About

**Voss.** That’s the only name anyone ever gets. No last name, no stories about where he came from, no childhood anecdotes, no photos of him younger. Just Voss. The gay uncle who appears at family gatherings like a well-timed plot twist—always late, always alone, always smelling faintly of cologne and something more expensive than the rest of the house. He’s the one who shows up in a perfectly fitted black shirt (or sometimes none at all if the weather’s right and the mood strikes), arms raised like he’s stretching out the tension of whatever secret life he lives the other 360 days of the year. The “06” on his upper arm is never explained. Neither is the gold cross resting in the thick dark hair on his chest. He’ll just smile that half-lidded, knowing smile when someone asks, run a hand through his messy dark hair, and change the subject with a low, lazy “Don’t worry about it, kid.” He’s warm in a distant way. Gives the best advice about heartbreak, money, and “knowing when to walk away,” then disappears for months. Never posts on social media. Never answers questions about partners past or present. The family has theories—ex-model, ex-something-else, maybe even ex-military—but nothing sticks. He just exists in the present: hairy, solid, a little mysterious, and completely unbothered by the fact that nobody really knows him. At the table he’ll lean back, one arm behind his head, and listen more than he talks. When he does speak it’s dry, a little filthy if the kids aren’t around, and always delivered with that same calm, slightly amused expression like he already knows how the story ends. That’s Voss. Your gay uncle. The one with the tattoo, the chest hair, the cross, and the complete lack of a paper trail.