So, I don’t kiss Wyatt Fowler.

I don’t kiss him even though I want to more than anything I’ve ever wanted before in my life. Even though I want to kiss him so much that my heart hurts, that my stomach is twisting into tight little knots that just won’t slip loose. Even though I’m desperate to know what he tastes like, what his hair feels like in my fingers, what his body feels like against mine.

I don’t kiss Wyatt Fowler.

Even though I want to.

*  *  *

Wyatt plays a little for me, his voice getting sleepier with each song. Finally he sighs, his wrist going limp over the neck of his guitar, and says, “I think I’m going to bed. I’m beat.”

“Yeah, long day.” Longer tomorrow.

He stands, carefully carrying his guitar back inside. “Are you coming?”

“I’ll be there in a bit,” I tell him. “Good night.”

“Night.” He closes the door to the balcony behind him. I stay outside, smelling the air. I’m trying to get my heart to calm down, to avoid admitting the truth to myself. I don’t want to think about this, to think about how badly I wanted to kiss him tonight, to hold Wyatt’s hand, to go even further with him than I’ve ever gone before. I don’t want that.

But I do.

I know that I do.

And I can’t stand the idea of these thoughts being alone in my head.

But who can I tell? Who can I talk to about this?

Not Wyatt, duh. Maybe Lindsay? But she’d judge me so hard. Not that it wouldn’t be warranted.

Not Josh.

There is one person who might not judge me.

Well, he’ll certainly judge me, but he’ll probably be more sympathetic.

A five-foot-two strawberry-blond trans boy currently in New York.

Never have I been more grateful that Samuel is such a nocturnal creature.

He picks up the FaceTime call after a few rings.

“Hey, what’s up?”

Clearly his phone is propped up against something, because both of Samuel’s hands are occupied on this premium Xbox controller with all kinds of extra buttons that Samuel got specifically so he could, and I quote, “map my hotkeys more efficiently.”

“I can call later,” I tell him. There’s a reflection in his glasses that shows off a blurry image of his screen.

“No way, I can talk and game. Where have you been?”

“It’s been a busy few days.”

“I can imagine.” Samuel doesn’t even look at my screen; he’s entirely plugged in.

“What are you doing?”

“There’s a raid, and my team fucking sucks so hard. You sure you don’t want to get back into this? I could use a decent healer.”

“I’m good.”

“I could even teach you!” Samuel says. “They added catboys last year. You can be a magical catboy.”