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Two Scoops of Celebration [Tyler Owens X M!Reader]

Summary: It’s been two years since you’ve last spent time with your former college roommate, Tyler Owens. Having just finished a book tour promoting your premiere novel as a published author, you decide it’s time to pay your old friend a visit.

Word Count: 5.5K

Reader: Male (can be read as cis or trans, no genitalia is referenced)

Rating: Teen+

Warnings: Mild language

Notes: What started as a thought about the reader being a male version of Daisy Edgar Jones's character in Twisters very quickly became something new and wholesome. This one goes out to all the boys like me who yearn for a friends to lovers romance with a charming southern beau. As always, no beta, we die like men.

“Hey, City Boy!”

The accent that clings to Tyler’s voice as he calls out to you from across the parking lot is thicker than honey. He’s always had that sweet, southern twinge when he speaks but it seems that every time he refers to you by his favorite nickname, it’s particularly strong. The upward kick punctuating “boy” is borderline twisted.

You hate how much you love the way it sounds.

“Keep calling me that and all your wrangler buddies are gonna start thinking I’m some kind of Wall Street conman!”

You close the door of your car, shaking your head to feign disapproval as Tyler Owens saunters your way. But the smirk denting your cheeks betrays you, and judging by the lopsided smile on his own lips, he knows there’s no way you can keep up appearances.

“Even if you were, I don’t think they give a damn. Anyone cool with me is cool with them.”

Strong arms swallow you whole like a tidal wave and throw you violently against the shore that is Tyler’s broad chest. Even with a thick flannel and undershirt concealing his figure, you can feel just how firm his pec muscles are. He’s even more in shape than the last time you’d met. Still smells like farmland and overpriced cologne though, so some things really never change.

“Good to see you, Ty,” you mumble into the ruffles of his shirt. If there’s one thing you’ll never tire of in this world, it’s the inescapable bear hugs of your former college roommate.

When he finally releases you so he can beam at you face-to-face, his left hand clamps down on your shoulder. His thumb begins massaging your collarbone as he looks you over. The alarmingly intimate gesture nearly gives you goosebumps.

“You look good. NOLA must be treating you right.”

“Good people and even better food. Plus my aunt lives just outside the city so every holiday is a feast. It’s a miracle I haven’t gained more weight.” You chuckle. “How about you? How’ve you been?”

“Just peachy." He raises a finger. "And before you start, no I do not mean that sarcastically.”

The two of you share massive, toothy smiles and bask in the warmth of each other’s presence. A whole two years without getting to see the man who’d single-handedly motivated you to finish your degree at UA is simply too long. Life hasn’t exactly sucked without him, but you’ve always known things would be so much brighter with him around, the same way rolling fields of green are always a bit more breathtaking when peppered by sunflowers.

“Alright, quit grinning at me like that. You’re gonna fracture a cheekbone,” he teases with a gentle pat of the hand against your jaw, “C’mon, let’s grab a bite. My treat.”

***

The two of you catch up over a pair of greasy burgers and several bottles of beer. Stories are exchanged at the dinner table like currency. He tells you about a slippery twister he chased across the Oklahoma border into southwest Missouri; you tell him about the tour you took around the country promoting your first novel. And even though stories about meeting fellow writers and signing books are far less exciting than hair raising tales of tornado wrangling, Tyler is just as invested in your retellings as he would be if you’d told him you were planning to steal the Declaration of Independence.

He takes a long swig of his drink. “You’re amazing, y’know that right?”

You scoff, “Says the guy who literally drives his truck into tornadoes for a living.”

“Anybody can do stupid shit like that.” He waves his hand dismissively.

“Not with enough wisdom to survive the way you do.”

“‘Course not. But that’s not the point! What I’m saying is you’re a guy with genuine talent and being able to create something elegant and captivating enough for people to spend hours if not days reading…That’s something to celebrate.”

Your cheeks flush, not from the alcohol in your system, but from the emotions his praise has stirred within you. Your stomach feels impossibly light. He may not have been the one to major in English, but Tyler sure has a way with words.

“I read it, by the way,” he adds before you can muster a timid phrase of thanks.

Now there’s a surprise. Notorious rodeo boy and meteorology YouTube star, Tyler Owens, has actually read your queer fantasy novel. Your queer fantasy novel with a very graphic sex scene—well, scenes (plural) actually—between two grown men.

“Really?”

“Really.”

You cock your head and eye him expectantly. “And…”

“And I think it’s pretty damn good.” He throws his head back as he downs the remainder of his beer. The first couple of words after are strained from an air bubble in his throat. “Look, I ain’t blowin’ smoke just because we’re buddies. I’ve been reading your work ever since you finally let me have a peek at your poetry assignment during second semester of sophomore year and I’m telling you, you’re good. And I’m sure as hell glad the rest of the world is catching onto it too.”

The airy feeling in your gut doesn’t dissipate but the pride in your chest is hefty enough to keep you from floating away.

“Thanks, Tyler. I mean it. Even though the praise of a college dropout can only mean so much,” you manage to tease with a tiny smirk.

The grin that meets you is almost blinding. “You son of a bitch.”

“Sorry, you know I had to.”

He clicks his tongue the same way you used to hear him express vexation at the results of a bull-riding competition. “Like hell you did. I ought to give my copy of your book a hundred pages of dog ears for that.”

The blasphemous image of carelessly bent page corners pops into your head. A chill runs down your spine.

“You wouldn’t dare,” you growl, fingers ever so slightly lifting the butter knife from beside your plate to point its blunt tip at the man across from you. It’s an empty threat at an already low stakes showdown.

“Oh, I really would. And then I’d donate it to a hand-me-down bookstore so some broke English major looking for a new read has to painstakingly unfold every last one before he can actually enjoy the story.”

Your jaw drops. Two years and several hundred miles apart, and he has yet to forget what makes you tick. A part of you is thankful that’s the case because you know it means you really do hold value in his life.

“I drive ten hours to spend time with you and this is how you repay me?”

“Oh, please. That’s nothing. Besides, I’m paying you back the right way.” He pulls out his worn-out trifold wallet and drops a few paper bills on the table. He tucks the waitress’s hastily scribbled check underneath the pile of bills. “Cold, hard cash, baby.”

***

After dinner, you trail his modded, red Ram pickup a few miles north to a motel near the edge of the small Oklahoma town. The motel itself is clearly long past its prime, but not even remotely close to being one of the shittiest places either of you have ever stayed. With a Walmart not too far up the road and a Braum’s directly across the street, you’re pretty confident that you won’t be left wanting for much.

It comes as a complete shock that the motel room is not empty when you step inside. There are balloons floating in the corners, confetti strewn all over the bed, and a banner dangling above the headboard that reads, “Congratulations!” On the dresser just beneath the wall-mounted flatscreen are hand-wrapped gifts and a bouquet of sunflowers nestled inside a hardcover-shaped ceramic vase.

“Whoa, what the hell happened in here?” Tyler announces with poorly faked bewilderment—albeit purposefully so—as he trails you inside, “Looks like someone gutted a piñata on your bed.”

“Haha, very funny.” You stroll over to get a better look at the sunflowers. They smell delightfully fresh. “You did all this?”

“Sure did!” He shuts the door and grabs one of the presents to hold while he waits for you to savor the moment. The way he absentmindedly rotates the gift in his hands reminds you of a quarterback handling the ball between plays. “I know guys usually aren’t big on receiving flowers, but sunflowers were kind of a big part of your book so I thought it’d be fitting. Plus I needed something to gussy up the vase.”

You can’t help but be impressed. Not only did he put his eyes to the pages of your book just to say he did it, but he actually made sure to remember details like the motif of sunflowers. You’ve always known he’s more than just a pretty face and charisma but continually being gifted the privilege of truly knowing the heartfelt man behind that stereotypical facade means the world to you.

“Here.” He passes you the gift in his hands. “Open this one.”

Now that it’s in your grasp, you can easily tell by the shape and weight that it’s some sort of coffee mug. You chuckle, unable to contain your amusement, and rip the paper poorly concealing its identity. The second you free the cup from its wrapping, that chuckle turns into a roaring laugh.

“Are you fucking serious?”

You hold the mug up to face him. It’s one of those cheesy “World’s Greatest Dad” mugs you’d find at any road stop or Walmart around Father’s Day, but the “Dad” has been crossed out and the word, “writer”, is hand painted on the ceramic just underneath it.

Tyler beams. “What? You don’t like it?”

“Of course I like it,” you retort. “It’s got a certain je ne sais quoi that just screams Tyler Owens to me.”

He points at the hand painted “writer” near the bottom of the mug. “Could be the shitty paint job. That really was me, by the way. I still don’t have a lick of artistic talent in me.”

“Awww, bless your heart,” you jest while placing one hand on his chest.

It’s a harmless, mocking gesture reminiscent of an aging memaw whose grandbaby has just told her that—despite their hard work—they’re failing their history class. And really that’s all you meant by touching him. But the second you feel the heat of his body radiating against your palm and note the teensy upward tick of his eyebrow, your stomach does a giddy little flip.

Before you can jerk your hand away, Tyler grabs your wrist, fingers wrapping around your forearm to keep your palm pressed against his shirt. A loose wire somewhere in the complex system that is your consciousness snaps, causing your breath to catch. You fully intended to play the whole moment off as casually as humanly possible but this contact is certainly dismantling any hope you may have of doing so.

“You makin’ fun of me, City Boy?” There’s a sharp edge to his voice, and without any sign of that signature smirk on his face, it’s hard to tell if he’s actually been ruffled by your teasing.

You swallow and hope your voice doesn’t crack or waver. Years of friendship be damned, there isn’t a singular crumb of desire within you to give him a peek behind the curtain at the very nervous boy trying to keep himself together in front of a handsome man.

“Maybe I am. You gonna do something about it, cowboy?”

“You’re lucky I like you,” he drawls in a low voice, “‘Cause my mama didn’t raise no coward.”

A crooked smile finally breaks the tension that’s been lingering between you. He adds, “Besides, you’d be kissin’ dirt long before you could even land a blow. No offense, but something tells me a certified bookworm like you doesn’t stand much of a chance against the guy who used to ride broncos for a living.”

“‘Used to’ being the operative words.”

The weight on your shoulders that had been put in place by the stifling suspense of the interaction finally dissipates when he chuckles and releases your arm. You gently shove him backward a step. His laughter fills the room like the ringing of Sunday church bells.

“Y’know, I’ve really missed this.”

Your eyebrow instinctually raises at the statement. “Missed what?”

“All of this,” he says, making a vague hand gesture between the two of you. “Fucking around with you, yappin’ about life, making you laugh.”

The look of adoration on his face as he gazes down at you does something violent to your gut. You’d throw up if it weren’t for the fact that you desperately want to avoid embarrassing yourself in front of him. That kind of doe-eyed expression on a face like his should be made illegal.

“You’d think that spending several years risking your life chasing tornadoes would make you hard, but somehow you’ve only gotten softer.” There’s no malice in your words, only admiration.

“Growing up’ll do that to ya. Plus, when your life flashes before your eyes often enough, it gets pretty easy to see the big picture.”

“Ty, you’re starting to sound like a Chicken Soup book. Is this a cry for help?”

He lets out a breathy chuckle and dips his head down a little, almost as if avoiding your gaze. His eyes linger on the mug in your hand for a moment. It feels crazy to even consider the possibility but you swear there’s a tinge of red in his cheeks.

He’s…blushing?

“Look, I’m just saying I miss seeing you all the time. Playing catch-up every couple o’ years isn’t enough,” he confesses softly. “A lot of that’s my fault, I know. Hell, these past two months alone, I’ve been hauling ass across state lines three or four times a week. But I’ll be honest, there’ve been more days than not where all I wanted was to call you and listen to you talk about your book.”

Hesitation and humility are elusive tourists in Tyler’s life. Seeing him so timorous is almost unsettling. There had been moments in college where the stress had beaten him senseless or grief had hollowed him into a shell of his usual self, so this isn’t the first time he’s divulged such raw emotions to you. But no matter how many times over the course of your connection it happens, it never ceases to stir something solicitous inside of you.

Before some anxious parasite inside your head convinces you not to do it, you ditch the mug on the dresser and snake your arms around his neck to pull him into a much-needed embrace. Judging by the way he stumbles forward a step, he hadn’t been expecting you to take him in your arms.

But the initial bewilderment doesn’t keep him from melting into you. Not even a second after he’s processed your affectionate action, his arms are wrapping tightly around you and his chin finds a soothing perch upon your shoulder.

“Call me,” you say softly. “Whenever you want. I don’t care if it’s the middle of the night or you’re just bored on the road. I’m always here for you. You know that, right?”

You feel him nod in unison with a soft, “mm-hmm,” next to your ear. Such a muted response awakens your primal instinct to protect. There’s an aura of fragility surrounding him at that moment that makes you forget just how nervous you’d been in the midst of your conversation. And in each other’s arms, things just feel…right.

After a long but not at all uncomfortable silence, he whispers, “I don’t know about you, but I’ve got a hankering for ice cream.”

You nearly snort with laughter at the tonal shift. Reluctantly, you unravel your arms from around his neck so you can look him in the eyes again. Chances are you’ll dream of that hug tonight.

“You’ve been thinking about Braum’s ever since we parked, haven’t you?”

He grins slyly as he admits, “I have.”

“Well hop to it, cowboy,” you exclaim with a nod toward the door. “We ain’t got all night!”

“What about the rest of your presents?”

You give him a look: one brow raised while the other digs into the ridge above your nose and your mouth forms a hard, flat line. Not a word is spoken but you know he can decipher the meaning.

“Okay. Yup, you’re right. Presents can wait. We’ve got better places to be.”

***

Making the journey over to the ice cream parlor is easily the best decision either of you have made all week. With plastic spoons in hand and wide, child-like smiles plastered across your faces, you reminisce about old times.

Despite being gifted with a knack for meteorology, Tyler had struggled to actually maintain his academic prowess in college. He was a wild child through and through, opting for the adventure of an unplanned road trip or raging frat party over the assignments of his mandatory gen-eds. He fell behind hard and fast in his freshman year.

You, on the other hand, had been the golden child of academia. There wasn’t a single class that stumped you. On top of your thousands of dollars in scholarship funding, you had finished high school with a slough of college credits, which meant you could focus on your passion by taking any and all creative writing courses that UA had to offer. Screenwriting, poetry, non-fiction, journalism, just to name a few. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter what form of storytelling you studied; you have plenty of stories to tell and you are going to share them with the world one way or another.

It wasn’t until sophomore year that the two of you met. Pure chance brought you together in the form of randomized dorm assignments. Your freshman year roommate had decided to rent a house with some friends which meant the school had a bed to fill. And, unfortunately for Tyler, his freshman year roommate was booted from the dorms for sneaking in buttloads of weed and an even bigger buttload of girls whenever Tyler wasn’t around.

So, be it fate or some other unknowable power of the universe, Tyler Owens was moved one floor up and two doors over to share a room with you.

“Y’know, I really do appreciate you tryin’ to keep me from flunking out,” Tyler says between massive spoonfuls of his Neapolitan sundae. “My mama’s always loved you for it. Says you’re one of God’s sweet angels sent to look after her precious little boy.”

You laugh. “She doesn’t say that.”

“Alright, those aren’t her exact words. But I’m not lying when I say she loves you. ‘Like biscuits n’ gravy,’ she says.”

“She’s only met me once!”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve told her enough stories about you. According to her, you’re part of the family.”

Something flutters spastically in your gut at that statement: part of the family. All these years, you’ve been fully aware that the two of you are close. Hell, neither of you have shied away from divulging anything that’s happened in each other’s lives, no matter how good or bad. But knowing that he’s spoken so highly of you, so often that his mother recognizes your importance in his life still comes as a surprise to you.

“Well, my mom watches you do crazy shit on Youtube so she knows better than to call you an angel,” you taunt before taking a long, slow lick from your spoon.

Tyler’s gaze falls on your tongue as you drag the plastic utensil across it. His eyes narrow slightly and his lips part as if to counter your remark. However, there is no response ready to be thrown back at you and whatever cocky smile had started to form dissolves faster than cotton candy in a rainstorm.

For the briefest moment, he just gapes at you with hooded eyes.

His Adam’s apple bobs.

Oh.

By the time your mind actually processes what’s happening, he blinks and draws his eyes back to the half-eaten bowl of ice cream in front of him. You’re glad he’s not wearing his signature white hat because he can’t hide his flushing cheeks beneath the brim.

“Remind me to send your mom a t-shirt then,” he says.

“And be stuck staring down your ugly mug every time I visit my parents? Hell no!”

The playful banter is apparently what was needed because his blinding smile is already worming its way back onto his lips. He eyes you from beneath his lashes.

“Ugly? You think a million people would still be subscribed to my channel if this was considered ugly?” He points to his face with the tip of his spoon.

You shrug, making sure to put on a show of dismally feigned innocence. “I just figured people were dying to see Lily do cool tricks with her drone. Either that or they just can’t get enough of Boone’s pyro skills and whimsical personality.”

The look on his face screams flabbergasted. Actually, he looks borderline offended. He’s silent for a moment, tongue denting the inside of his cheek.

Finally, he scoffs. “Right. Boone’s ‘whimsical personality.’ That’s gotta be it.”

“I don’t know why you’d think it’d be anything else.”

He sighs. “Listen, I hate to burst your bratty little bubble, but I can’t take a single thing you say seriously when you’ve got ice cream on your nose.”

You feel your playful demeanor plummet harder than hail. The idea of embarrassing yourself in front of him never fails to make you unbearably nervous. “Where?”

He leans forward, finger slowly getting closer to your face. “Right…there!”

Just before his finger makes contact, his other hand swipes the back of his spoon across the tip of your nose. A dollop of strawberry-flavored ice cream sits at the scene of the crime like some sad, Dollar Store attempt at clown makeup.

You blink. He laughs heartily and takes another bite, grinning to himself like some rowdy teenager who’s just pulled the best prank of his career as the neighborhood hooligan. As much as you want to be infuriated by his childish behavior, you find it particularly difficult to do when that damn smile makes him shine like the sun.

“I can’t stand you,” you mutter as you drag your napkin over your face to remove the evidence of his attack.

“Aw, come on. Have a lil’ fun, City Boy! Besides, I know that’s not true. We men may be stubborn and impulsive, but there’s no way in hell we’d drive 600 miles to visit a fella we couldn’t stand.”

“Maybe I was insanely bored.”

“Is that how you usually cure your boredom these days: drive hundreds of miles to meet handsome guys at random motels?”

As soon as the question leaves his mouth, his cocky smile is replaced by a grimace. He doesn’t even need to see the embarrassed expression plastered on your face to know that the joke he was trying to make didn’t stick the landing.

You both blush. And boy are you thankful he’d suggested the two of you sit at an outdoor table after you’d ordered your dessert.

“Sorry. That sounded a lot funnier in my head. I didn’t mean—“

You cut him off. “It’s okay. Really. I know what you meant.”

He forces a small, sympathetic smile and nods. The guilt he’s battling internally is so strong that it’s radiating from his skin. It might actually make him sick. However, the remorseful look in his eyes is just as likely to make you sick.

“Tyler, I’m begging you with every fiber of my being to stop.”

He tilts his head slightly. “Stop what?”

“That!” You point directly at his face. “The sad puppy dog pout thing you’re doing!”

“I don’t know what you’re going on about.”

Despite his eyebrows pinching even closer together in a dramatic display of penitence, you can see the corners of his mouth twitch upward. The little bastard knows exactly what he’s doing and it might actually drive you crazy. You love to hate him almost as much as you hate to love him.

“Y’know, it’s moments like this where I wish they’d never roomed us together.”

“See, now I know you don’t mean that either. That nerdy fella I met sophomore year with his fat stacks of books and never-ending journals was itching for some real-life excitement. He may not have liked me at first, but I know for a damn fact that he needed a push from someone like me to get him out of his shell. And look at ‘em now!” He gestures to you with his spoon. “A published author climbing his way up to the big leagues.”

Okay, so you love him far more than you could ever hate him.

***

The two of you return to your motel room after another hour or so of yapping on the Braum’s patio. You both sit at the edge of the confetti-covered bed as you open the remainder of his presents: a pair of candles for your desk at home, a new set of leather-bound journals, and a collection of dice that feature different prompts and writing topics to help inspire future stories.

You can’t help but grin as you analyze the box of dice. “You’ve outdone yourself, Owens.”

“I know.” He hooks one arm around your shoulders and pulls you flush against his side. “Not to brag, but I think I’m one hell of a gift giver. When I want to be, at least.”

You swallow. The way your heart spasms in your chest at the feeling of his arm wrapped around you is startling. This sideways embrace is not an inherently amatory gesture, you know that. Hell, it’s probably his way of communicating brotherly affection. Logic, however, can never quell the excitement of a lover boy’s heart.

“Thank you for all of this, Ty. It’s perfect. Well, maybe minus the whole confetti mess.”

He laughs, scoops up a clump of the rainbow-colored tissue paper with his free hand, and dumps it on the top of your head. “You see a mess, I see opportunity.”

You roll your eyes. Confetti comes tumbling into your lap as you shake your head like a dog fresh out of the bathtub.

He adds, “It was either confetti or rose petals. And something tells me you and I aren’t exactly at the rose petal stage in our relationship yet.”

Your brow instinctively raises at that. “Yet?”

It’s a miracle that your stomach doesn’t turn itself inside out.

He shrugs. “Give it time, man. Maybe one day you’ll realize I’m more than just a pretty face.”

“Well, trust me, I wouldn’t be falling for your brains. I’m actually not sure there’s anything going on in there,” you manage to tease in return. You gently knock your middle knuckle against his temple. “Jesus Christ, I think it might be hollow.”

“Ouch. Y’know words can hurt, right?”

“I might know a thing or two about words, yeah.”

“I’m quite certain you do,” he says with a crooked smile.

The way he looks at you with such audacious adoration should be criminal. It kicks up a familiar, violent storm in your gut that is only made exponentially worse by the presence of his arm draped around you.

Your cheeks have grown hot. In fact, your whole body feels like it’s been engulfed in an invisible blanket that is too heavy and wrapped too tightly around your torso and—

Oh.

His eyes are on your lips.

Just like earlier, he’d let his gaze wander. And like earlier, his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows what you imagine is a lump in his throat. This time, however, there’s no spoon on your tongue that inadvertently drew his attention.

There’s an almighty, invisible force at work that pulls you closer to him.

Suddenly, you're leaning. You hadn’t even been conscious of the decision when it started, but you’re naturally leaning toward him and he’s pushing back.

Magnetism.

He’s so close—closer than he’s ever been in all the years you’ve known him. From here, you can clearly make out the normally imperceptible flecks of gold in his green eyes. Miners once risked their lives for gems and metals that shine the way Tyler’s eyes do. They’re beautiful.

He’s just a breath away when the magnetic pull suddenly stops. The anticipation nearly draws a pathetic whimper from some depraved animal trapped inside your ribcage. You can practically hear his teeth clack together as he clenches his jaw.

His voice is soft and uneasy when it breaks the suffocating silence that’s enveloped the room. “Please tell me I’m not about to fuck this up.”

You immediately shake your head as you whisper, “You’re not…I promise.”

Like a cowboy desperately trying to avoid spooking a jittery mustang, you slowly bring your hand up to caress his neck. The second your fingers graze his skin, he exhales. His breath is hot on your lips.

“It’s okay. I want you to kiss me.”

With your permission explicitly granted, he eliminates the gap between your mouths.

It’s such a delicate kiss; a first kiss to end all first kisses. He doesn’t push too hard or rush into anything too passionate (not that you would complain if he did), but simply lets his lips melt with yours. Even when he tilts his head to deepen the kiss just a little, there’s no indication of carnal desire. Your affection is a delicacy that he has chosen to savor.

“I’ve been thinking ‘bout this for so long, I was startin’ to worry I might actually have a screw loose,” he muses when he finally breaks the kiss.

“You actually have several screws loose, casanova, but that’s got nothing to do with wanting to kiss me.”

The chuckle that reverberates from his chest is so low that you can feel it in your bones. And—raunchy as it is to admit—bones most certainly aren’t the only part of your body stirred by the sound of that deep laugh.

“You may be right about that, City Boy. But it sure don’t help screw ‘em back in.”

Now that you know your connection runs deeper than former roommates or college buddies, you cave into the temptation to touch. The hand you’d placed on his neck starts to wander, tracing the hard line of muscle up to the back of his jaw before sliding back down to dip your fingers into the valley of his collarbone.

“How long have you been thinking about this?” You ask.

“Since the last time we met up, I think. At least that’s when I really started putting the puzzle together in my head,” he admits. “But probably longer.”

“Hey, two years is a long time.”

He nods. “Sure is. How ‘bout you, Mr. Big Time?”

“How long have I been pining for you?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Your hand ceases its wandering and settles on his chest as you ponder the question. Well, as you pretend to ponder the question. Because you know the answer. You’ve known it for far too long.

“Second semester of sophomore year.”

His face falls. He looks mortified. “You’re joking.”

“Wish I was.”

He lets out a heavy breath of disbelief. “You’ve been holding this in for eight years! Why? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Oh, come on, Ty,” you scoff. You’re not at all angered by his questions. The answers just seem so obvious that it’s almost funny that he even has to ask. “I was the introverted, token gay roommate to a frat boy—albeit, you were a very nice frat boy. Why would I risk a confession when you never once mentioned being attracted to men? Besides, I’ve always valued our friendship way too much to try anything.”

He stares at you silently. The look on his face is an intricate mixture of guilt and adoration.

Finally, he says, “I’m sorry. I know it’s kind of a stupid thing to apologize for but I really am sorry. The fact that I couldn’t see you holding something so important back…I don’t know. In some ways, I failed as your friend for that.”

“No, Tyler, you didn’t do anything wrong. Neither of us did.”

“Well, whether I screwed the pooch or not, I’m gonna make it up to you either way,” he declares.

You laugh, fully amused by his determination. “Make it up how?”

“Food. Sex. Money. Hell, you want my truck? You can have it.”

“No, you can keep that. No offense, but your truck is filthy and beat to all hell.” You pat his chest lovingly and adjust his collar. “Besides, I like the first three options better. Especially the second one.”

The corner of his mouth curls upward into a lopsided smirk. “I’m glad you said that, ‘cause I’ve got a near-unlimited supply of that. The money, not so much.”

He tenderly grips your chin between his thumb and index finger, guiding your face to his. You eagerly follow his lead. Lips meet in a gentle kiss.

“You wanna have me start gettin’ to work on that repayment, City Boy?” He murmurs between kisses.

You pull back just as he opens his mouth to deepen the kiss, opting to press your index finger to his lips. “Start by getting the confetti off my bed, then we’ll see about option two.”

With a tiny nod, he purrs, “Sir, yes, sir.”

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