average human’s Reviews > Broken Breath > Status Update

“She was cussing you out for not being able to shut up and let us concentrate,” Dane deadpans.
“Which, you’re still not able to do,” I mutter under my breath, trying to steady my pulse, but it’s already gone erratic.
Dane glances at me, frowning, but I avoid his eyes.
Focus. I need to focus.
Just as I manage to reanchor myself, something pink slices through the crowd like a highlighter.
Can’t I get a fucking break?
God help us all, help me, there he goes, wearing another of his way-too-tight race jerseys. His mechanic trails behind him, pushing a pink bike that probably costs more than my entire setup.
Luc stops in front of us, surveys the already-cramped space, and points right between me and Finn. “There.”
The mechanic obeys without so much as a blink, wedging the bike right between ours like we’re not even here. The handlebar grazes my elbow.
“Hey!” I snap as I aim my glare at the guy, but he’s already walking off.
“Don’t be like that, Petit,” Luc says as he flicks my nose. Flicks it. “There’s space for everyone. Right, Greer?”
“Sure.” Finn doesn’t miss a beat. “There’s always space for Delacroix. Whether we want there to be or not.”
Luc chuckles like he didn’t catch the dig. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. He swings his leg over his bike, clips in, and starts spinning like he owns the mountain. It was already tight here before, but now it’s too tight. I’ve got a Luc Delacroix elbow six inches from my face.
“Isn’t there…” I stop and clear my throat, lowering my voice. “Isn’t there anywhere else you could go?”
“What?” Luc tilts his head with mock innocence. “You don’t want to share your space with me? I shared my physio with you, didn’t I?”
Ah, fuck.
“What?” Dane asks, drawing our attention. “What did he just say?”
“I’ll explain later,” I mutter to him as a fresh bead of sweat trickles down my spine, then glare at Luc. “And that was you apologizing.”
“For what?” Finn asks, perking up like a bloodhound catching a scent.
“Yeah,” Dane adds, glancing between us. “For what?”
“Oh, mon amis,” Luc says with a shitty little smile. “I have some secrets with Petit.”
Finn laughs and reaches for his water bottle. “Al doesn’t have secrets.”
I glance at him using my nickname, then at Dane, who just shrugs.
I hate that I still can’t figure out whether Finn is fucking with me.
Luc hums. “I don’t know. I think Petit Crews is full of surprises.” His tone dips just enough to make it suggestive, and I narrow my eyes at him. “You’ve got this look,” he adds. “Like you’re always ready to bite someone. But maybe, deep down…” His grin stretches his mustache. “You just want someone to bite you first, hmm?”
Finn coughs loudly, almost choking on the drink of water he just took. Dane shoots Luc a glare so sharp it could cut tires.
God.
I shift in my saddle, just a little.
Why the hell did that line go straight to my pussy? Which is, for the record, currently buried under three layers of padding, reinforced spandex, and a pair of rolled-up socks pretending to be balls.
Absolutely zero business feeling anything.
Luc grins like a maniac, way too close for comfort.
Fucking Frenchman.
His knee brushes against my thigh. He doesn’t seem to notice, but it makes my pulse stutter.
“Back off.” I push his head away from me, and my fingers catch on the soft curls of the back of his ridiculous mullet.
He laughs, loud and unrestricted, like I just gave him a present, and that’s when my pulse catches up with me. And I hiccup.
I throw a quick glance at Luc, only to find that his eyes have fucking lit up in delight.
“Greer, tell me that’s not the cutest damn thing you’ve ever heard,” he says to Finn with a chuckle.
Finn bites his lip and shakes his head, and I glare at both of them, my cheeks burning.
Luc leans in toward me, his eyes crinkling with mischief. “Don’t be embarrassed, Petit Crews. I’m just saying, you’re tiny, full of fury, and you hiccup like a cartoon rat. It’s practically a public service to tease you. That’s what friends do.”
I meet his gaze straight on. “I’m not your friend.”
His grin falters a little, and there’s a flicker in those too-blue eyes, like someone pulled a curtain over the sun. Fuck. I drop my gaze with a huff and dig my heels into the pedals.
I’m not here to make friends.
Friends mean giving pieces of yourself away, and I don’t have any spare pieces left.
I came here for one thing. Gold. The podium. The fucking top. And when I’ve got that, when the circuit knows my name, when Raine’s face falls in slow motion at the finish line, then I’ll disappear. That’s always been the plan.
Where I’m going, I don’t need friends.
And even if I did, whose friends would they be? Allen’s? Alaina’s?
The broken shell of a girl with a borrowed name and stitched-up identity?
Any friendships built here would be forged on a lie and wouldn’t be real, not even close. Because I’m not Alaina anymore. And I’m sure as hell not Allen.
I’m nobody.
The thought sticks like a splinter under my skin.
Nobody. God, I’m so fucking stupid.
I don’t know why I said that to Mason yesterday, like it meant something. Like I meant something to him. What was I even thinking? And why do I feel such a kinship with him? It feels like we’ve both been fucked over, and we’re in the same corner, even though he doesn’t know it.
He’s not my friend either. I don’t know him, and I shouldn’t care, but I do. I care that they treat him like shit and that he’s been made the villain when he’s not. I care that I ruined the truce we had.
I grit my teeth and shift into a harder gear, slamming my legs against the resistance and letting the burn in my thighs shove Mason’s eyes, Luc’s grin, Finn’s teasing voice, and my hurting body down into the dark.
I’m here to win.
Nothing else.
More and more women roll their bikes to the start gate, and it hits me that I could be one of them right now.
If life, or better yet, Raine, hadn’t fucked me over, I would be. I’d be lining up with the other women as myself. Instead, I’m stuck here in someone else’s skin, biting back hiccups next to Luc Delacroix and Finn Greer.
Luc flashes smiles at the women who walk past us. He’s grinning, winking, and tossing out French charm like candy. Some of the girls giggle back, one even tosses him a little wink of her own.
He’s such a horndog.
But I can’t lie to myself, not entirely. Maybe, in another life, I would’ve tried Luc out. Just for a night, just to see what all that cocky, golden-boy chaos would feel like if it were pointed at me for real.
I glance over at Finn.
But no. Even in another life, that wouldn’t be an option. No matter how hard I want it to be. Luc, though…
My eyes follow the next girl who passes us. She’s tall and appears effortlessly cool, with high cheekbones and green eyes. When Luc throws her a wink, she gives him a flirty one back.
Or maybe not.
Because even in another life, even if I were here as Alaina, I wouldn’t look like that. Not even with long hair or without being duct-taped into a skin I only half recognize behind the scars and flaws. I’m not soft and flirty, never have been. I’m not built for slow, pretty seduction.
But I sure as fuck am built for speed.
I glance at the timer screen with the time of the first female racer, then back at the crowd of men, most of them behind me on the leaderboard.
A slow smile tugs at my lips.
Yeah. Let them be cool and pretty.
I’ll keep outriding every last one of them.
That spike in mood lasts until she walks past. Isla Raine.
Light blonde hair braided down her back, pale blue eyes that are somehow always cold, even when she’s smiling. She looks like an angel who made my life hell seven years ago.
My jaw tightens as she glides past, poised like she’s already won, and I can’t help it but glance at Luc, wondering what kind of look he’s saved for her.
But Luc isn’t looking. He’s staring down at his handlebars, brows drawn, mouth pulled in that crooked not-smile he wears when he’s actually focused.
I check Finn next, and he’s not looking either. His eyes are fixed on the horizon, lips pressed tight. I don’t know why that makes my chest warm the way it does, but it does.
Isla doesn’t glance at any of us as she rolls her bike past, all grace, focus, and icy detachment. Then, right on cue, her brother appears. They’re still close enough for us to hear it as he reaches out and slaps a hand on her shoulder.
“Go grab that win, sis.”
Then he turns, catching sight of us. His gaze flicks across the line at Luc, Finn, and me, and his smirk rises instantly.
“Well, well. Is this where the top three warm up?” He taps his chin theatrically. “No, wait… Greer’s here too.”
Finn doesn’t even look at him as he bites out, “Fuck off, Raine.”
Isaac just grins. “Oh, come on. Don’t be such a pussy.” Then, to me, he adds, “Another Crews, right? We haven’t had a chance to talk yet.”
“That’s because he doesn’t want to talk to you,” Luc cuts in before I can even open my mouth. “Didn’t Greer already tell you to fuck off?”
I should punch Luc the way Mason showed me for talking for me like that, but I kind of liked it, so I let it slide.
Raine just laughs it off and turns to Dane. “The Dane Crews. How’s retirement treating you?”
Dane doesn’t blink. “Pretty good. Still holding the record you never managed to beat.”
Finn huffs a laugh, and even I crack a smile.
“Naw, I missed the banter with you, Eleven.” Raine mocks. “I’ll see you all on the podium today. Second and third place will look good on you.” He turns to leave but pauses to look at Finn. “Or maybe fifth.”
“Motherfucker,” I mutter under my breath as he walks off.
Luc nods solemnly. “Enculé, indeed.”
As soon as Raine is out of sight, I try to pull myself back into focus, to breathe, visualize, and get my fucking head in the game, but I can’t.
Not with Luc practically breathing down my neck, Finn still in my peripheral vision, and Dane ready to launch into dad-mode at any second thanks to Raine’s appearance. I can’t think straight. I can’t concentrate.
And then it gets worse.
Storm-eyed Mason Payne cuts through the crowd alongside an older man who looks just like him, if you added two decades and a permanent layer of grease under the fingernails. They’re both scanning the warm-up area, looking flustered and panting like they’ve just fought their way up the mountain as fast as possible.
Dane clocks them, too, and he raises a hand and shouts, “Jim! Here!”
My head whips toward him, eyes wide. “What the hell?” I mouth.
“What?” Dane just shrugs, like I’m the one being weird. We’ve discussed it, and I know he doesn’t believe the rumors either. He also mentioned to me how nice Mason’s dad was after talking to him at one of the races before the World Cup.
But he doesn’t know that I made an absolute fool out of myself yesterday.

“Hey, Crews.” Mason’s dad grins as they approach. “Thanks. Somehow, they forgot to inform us that the race will be earlier.”
God, even the UCI are dickheads.
“Course. And I told you last time, I’m Dane,” my brother answers.
“Sure,” Jim says with a noncommittal grunt. Without further ado, he drops Mason’s bike into the tight little gap on my other side. Not quite Luc-level intrusive, but still way too close.
Mason glances toward a quieter corner behind us. “There’s another spot back there.”
Jim waves him off. “I’m not hauling this bloody bike around again like a mule when there’s a perfectly good space here. Sit down.”
Mason mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a curse but drops onto his bike next to me anyway. Our shoulders don’t touch, but they’re close. So close that if I breathe too deeply, we might accidentally share air.
I glance at him. He glances at me. And we both snap our eyes back down to our handlebars like teenagers in a rom-com who accidentally brushed hands.
This is so fucking embarrassing.
Jim’s voice cuts through my spiraling as he asks Dane, “He already in the zone? Or can he talk?”
I lift my head. “What’s up?”
Jim beams. “Good to meet you, mate. I’m Jim. Heard a lot about you.”
Mason groans under his breath, and yeah, that’s definitely a twitch at the corner of Jim’s mouth, like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. At me? At Mason? I have no idea. I just sit there and try to remember how to breathe normally.
“Right,” Jim says after a beat when he realizes I won’t give him an answer. “I’ll let you concentrate.”
Silence falls over our group, and it’s not the good kind. It’s the heavy, smothering kind that makes your ears ring from the pressure of trying too hard not to exist. The awkwardness makes me even more nervous, which results, of course, in another hiccup.
Luc chuckles beside me just as Finn snorts, and I don’t even need to look to know he’s smiling. And, cherry on the fucking cake, Mason lets out this sharp little breath, almost a laugh. Almost.
Just perfect.
I stare down at my handlebars, my cheeks blazing, and then, like clockwork, I hiccup again.
Kill. Me. Now.

43%

Well, not severe ones like he does.
And yet, I can’t get a smile out of Petit Crews.
“Rider up,” someone calls. Petit rolls forward to the gate, finally giving me the view I was looking for, and I take advantage of it.
His body is wired tight with tension. I can see it in the way he leans over the bars. His fingers flutter, not fidgeting, more coaxing. Calming. Like he’s talking to the bike without words, syncing his nerves to it. It’s weirdly mesmerizing.
I trace the curve of his back as he leans forward, the way his jersey wrinkles the number seven above the waistband of his pants. He’s small, but not fragile. My gaze drifts lower to the sharp taper of his waist, to the rise of his hips, to the way his pants cling just tight enough to suggest the curve of his…
My cock twitches, and I jerk upright so fast I almost lose my footing.
What the actual fuck?
Non. That did not just happen. I did not just get half-hard staring at Petit’s ass.
I wipe my gloved palms on my thighs, trying to shake off the heat crawling up my neck. I mean, he’s got a great ass, sure. Objectively. And he’s cute. Annoyingly so. Hiccups like a baby bird and talks like he’s got a cold, and somehow still rides like the fucking wind.
And I’m just me. I joke, I flirt, I get handsy. What can I say? I’m French. Physical affection is part of the export. But I’ve never actually done anything serious with a guy. Never wanted to. Never thought about…
Is that my problem?
Am I standing here, jealous of him smiling at Payne, all twitchy and obsessed because I want to fuck him?
Mon Dieu.
I exhale loudly, the sound shaky and entirely uncool, and try to get my shit together and focus on the race ahead. But my gaze is stuck on him as his hips wiggle while he finds his stance on the pedals. He moves his cute ass as if he knows I’m watching, even though I’m pretty sure he’d rather get hit by a truck than be ogled by me.
Which… fair.
Finally, Petit Crews drops into the track, and the wind seems to go with him, as if it loves him more than it loves gravity. I huff and press a hand to my chest like that’ll slow my heartbeat.
Before I can catch my breath, Raine rolls up to the gate. The beeps start. One, two, three, and he launches. And just like that, there’s nothing left at the top of the mountain but me, the roaring wind, and my muddled thoughts.
I flex my fingers on the bars and try to shake out the tension. This is the part I normally love. The quiet before the storm. The calm before the chaos. The moment when I become everything I’ve built myself to be.
Beep. Beep.
A particularly strong gust of wind whistles through my helmet, and instead of focusing, my brain offers up what I told Petit earlier.
“You just want someone to bite you first, hmm?”
Fuck.
I would love to bite his ass and see if he hiccups when I do it.
Putain de merde, what’s wrong with me?
The final beep sounds, and I slam down the pedals and burst out of the gate on instinct, but my usual fire doesn’t ignite. There’s no adrenaline rush, no flash of clarity, just static. I’m chasing something, but I don’t even know what.
The first corner is too tight, the second, too wide. Everything is just a fraction off. The course and I are out of sync, speaking different languages.
“Focus,” I hiss, trying to claw my way back into rhythm, but I can’t because I don’t race from my head. I race from my gut, and my gut is a goddamn mess.
I’ve flirted with half the world. I’ve kissed guys, cuddled teammates, even made out with a Brazilian mechanic after a lost bet. But none of it ever made my hands shake. None of it ever made me feel like I was coming apart at the seams.
This? This is different.
I’m supposed to be unstoppable, unshakable. The three-time overall champion who doesn’t flinch, but today, I’m unraveling over a guy who won’t even look at me. Over a hiccup, and my brain is a mess, short-circuiting entirely over the idea of nibbling Petit Crews like he’s a goddamn snack.
Which, I guess he is.
Nope.
Non.
Shut. It. Down.
A root catches my back tire, and I fishtail, nearly losing it so hard my heart jumps into my throat. I barely recover, but I feel it now.
I’m not in control.
The crowd on the side of the track blurs, my breathing is ragged, and every turn feels like it’s fighting me.
This isn’t me. This isn’t how I race. I need to get it together, but I can’t. Not with the thought of Petit’s hiccup still stuck in my head, and the echo of his voice snapping, I’m not your friend.
My dick is confused, my brain is fucking fried, and by the time I finally hit the last sprint, I already know I’ve fucked it up.
I push on anyway, driving hard, my legs screaming and vision tunneling, but when I cross the finish line and glance over my shoulder, the time is red.
Not green.
Red.
I blink slowly, once, twice, like maybe I misread it, and the numbers will flicker, glitch, right themselves. Maybe the display is wrong, and it’s in another language today? Red means first, and everything is fine.
But it’s not.
I pull to a shaky stop, my lungs heaving, the sharp ache in my chest blooming into something colder. The crowd’s roar filters in like static, disjointed and too far away.
Cheers.
Cowbells.
People yelling Raine’s name.
The scent of ozone sharpens in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of damp soil.
The camera guy who was aiming at my finish, pivots to follow Raine as he throws himself out of the hot seat and into the spotlight like it was always his to claim, but it was supposed to be mine. It is mine.
Why isn’t it mine?
The slow creep of failure snakes through my blood. It climbs into my throat and settles behind my eyes. I try to swallow it down, but I can’t.
I scan the pit for my own media guy, my crew, someone.
But they’re not looking at me.
Because I’m not even second. Or third.
My gaze swings to the hot seat. Raine is gone, of course. But Petit is still there, stiff-backed in the second-place chair, next to Payne in third. Crews is watching me, our eyes meet, and I brace for the dismissal, the indifference, but he doesn’t look away. He sees me.
He’s frowning and doesn’t look smug or triumphant, just confused, almost asking, What the fuck happened to you?
And I wish I knew.
I wish I had an answer that didn’t make me feel like I’m slipping, like the part of me that was made for this—this fire, speed, and fame—is fading. I was built for the spotlight, for the storm. Today, I was a flash without fire, a spotlight with no soul, and noise with no note.
I drag my gaze down over him, like I’m trying to find balance in the shape of his body, the curve of his shoulder, and the tension in his jaw. I drink him in, and I huff when I catch myself doing it.
Looks like you happened, Petit.
And the fact that you wouldn’t even look at me until now.
I glance at the big screen and see that the camera that should be pointed at me is locked on Raine’s smirking, golden-boy face. The crowd is still cheering for him as I stand there for a beat too long, helmet still on, frozen in the shadow of someone else’s moment.
My gaze drifts back, and I find Petit again through the blur of color and motion. Then, the first raindrop hits. Right on my goggle lens, smearing everything out of focus, and it feels like the sky has been holding its breath, waiting for this exact second to exhale.
The clouds open, and the rain falls hard. Fast. A downpour with purpose. It seems even the storm knows I lost. All around me, chaos erupts. Fans scream and scatter, techs rush to protect equipment, and tents flap under the sudden weight of water. Boots thud against the ground, gear bags are dragged, and the shouted orders bounce between earpieces and panic.
And I just stand there.
I peel off my helmet with numb fingers and let it dangle at my side as I tip my head back, allowing the rain to hit me full in the face. It drips off my lashes, streams down my cheeks, and soaks through my jersey until the fabric clings like shame.
I push my tongue out. Catch a drop.
It tastes like home.
Like Bonneville.
Like summer days before anyone knew my name.
Bombing hills with no brakes and no plan, laughing until my stomach hurt, free in a way that didn’t come with contracts or qualifiers, back before Luc Delacroix™ was a brand. Before I became something people expected to perform, to shine, to never fucking fall apart.
The sound of the storm rushes in my ears. Wind, water, and something high-pitched and thin, like tinnitus. But maybe that’s already living inside me, a scream that never quite makes it out.
I always thought I had control. Of the bike. Of the brand.
Of myself.
But now, everything is slipping.
I kind of want to cry.
And just when I think I actually might, as the static threatens to shatter something deep in my chest, that other sound cuts through.
Hiccup.
That stupid, nervous, adorable little hiccup that’s been haunting me since he let it slip. And just like that, I want to punch a wall. Or fuck something. Or maybe lie down and let the rain rinse this version of me away, the one who’s not fast enough.
Not enough.
But I don’t. I don’t scream or break or crumble. I just stomp off the finish line, my bike in tow, and my jaw so tight it might snap. My mechanic waves from the pit, shouting something, probably about the press, about who I’m supposed to be for the cameras.
The Champion.
The Showman.
The Brand.
But I can’t be any of those things right now.
I shove my bike at him, not caring if it topples or makes me look like a sore loser.
Hell, I am.
“Do it without me,” I snap. “Let him have his moment.”
My mechanic keeps yelling, but I don’t turn back. Instead, I just walk through the rain, through the mud, through the deafening roar of everything I’m supposed to be, all the way to the only space where I don’t have to be on.
The door to my hotel room slams behind me, and I’m left with silence, but I’m not alone in it, because that fucking hiccup is still echoing in my head like it left a bruise on my brain.
Toulouse peeks his head out from the little fleece hammock hanging in the corner of his cage.
“Hey, mon amour,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my soaked hair as I toe off my shoes. “I need a shower.”
Toulouse blinks slowly, judgingly. It’s like even he knows I fucked that run.
Stripping off my jersey on the way to the bathroom, I peel the clingy, sweat-slick layer off and dump everything on the floor. I don’t need to see my reflection to know what I look like. Not bruises, blood, or whatever road rash I’ve collected this week. No. It’s the years I’ve practiced avoiding the mirror, so I don’t have to see it. The shame.

I step into the shower and crank the water to nearly scalding, needing the burn to cut through the mess inside me. It hammers down on my shoulders, and I welcome it. I let it try to peel me apart.
My fingers move through my hair with more force than necessary, nails scraping my scalp, trying to claw the confusion out of my head. The scent of my shampoo mixes with the steam. It’s lavender and arnica, something Karl mixed up himself for sore muscles. I’ve used it for years now, and normally it soothes me, bringing me back to myself after a race or a party, but today it doesn’t work.
I shut my eyes and breathe in the scent as the water pounds down on my shoulders, and try to think of anything else. Anything else. But every path leads back to the same things.
Fourth. The hiccup. The fucking way he looked at me.
I curse softly, my forehead dropping against the tile with a dull thunk.
And that ass.
That fucking ass.
My hand slides down my body without permission. I’m already half-hard, and I hate myself for it. I don’t even know whether I want this or just want to feel something sharp enough to make the rest go quiet.
My fist closes around my length almost of its own accord and takes a long, experimental stroke. I press my forehead harder against the tile.
My breath stutters, not from pleasure, but from confusion. From the sick, molten shame that rises like bile.
Another stroke.
This time, I can’t stop the image of Petit Crews, gasping under me. His voice breaking on a hiccup, his finger curling in my hair as I bite down on his shoulder.
“Merde!” I gasp, jerking my hand back like it burned me.
I brace both palms against the tile and bow my head, heart pounding, water still scalding.
“Non.”
This isn’t happening.
This can’t be happening.
I slam the water off and stumble out, the silence crashing down louder than the spray ever was.
The mirror is fogged, but that’s a mercy. I don’t want to see the look on my face right now. I grab a towel and scrub myself roughly, then wrap it around my hips.
My entire body shakes, not from the cold, but from the sheer velocity of panic ripping through my chest.
This isn’t just a racing fuckup.
This is everything else cracking all at once.
Toulouse is still in his hammock when I walk out, licking his paws, completely oblivious to my bi panic under the spray nozzle.
“I’m going to figure this out,” I tell him like a vow. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “We’re doing research.”
He looks utterly unconcerned.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.” I grab my towel from where I’d slung it, eye the cage, and toss it over the top like a curtain. “You don’t need to see this. I’m not paying your therapy bills, mon fils.”
I sit on the bed and flip open my laptop, my legs splayed like I’m not seconds from falling apart. My fingers feel numb as they hit the keys.
Gay porn.
The words look wrong on my screen, a dare I didn’t mean to accept, but I hit search anyway.
Thumbnails blur past—twinks, jocks, leather, sweet, rough, different bodies, positions, and dynamics. Some of it even looks good. I can see why people would like it. Hell, I can even imagine myself in some of those scenes. Bent over a couch with a body beneath me. Knees spread on a hotel mattress. Pushing him up against a wall.
But only if it’s him.
I click. A video loads. Another. Then another. I try to settle into one, to let it happen, to feel something, and find whatever it is that’s tearing through my chest and name it, but it’s all just noise, like I’m watching through glass. Nothing stirs, not really. There’s just this hollow ache and a strange, creeping sense of distance from my skin.
Then one thumbnail flashes by. On it is a tanned, broody, pretty boy with tousled hair and that same quiet, coiled fire Payne carries around. The kind that sits in his shoulders, his eyes, the way he never lets himself soften.
I hesitate.
What the hell was that?
I shake my head, try to move on, but my stomach twists. Maybe it’s not just Petit. Maybe there’s something else in me I’ve never looked at too closely, something that twitches around certain types. It’s the fire, the tension, and that heavy silence that makes you want to break it with your mouth.
Merde!
I swallow hard as my pulse kicks. No. That’s not what this is. I’m not thinking about Payne right now. Fuck, no. I scroll faster. Dismiss it. Bury it.
I’m about to slam the laptop shut when a video catches my eye. It’s a bigger guy, muscled and tattooed, pushing a smaller, wiry one against the wall, kissing him like he’s the only thing that exists. The smaller guy has wild hair and wide brown eyes.
They almost look like us, Petit and me.
“Okay,” I mutter, nodding. “It’s just a test. For science. I’m a biologist now.”
And yeah, I know it’s bullshit to treat it like a lab test, but right now, I’m grasping at anything that makes this less real.
I click.
I stroke.
But the movement feels empty, like someone else’s hand on someone else’s body. Like I’m not even here. I slam the lid shut and toss the laptop aside, not sure whether I’m relieved or disappointed.
Maybe I’m not bi after all.
I close my eyes to block it all out, but the moment they shut, he’s there, with his cheeks flushed, hiccupping, half-wrecked, every breath a question. I remember the scar on his hip. The warmth of his weight against my back when I carried him, the defiant fire in his eyes.
I’m hard again in a heartbeat, no porn needed, no fiction. Just him. Every broken, breathtaking piece of him.
My hand moves again before I can stop it, and science offers no explanation for why one stroke turns into two. For why I picture the way his breath caught when I touched his forehead. His little scoff when I flicked his nose. His thighs clenching, his hoodie sliding up just enough to flash bruised skin and sharp hips. The way he said my name in outrage when I picked him up.
One more stroke, and I come harder than I have in my entire fucking life. My eyes roll back, and my whole spine arches off the mattress like I’ve been struck by lightning.
Panting, I blink down at myself, the mess spread across my stomach, and the hand responsible, still twitching between my thighs.
And then the horror hits.
Fuck.
I grab the nearest cloth—maybe a shirt or a towel, I don’t even look—and wipe myself off in a rush. Then I scramble for my phone on the nightstand, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might bruise the inside of my chest. My fingers jab the screen until the call rings through.
“Maman.” I gasp when she picks up.
“I saw it, mon soleil,” she says softly. “I watched it on TV. I’m so sorry.”
For a wild second, my post-orgasm brain thinks she means my explosive masturbation.
Shaking myself, I take a deep breath. No. My racing failure is not why I called my closest confidant.
“Maman,” I blurt, voice cracking as I sit naked in my shame. “Am I… bi?”