Arin unlocks the door with one smooth twist of his wrist, nudges it open with his shoulder, and guides me inside. My arm is slung around him like a lifeline, my weight half on him, half on the alcohol making everything warm and stupid.
The room blurs, tilts, rights itself. I exhale, slow and uneven.
"Did you drink on an empty stomach?" Arin asks, his voice somewhere between scolding and concerned. He already knows the answer. Neither of us had eaten. The only difference was he wasn't trying to drown himself in liquor to stop thinking about a woman dancing too close to his best friend.
He helps me to the bed and I collapse with a graceless thump. The ceiling wobbles for a few seconds before settling.
I grunt when he crouches down, gently tugging off my shoes, fingers steady and sure. Then my pants. He works with this quiet efficiency that makes my throat feel tight. He props me up, his hands warm on my shoulders as he settles me against the headboard.
"Sit," he murmurs. "Let me call for room service."
He drops onto the mattress beside me, reaches for the speaker, and orders garlic bread and Alfredo pasta — my favorite. He doesn't even ask. He just knows.
The fucker always knows.
"You wanna tell me what the hell happened down there?" he asks once he puts the phone down, turning toward me with that look — half older brother, half teammate, half something I don't want to examine too closely.
"Nothing..." I mumble, staring at the wall because it's easier than looking at him.
"Look, if you don't want to talk about it—"
"He was repping me for his brand even when I refused to entertain him."
"That's it?"
"Yeah."
Arin stares at me like I've handed him a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
Thankfully room service arrives before he can pry further. The smell of garlic hits hard, warm and comforting in a way it shouldn't be. We eat in bed, legs stretched out, plates balanced between us. Talking about rugby, teammates, inside jokes. The kind of stupid, familiar things that make the world feel softer.
This — this ease — is why I love being around him. With him, the outside noise dims. Everything else becomes background hum.
By the time the food is gone, the alcohol has loosened its claws from my brain. I'm not sober — not even close — but I'm steady enough that my tongue starts slipping toward honesty.
"Actually..." I murmur, staring at the empty plates. "He called me gay."
Arin raises a brow, then lets out a slow, amused grin. "And you found that offensive? It's 2025, Rafe. I'd take it as a compliment."
"Yeah, you would," I mutter. "Because you're straight."
His grin falters. His brows pull together, not shocked, not judgmental — just... focused. Like he's finally seeing something he missed.
"And you're not?" he asks softly.
I shake my head. It feels childish, but words don't come.
"Okay," he says, nodding once, twice, like he's rearranging the world in his mind. "Okay. Wow. I mean... I never would've guessed. We've known each other for what—ten years? I could swear I've seen you with women."
"I've never..." My voice cracks. I let the sentence hang, unfinished.
He tilts his head. "You mean... not even with a man?"
Another shake of my head.
A disbelieving chuckle slips out of him. "If I were you, man, I'd have fucked half the gay population by now. Men are way easier than women. What's stopping you?"
I sigh, because I know exactly what's stopping me. I just don't know how to say it without unraveling everything between us. Heat creeps up my neck. I chew the inside of my cheek.
Arin's voice softens. "What is it, dude? You wanna talk? Don't tell me you're in love with some straight, married guy or something."
I roll my eyes, but the truth hits harder than his joke.
Because it's so much worse. I'm in love with my straight best friend.
"I'm gay," I whisper, "but I don't find most men attractive. In fact... most of them piss me off."
Arin leans back slightly, considering. "Some women piss me off too — usually after I've slept with them. But I'm sure you will find someone... don't fret about it."
"I am not going to find anyone..." The words rip out of me before I can stop them.
"And why is that?"
God. Even with this much alcohol in my system, the confession wedges itself in my throat like something jagged.
"I like things a certain way."
"Okay..." he says gently, like he's coaxing the rest out of me.
"I... I am not... I don't want... fuck." I drag both hands over my face, searching for the courage to say a truth I've never said aloud.
"Rafe... you know I don't judge, right? Remember the time I had diarrhea and we had that match with the Georgia team? I shat my pants. No one knew except you."
Against my will, a laugh slips out of me. "That's different, Arin."
"Is it though? That was pretty embarrassing."
I inhale softly, the air thick, my stomach twisting. "I like to be a submissive in bed."
He stares at me — not horrified, not mocking — just... processing. His blink is slow, thoughtful. "What's the catch?"
"There is no catch." My voice feels like sandpaper. "I like being the bottom. I want to be praised, dominated, taken care of," I say, hiding my face in my palms, heat rising fast up my neck. I feel like I'm dissolving, humiliating myself inch by inch, confessing fantasies I've buried under years of ironclad silence.
The silence between us stretches, and it's unbearable.
"Why the heck are you so silent?" I mutter, still hiding. "You're judging me so hard now, isn't it?"
He clears his throat. "I'm not, dude. I'm sure you can easily find someone who could fulfill your fantasies. I mean... it's pretty rare to find someone who wants the things you want. It's usually the opposite thing dudes want. So you just go on Grindr or something and you'll find someone."
"But I don't want anyone." I finally lift my head, meet his eyes. "These things, as you imagine, need a certain level of trust. And you can't just trust anyone with dominating you. I would beat the shit out of them if they tried... so... maybe I give up trying to find someone."
Arin sighs, shoulders softening, and something flickers in his eyes, worry, maybe pity, maybe something I'm too drunk to name. "Why... Rafe. Stop being gloomy. We will think of something. Right now you need sleep. You're too drunk."
He moves around the bed, clearing bottles and wrappers quickly, efficiently, avoiding my gaze like my confession is a fragile thing he's scared to breathe on. Or maybe he's judging me after all. Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up drowning in the weight of what I said.
"Good night, Rafe," Arin murmurs eventually.
I grunt, frustrated and furious at myself, rolling to my side and dragging the comforter over my head. The darkness presses warm against my face, but sleep comes like punishment, thick and heavy, carrying every regret I already feel settling in my chest.
***
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