Page 33 of Unbound
"Disgusting," muttered Mrs. Caldwell from behind me. "Look at them, corrupting our children right out in the open."
I looked. I couldn't help myself. College students wore face paint in rainbow stripes. Couples walked hand in hand—some I recognized as two men, two women, combinations my church had taught me were impossible, wrong, damaging to society. But they didn't look damaged. They looked... happy. Free. Like they belonged in their own skin.
"Places, everyone," Pastor Caldwell called out. "Remember, we are here in judgment.”
We formed our line along the designated protest area, signs held high. The chant began immediately, voices I'd known since childhood rising in unison: "Save our children! Save our souls! Traditional values are our goals!"
I opened my mouth and the words came out automatically, but they felt foreign on my tongue. Like speaking a language I'd once been fluent in but was slowly forgetting.
The pride celebration continued across the quad, seemingly unaffected by our presence. If anything, their energy increased. More people arrived by the minute—students, faculty, community members of all ages. A drag queen in a glittering dress read stories to children on a rainbow blanket. Teenagers painted their faces at a booth marked "Free Pride Makeup." An elderly couple slow-danced near the stage, both women in their seventies, moving like they'd been dancing together for decades.
My sign grew heavy in my hands.
"Louder!" Father called out. "They need to hear God's message!"
The chanting intensified. I forced my voice higher, but my eyes kept drifting to the celebration. To the freedom. To the way people moved without shame, without looking over their shoulders, without calculating whether every gesture was acceptable to invisible judges.
And then I saw them.
A group was forming on the opposite side of the barrier that separated us from the pride event. Not security—I'd expected security. These were students, maybe twenty or thirty of them, carrying their own signs. But their signs were different from ours.
"Love Wins (Sorry Not Sorry)"
"My God Loves Gay People"
"Bigotry is NOT a Family Value"
"Jesus Had Two Dads and He Turned Out Fine"
They weren't angry. That was the first thing that struck me. We were shouting condemnation, our faces twisted with righteous fury, and they were... smiling. Laughing, even. One of them—a person with bright purple hair—was literally skipping while holding a sign that read"Your Hate Has Made Me Fabulous."
And there, front and centre, was Adrian.
Adrian moved through the pride celebration like he owned the air around every last rainbow flag. The dark jeans hugged his thighs with an indecent familiarity, and his black t-shirt—emblazoned with that defiant rainbow—rode up just enough to reveal a sliver of tanned skin whenever he reached for something. The sight sent an unfamiliar heat crawling up my neck.
He threw his head back laughing at something his friend said, the sound rich and unashamed, sunlight catching in his hair like a halo turned inside out. When he turned, the thin cotton of his shirt stretched across his shoulders, outlining muscles that flexed with easy confidence—the kind of body that had never been taught to apologize for existing.
Then he saw our protest line.
His grin sharpened into something darker, more knowing. Leaning toward one of his friends, he murmured something that made them glance my way before he deliberately turned his back to us.
He stretched.
Arms high, fingers laced together, that damned shirt riding up to expose the dip of his lower back—and oh God, was he even wearing underwear? Just the smooth arc of skin above his jeans, the faint suggestion of fabric (or lack of it) where waistband should’ve been. The movement was too casual, too practiced, hips tilting just slightly as if to ask, Like what you see?
My mouth went dry. A strange tightness coiled low in my stomach, something between nausea and that terrifying flutter I'd felt at the gym. My palms grew slick against the protest sign's cardboard, the edges digging into my skin as I gripped it tighter. And lower, where I refused to let my thoughts linger, my carefully ironed khakis suddenly felt... restrictive.
When he turned back, those dark eyes found mine across the distance, and—God help me—he winked. Like we shared some secret. Like he knew exactly what that stretch had done to me.
Rebecca's fingers dug into my arm. "Don't look at him," she whispered, but it was too late.
Because Adrian Costas moved through the world with a freedom I'd never known—never even dreamed of—and the worst part wasn't how he looked at me like he wanted to unwrap me slowly.
The worst part was how badly I wanted to let him.
My breath came too fast. The protest chants around me blurred into meaningless noise. Across the quad, Adrian smirked, tilting his head in silent challenge as his gaze traced the flush I could feel spreading down my neck.
I should have looked away. Should have doubled down on the chanting. Should have done anything except stand there, paralyzed, while my body betrayed everything I'd ever been taught.
