Epilogue Straight to Gavin in 60 Seconds
CALEB
Paper hearts still cling to the arch above the hallway, and the bass from someone's questionable EDM playlist throbs through the house. Christ, there will definitely be a noise complaint before midnight. Again.
James's thigh shifts under me, and the logical part of my brain, the part that sounds suspiciously like my mother, whispers that this is undignified. Sitting on my boyfriend's lap at a frat party like some kind of... what? Clingy freshman?
Except James's arm tightens around my waist, fingers drumming an absent rhythm against my hip, and that voice shuts up. Mostly.
"I am most grateful for the invitation to join your fraternal organization," Haru says, and Christ, he actually bows a little. "However, I must respectfully decline until the commencement of the next academic year."
He's perched on the coffee table across from us, spine straight like he's at a job interview instead of a party where someone just did a keg stand to Taylor Swift. His beer, which he's been carrying around for the past hour, sits untouched beside him.
"Dude, you know you can start the pledge process now, right?" James's voice rumbles through his chest and into my back. "Get a head start on everyone else?"
"Yes, I am aware. However—" Haru pauses, clearly searching for the right words. "My current roommates are experiencing some... adjustment difficulties regarding university social expectations."
The way he says it, all formal and careful, makes it sound like his roommates are suffering from a medical condition rather than just being socially awkward.
"So move into the house," James suggests, and his free hand waves vaguely at the chaos around us.
Someone's attempting to play beer pong with solo cups arranged in a heart shape, the last tragic remnant of our Valentine's party weeks ago.
"Plenty of room here. You could get a room before next year's pledges move in. "
Haru's expression does something complicated. "I cannot abandon them. They are good friends, merely... unprepared for university culture."
Ooookay.
Because Haru so blends in with his formal speech patterns, bowing, and how he treats beer pong like a physics experiment.
"You should talk to Drew," the words come out before I can stop them. "Or Gavin. They're practically specialists in helping guys adjust to Greek life."
Why am I giving advice? When did I start caring about recruitment? James's fingers find a gap between my shirt and jeans, skin warm against skin, and oh. Right. That's why. Because apparently, being in a relationship has turned me into someone who participates.
"I shall consider your suggestion most carefully." Another little bow. "Perhaps my roommates would benefit from such guidance, though they are somewhat..." He pauses again, clearly struggling. "Socially unconventional."
"No judgment here," James says, and I can feel him trying not to laugh. "We've got guys who LARP on weekends."
"What is... LARP?"
"Live Action Role Play," I explain, then immediately regret it when Haru's eyes light up with interest.
"Ah! Yes, Leo participates in similar activities. He constructs elaborate costumes based on anime characters."
There's a beat of silence. Even the terrible EDM seems to pause.
"That's... cool," James manages, and I'm proud of him for not laughing. "Very creative."
"Indeed. I shall discuss this opportunity with them. Thank you most sincerely for your time."
He stands, bows again, deeper this time, and walks through the crowd carefully, like he's avoiding land mines. We watch him stop to examine the heart-shaped beer pong setup with scientific interest before disappearing into the kitchen.
"Socially unconventional," James repeats the moment he's gone. "His roommates are socially unconventional?"
"Be nice."
"I'm being nice! But come on—" His laugh vibrates through me. "Haru just spent ten minutes analyzing the optimal trajectory for beer pong. He bows every time someone hands him a drink. And his friends are the awkward ones?"
"James."
"What's his basis for comparison? Does one of them communicate solely through interpretive dance?"
"You're terrible." But I'm fighting a smile, damn him.
"You love it." His lips find that spot just below my ear, and any remaining dignity evaporates. "Admit it… you're curious too. If Haru thinks they're awkward..."
"I'm not curious." Complete lie. "I'm... academically interested in social dynamics."
"Bullshit." Another kiss, this one to my jaw. "You want to meet them. You want to see what counts as awkward in Haru's world."
"I want you to stop psychoanalyzing me at parties."
"No, you don't."
God help me, he's right. When did this happen? When did I become someone who sits on his boyfriend's lap at parties, gossiping about potential pledges, actually enjoying myself at a frat event?
"Fine," I concede, turning enough to catch his mouth properly. "Maybe slightly curious."
His grin against my lips is insufferable. "Knew it."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
And I do, which is probably indecent for a public space, but the heart decorations are still up and everyone's at least three drinks in, so who's really paying attention? His hand tightens on my waist, and I'm just settling into it when…
"Hey guys, quick question—"
We break apart to find Gavin standing there, all six-foot-four of him, looking uncharacteristically serious.
He drops onto the couch beside us like a small earthquake, making the whole thing shift. "How did you know you're gay?"
The beer goes down the wrong pipe. Spectacular. Nothing says 'composed law student' like choking on cheap alcohol at a frat party. James's hand moves from my waist to my back, thumping helpfully while I try to remember how lungs work.
"I—what?" James's voice does something acrobatic, starting low and ending somewhere near the ceiling.
Gavin just watches us, those earnest golden retriever eyes waiting, as if this is a perfectly normal thing to ask. I check my phone; it's 11:47 PM at a party where Jaren's doing body shots off a very happy-looking pledge.
"Come on, man." Still that patient, expectant look. "How did you know?"
James and I exchange a look that's probably visible from space. His eyebrows are attempting to escape into his hairline, while mine are trying to burrow underground.
"I, uh—" James starts, stops, tries again. "High school? I mean, there was this girl… I guess I mean guy in my calculus class..."
The blush that spreads across James's face is fascinating. Technical malfunction in real-time. "She wasn't... I mean, she was..."
"Fem," Gavin supplies helpfully, like he's been taking lessons in queer somewhere. "So you're into fem guys?"
"I'm into Caleb," James mutters, and even with all this craziness going on around us, a warm, happy feeling spreads through my chest.
But Gavin's still watching, waiting, and there's something in his expression that makes my usual deflection die in my throat. It was instilled in my head from the day I was outed, 'keep this private.' But this isn't idle curiosity. This is... Gavin searching.
"I was eight," I hear myself say. The party noise fades to background static. "Snuck into my mother's closet during one of her charity galas. The evening gowns were just... beautiful. Like artwork made of silk and sequins."
James's hand finds mine. Squeezes.
"My father found me in a Versace number that probably cost more than most people's cars." The laugh that escapes tastes bitter. "You'd think I'd committed treason. The yelling, the lectures about 'appropriate masculine behavior,' the therapist who specialized in 'redirecting harmful impulses'..."
"Jesus, Caleb—"
"It wasn't as bad as it could have been, but I overcorrected." The words keep coming, like a faucet someone forgot to turn off.
"I played lacrosse. Dated girls who looked good in family Christmas cards. Wore nothing but Brooks Brothers and tried to disappear into the wallpaper of acceptable masculinity."
Gavin's leaning forward now, absorbing every word like it matters. Like it might save his life.
"When that didn't work, when I still couldn't stop noticing boys instead of girls. I gave my parents an ultimatum. Deal with having a gay son or ship me off to boarding school in Switzerland. Just… Let me disappear from the family's public image entirely."
"But you're here," Gavin says quietly.
"Oh yes. Dear old Dad did the political calculus." A smile stretches across my face, sharp as glass. "Having a gay son is actually an asset now, apparently. Makes him look progressive. Inclusive. As long as I don't 'flaunt' anything. No pride flags. No 'feminine' behavior. No public displays of—"
I gesture between James and me. "Just be gay in the most heterosexual way possible."
"Fuck." James pulls me in tight, and I let him, dignity be damned. "That's so fucked up."
"That's the Huntington way. Excel at everything, even oppression."
His lips find my temple, and for a second, I just breathe. Let myself be held in public by my boyfriend while wearing a ratty hoodie my mother would hate and sitting in a frat house my father would find 'common.' Small rebellions, but they're mine.
"So yeah," I murmur against James's shoulder. "That's how I knew. When the thought of playing straight for the rest of my life felt like a death sentence in Italian leather shoes."
"Caleb..." James's voice is rough, and when I pull back to look at him, his eyes are suspiciously bright.
"Don't you dare get weepy on me, Hunter."
"Shut up, I'm not—" But he is, a little, and it makes my heart do complicated things I'm still not used to.
His thumb brushes away what might be a tear from my cheek. When did that happen? And then we're kissing. Soft at first, careful, like he's trying to kiss away every harsh word my father ever said.