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“Jackson was different. He’s a great guy, but I wasn’t sure how he’d react. We’d been friends for almost a year before I told him, and in that time, I’d grown pretty fond of him. We ordered pizza after a study session, and Jackson was trying to get me to flirt with the pizza girl when I blurted out, ‘You know I’m gay, right?’ He stared at me, confused. Turns out Jackson has the world’s worst gaydar.”

I laugh. “So, he was cool with it, too?”

“Jackson’s the type to take things in stride. He paid the delivery girl, handed me a slice of pizza, and asked if having two sets of stubble changes the dynamics of making out.” Elliot rolls his eyes, but there’s a fondness in his voice. “He genuinely wanted to know. If anything, he’s been more of an ally ever since I told him. We’ve been to the pride parade and watched queer movies. He’s even read books likeSimon vs. the Homo Sapiens AgendaandThe Song of Achilles.”

“That’s good,” I say, and I mean it. Knowing that Elliot has people like Jackson in his corner makes me wonder who I’d turn to if I were in his situation.

Oliver, probably. Maybe Drew.

Elliot finishes his wrap and stuffs the foil into the bag. “Why are you asking all this, anyway?”

How much do I tell him? That I’m confused about my feelings? That I’m frightened of the unknown? That I might be misreading things, and he doesn’t like me in that way? “I want to understand. In case…you know…”

“In case what?”

Instead of answering him, I blurt out, “Have you seen the latest Ice Queen post? The one about my hands?”

Elliot’s expression shifts and a flush creeps up his neck and stops at his cheeks. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and peers down at the wooden table. “Yeah, I saw it. The professor paused class because people wanted to read it.”

My heart does a weird little flip. Why is he blushing? Did he like it? Is he embarrassed for me? I need to know. “Why are you blushing?”

“Because…I have a hand kink. And reading that made me—” He cuts himself off by biting his lip.

Oh.

Oh!

My mouth pops open as it all clicks into place. Hand kinks are real. This is a thing. And Elliot has one.Yeah, I don’t think I’m misreading anything.

I’m thrilled that this could be something we bond over. But I’m also apprehensive because this is all new and unknown. “How did you…get a hand kink?”

Elliot laughs softly. “I don’t know if it’s something you ‘get.’ It’s always been there. Hands are expressive; they tell stories. They can be gentle or rough, skilled or clumsy.” He pauses, and for a moment, I think he’s going to stop talking, but then he continues. “When someone has beautiful hands, it’s an added layer of attraction for me. It’s not something I can control.”

I glance down at my hands and wonder what makes them beautiful in his eyes. “So, when you read the post, did you think it was good?”

“It was…well-written. Made me see your hands in a different light.”

There’s an awkward silence where neither of us knows what to say or do next. We both recognize that we’re standing on the edge of something important that could tip either way.

“I’m not judging you,” I say quickly, wanting him to understand that I’m okay with this—withallof it. “It’s kind of fascinating.”

“Can I…” Elliot starts, then wavers. He fidgets with his fingers. “Can I see them? Your hands, I mean.”

“Of course.” I hold my hands across the table, palms up, and he gently pulls them closer to him.

The differences between our hands are noticeable—his tiny, delicate fingers against my large ones. His warm, tanned skin next to my pale whiteness.

He runs a fingertip along the lines of my palm, tracing them. My skin prickles at his touch, and my toes curl in my bright orange socks. “How do your palms stay so soft and smooth? I thought they’d be rough and callused.”

“I dunno.” I shrug. “They’ve always been like this. Same with my dad, even after all his years in the hockey world.”

Elliot hums thoughtfully, then shifts his focus to my fingers. “They’re so thick and long.”

My breath catches as he runs his fingertips along the length of mine, one by one. It feels more intimate than anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s like he’s undressing a part of me that I didn’t even know could be exposed.

“Perfect for holding a stick,” he says softly, almost to himself.

A hundred inappropriate thoughts rush through my mind, each one more vivid than the last. I wonder what it would feel like to hold him, to let my hands explore every inch of his small, wiry frame.