I should ignore it. Should delete the playlist, block his number, and go back to the life I had before he crashed into it.
Instead, my fingers hover over the keyboard. What do I think? I think he’s systematically dismantling every wall I’ve built. I think he knows exactly what he’s doing.
It’s not terrible.
Three dots appear immediately. I watch them pulse, matching the rhythm still flowing through my speakers. Matching my pulse.
High praise coming from you. Keep listening. Track 17 made me think of you.
I scroll down the list, finding track 17. The title makes my throat tighten: “Surrender.”
I hit play on track 17, and the song floods my apartment. Something with a slow build, sensual but raw. Not the mindless club shit I expected. The vocals are deep, intimate—like someone whispering directly into my ear about surrender, about letting go.
Fuck.
I close my eyes, whiskey glass dangling from my fingers. The music wraps around me like Theo’s arms would, and suddenly I’m aching for him to be here. I imagine his lips on mine, not the frantic, desperate kisses we’ve shared, but something slower. Something that acknowledges whatever this is between us.
My hand drifts to my chest, fingers splayed across my heart. I want his hands here instead. Want his weight on me, his scent surrounding me.
The realization hits me like a punch to the gut: I’m not as straight as I’ve spent my whole life believing. The signs were always there. How I’d linger too long looking at fighters’ bodies. How, sometimes in the locker room, my eyes would drift, and my cock would stir. How I’d dismiss it as competitive comparison, as normal curiosity.
Bisexual. The word forms in my mind, solid and undeniable. I’ve always appreciated women’s curves, their softness, theway they yield beneath me. But there’s another side I’ve been suppressing—the side that appreciates hard planes, strength meeting strength, the thrill of another man’s cock.
I take another swallow of whiskey, letting it burn.
Theo, though. Theo is something else entirely. Not just a man, not just a body I desire. He challenges me. Sees through me. Refuses to let me hide behind the identity I’ve built.
The song builds to its climax, and I find myself gripping the arm of my couch, breathing heavy like I’m in the middle of a fight—or in the middle of him.
The song ends, leaving me in silence that feels too empty. I reach for my phone again, thumb hovering over the keyboard. What am I supposed to say? That this music is breaking something open inside me? That I’m terrified of whatever’s pouring out?
I type.
Why this playlist?
His response comes quickly.
Because music says things I can’t.
The simplicity of it knocks the wind from me. This isn’t a game. Not entirely. There’s something raw here, something honest beneath everything he shows the world.
I’ve never listened to anything like this before.
That’s what I hoped. Something new. Something just for us.
Us. The word settles in my chest, heavier than it should be.Usimplies something I’m not ready to name.
I stare at the ceiling, listening as the playlist continues. My thumb moves before I can stop it.
Do you listen to this when you’re alone?
Every night. When I think about you.
Notwhen I want to fuck youor some explicit description of what he’d have me do to him. Just... thinking about me. The distinction feels important somehow.
I can’t stop thinking about you either,I type, then delete it immediately. Too vulnerable. Too much.
I try again.
