He didn't speak when they left the bathroom.
He couldn't.
The hallway was too dark. The music too loud. His heart too loud. Everything too fucking loud.
Eliana was a step behind him, flushed, dazed, lips parted like she still didn't know what just happened. Her skirt was tugged down in a hurry. Her hair was wild. Her eyes wouldn't meet his.
Good. Because if she looked at him, he might fall apart.
He muttered something to Renee. Something vague. Something about needing air. About a client call. About leaving.
Nobody asked questions. They never did.
He slipped out the side exit, past drunken heels and cigarette smoke, and into the street like it might save him.
It didn't.
The moment the cold hit his skin, he breathed. Finally.
Then he started shaking.
He was hard. Still hard.
Not even from memory. From need. From her. From the way she'd pushed back into him like she wanted more, even when neither of them said a word. From the soft, wet heat of her pressed against him through the silk of his dress. From how her hips moved without thinking, desperate, helpless.
And him? He didn't stop it. He fucking helped it.
God.
He stumbled down the block. Grabbed a car. Told the driver an address he barely remembered choosing. Something downtown. A bar. Somewhere with noise.
He couldn't be alone. Not yet.
Three drinks in, it still hadn't dulled.
Four, and it only got worse.
By the fifth, he was gripping the bar like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
He didn't even like whiskey. He hated the way it burned.
But it felt right.
Like punishment.
Like the heat he deserved.
She trusted him. She always had. The sweet girl who called him safe. Who slept against his chest like he wasn't hard for her. Who rode his lap in silence and let herself come on him, thinking he was asleep—and never questioned it.
And now? He'd taken her into a bathroom. Bent her over a toilet. And rutted into her until he almost lost it.
He'd touched her. Grabbed her hips. Let her press back until their breath fogged the mirror.
All while dressed like a woman. All while pretending he wasn't falling apart inside.
Because he wasn't supposed to want this. He was gay. He is gay. He loved Luis.
Luis, who was probably asleep in Berlin. Who sent voice notes and Spotify playlists. Who he hadn't touched in nearly a year.
Luis, who would never understand this. Who would never believe he could get hard for a woman. For Eliana. For the way she smelled, the way she said his name, the way her thighs pressed together when she thought no one was looking.
He hated himself.
Hated how easy it had been. How natural it felt to wrap himself around her. How good it felt to feel her want him back.
What the fuck was he?
The bartender asked if he was good. He nodded.
But he wasn't.
He was unraveling.
By the time he got home, the buzz had settled into something worse. Numb. Heavy. Like everything inside him had been dunked in cement.
He peeled off the dress. The wig. The heels.
Stared at himself in the mirror, bare-chested and exhausted.
He looked like a ghost.
He thought about her hands. The way she moaned. The way she froze when she realized he wasn't stopping.
He touched himself, just once. The guilt made him stop.
He curled on the bed instead.
Blankets tangled around his waist.
Hard again.
Still.
For her.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to run.
But most of all?
He wanted to do it again.
And that scared him the most.