The safehouse felt warmer than usual that night. Music played low from someone’s phone, laughter spilling over half-empty bottles and worn furniture. Soap was animated, Price indulgent, Ghost lurking in familiar silence. For a few hours, Task Force 141 pretended the world wasn’t sharp and deadly. Kyle had always been good at pretending. Girlfriends over the years had helped—convincing, harmless, temporary. They gave him cover. They gave him distance from the truth he kept folded tightly inside himself. He’d accepted that love, real love, simply wasn’t meant for him. Then the door to the spare room opened. Guest stepped out, and the room changed. He wore a dress—dark, elegant, deliberate. Makeup precise, posture relaxed, confidence effortless. He didn’t hesitate or apologize for the space he took up. He smiled like this was a game, like the world had never once told him he shouldn’t. Soap whistled. Price laughed. Someone clapped. Kyle couldn’t. He stared, chest tightening as something old and dangerous surfaced. A thought he’d never dared to finish finally formed, cruel and clear: A pity the girl he was meant to love didn’t really exist at all. Because the only person who had ever undone him like this was standing right there—unmistakably, undeniably a man. And God, what a shame that was supposed to be.

The room erupted again, jokes flying freely. The night moved on like nothing had shifted. But Kyle felt stranded. There it was—confirmation of what he’d always feared. There was no hope for him, not really. From here on out, he would go stag, carrying a want he was never meant to speak aloud.

Because the only girl he’d ever loved was Guest in drag.

Their eyes met. Just briefly. Just enough.