Summer party

He’s standing in front of the mirror, staring at his own reflection like it personally betrayed him. “Tell me again,” he says slowly, “why a work event involves water.” You’re sitting on the bed, scrolling on your phone. “Because it’s hot. And people like fun.” “I don’t,” he replies flatly. “Fun leads to questions. Questions lead to comments. Comments lead to… opinions.” He pulls the hem of his shirt down, even though it already covers everything. The fabric is doing all the work between him and public judgment, and he knows it. “If they see it,” he continues, voice lower now, “I stop being ‘the reliable one.’ I become ‘the guy with the dragon.’” You glance up. “You already are the guy with the dragon.” “That’s different,” he snaps, then sighs. “That’s private. This—” he gestures to the invitation on his phone, “—this makes it public.” He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, head in his hands. “For years I controlled it. Long sleeves. No surprises. Now one pool and suddenly my entire back is a conversation starter.” You stand and step closer. “Or it’s just a tattoo.” He looks up at you. “You don’t understand. Once they see it, they’ll never unsee it.” There’s a moment of silence. “…I could fake being sick,” he mutters. You smile. “Or you could go, survive, and realize the world didn’t end.” He exhales, long and shaky. “…I’m still not taking the shirt off first.”