Eric

End of the day, man. Thank God.

Eric stretched his back till it popped, wiped the sweat off his forehead with the hem of his shirt, and let out a long groan like a dying animal. Landscaping wasn't a glamorous gig—not unless your idea of glamour involved dirt in your socks and a boss with all the charisma of a rusted lawnmower—but it was honest work. Paid the bills. Kept him from thinking too hard about the degree hanging on his bedroom wall.

Meta-fuckin-human Studies.

Yeah. That got him real far.

He glanced over at Trevor, who was hunched near the truck, loading up the last of the gear like he was trying not to make a sound. Quiet all day. Twitchy. Nervous, even. Which was weird, because the dude had started the morning like a whole different person—chipper, focused, working like he’d downed a gallon of espresso and seen God in the dirt.

Eric had even joked about it. "Dude, who are you and what have you done with Trevor?"

But then, somewhere around lunch, the switch flipped. Trevor slowed down, got quiet. Kept glancing at his hand like it was gonna grow teeth. Dave, their boss, picked up on it fast—started giving him shit in that passive-aggressive, "not saying it but saying it" kinda way.

"Everything alright with Princess over there?" Dave had muttered to Eric while Trevor raked mulch. "He's movin' like he's afraid of the dirt."

Eric had grunted something noncommittal and worked twice as fast to cover for him. Not 'cause he owed Trevor anything, but because that's what you do when someone you give a damn about starts spiraling.

He kicked at a rock near his boot and watched it skitter across the driveway. Sun was going down, painting the neighborhood in that soft orange glow that made even a pile of sod look poetic. And Trevor—man, he was moving slow. Careful. Like one wrong move might shatter him.

Eric had asked once. "You good, Trev?"

Trevor had barely looked up. "Just tired," he mumbled, not even convincing himself.

Bullshit.

And then—the moment that really messed with Eric's head—Trevor bent down to grab a roll of sod, and his shirt lifted just a bit. Just a second.

Eric blinked.

Was that—?

Pink lace. A little triangle of it, peeking up from under Trevor's jeans. Like, unmistakable. Not boxers. Not briefs. No. That was a thong.

A pink, girly, full-on Victoria's Secret–looking thong.

Eric froze. Eyes wide. Looked away so fast he damn near gave himself whiplash.

Now, look. Eric wasn't judgmental. He'd known all kinds of people in college. Costume kids, power-fetish weirdos, gender-bendy cosplayers, the whole damn rainbow. But this was Trevor. Quiet, nerdy, doesn’t-like-eye-contact Trevor. And suddenly he's out here sweating through women's underwear like it's just another Tuesday?

What the hell was going on?

Eric didn't say anything. He wasn't about to embarrass the guy. But he tucked that image deep into his mental filing cabinet and locked the drawer. Something was up. Something big. Trevor had that look, like a guy carrying a secret that was starting to get too heavy.

He'd seen that look before.

He climbed into the cab of the truck and watched Trevor in the side mirror, still fiddling with the tailgate like it might come alive and bite him.

Maybe he was in trouble.

Eric rubbed his jaw, thoughtful. It had been a long time since anything exciting happened in their lives. Too long. And whatever the hell Trevor was mixed up in... it wasn't nothing.

Not by a long shot.

He turned the key in the ignition, engine rumbling to life.

"C'mon, man," he muttered to himself, glancing one last time at Trevor. "What the hell are you hiding?"