But who really knows? It’s not like I’ve seen or heard from him in the four days since.

Not that I really expected to, but it still sucks. Especially when I think about how I woke up naked, sore, and alone on the floor of O’Leary’s Pub, my alarm blaring into my ear like a fucking sledgehammer to the skull.

Yeah. Not my finest fucking moment.

I huff a humorless laugh and look down at the sink bowl.

After kissing the porcelain throne for however long it took to rid myself of my guts that morning, I quickly got dressed and cleaned up before heading out. I didn’t even bother going upstairs to check on him. See if he wanted to talk about what happened. I didn’t have it in me to get my ass chewed out for something we both wanted.

We were drunk. Shit happened. It’s over.

So what if I can’t get the sight of him sprawled out on his back for me out of my head? Pupils blown, lips parted. Cock bared and throbbing for me. So what if every time I’m in the shower and I take a hold of myself, I imagine it’s his hand instead? His cock? So what if every time I look in the mirror, I see the fading bruises and scratches, and remember for one tantalizing, heady split-second what it was like to be his?

So. Fucking. What.

Nothing has changed.

Nothing will change.

But it doesn’t mean I’m ready to face him yet.

“Everything okay?”

I give my head a little shake and wipe my fingers on my jeans as I turn around. “Yeah, just got distracted.” I run a hand through my hair.

His eyes lower to my neck, and his bushy brows lift gently. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with that there love bite now, would it?”

I stiffen. Clearing my throat, I lower my arm and tug the collar of my shirt back in its place.

He grins. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

I arch a brow. “I’m gay.”

He frowns. “Really?”

“Yep.”

“Huh.”

I try not to bristle. It’s not like I haven’t been out since I was fourteen. Knew I was gay since I was ten. But I still can’t help but feel cornered every time I have to “come out” again.

Because no matter how well-adjusted I may be—no matter how goddamn proud I am to be who I am—there’s still this knot in my throat that forms anytime I have to correct someone when they ask me if I have a girlfriend. Anytime I’ve talked to a stranger and brought up my boyfriend, and got that awkward stutter in their response. That half-second stumble over their words as they suddenly have to reset their preconceived perceptions of me.

Because, apparently, I don’t look gay.

Apparently, I don’t talk gay.