I lift my hips to help him, and he pulls them down along with my boxers, freeing my already throbbing dick. I’m exposed, vulnerable, but with Logan, I don’t feel ashamed. I feel... free.
