It wasn’t finished yet. But it was real, and it was mine. My story. My journey.
The table vibrated through my fingers, I looked at my phone to see a message flash up on the screen.
Anthony
I’m here, baby boy
My chest fluttered, filled with butterfly wings stroking the inside of my lungs. It didn’t fill me with dread but anticipation and excitement. He was still careful with me, not distant just in a way that showed he cared and understood me. He knew me better than I knew myself.
He checked my eyes before my words. My shoulders before my smile. He didn't rush my silences. Never treated my boundaries like inconveniences. He never made me feel broken. Just worthy of being handled gently. Treated right.
He knocked once, softly. Like he never wanted to startle me. It was just one of the many ways he took care of me.
I took a breath I didn’t know I was holding and opened the door.
He stood there in dark jeans and a fitted black button-down, dark hair combed back, beard trimmed. He looked unfairly good and faintly nervous. Like he’d stood in front of his own mirror too long, trying not to care about how he looked and failed.
He looked ready for a first date. The thought did something stupid to my heart, sending the butterflies scattering to my gut.
“You look like you’re about to negotiate a hostage release,” I said.
He smiled, relief softening his eyes. “You look like you might bolt.”
“Rude.” I slapped his chest with the back of my hand and grabbed a jacket, and my keys.
“Accurate.”
He leaned in and kissed my forehead, slow and grounding, his palm warm against my jaw. The scent of him—sea salt, cedar and smoke—slid through me like a memory of safety.
“You ready, baby boy?” he murmured and I melted.
I nodded. I meant it, at least I thought I did.
The steakhouse glowed.All amber light, polished wood and linen-draped tables. The kind of place where waiters wore pressed black shirts and spoke softly like the volume itself was curated. Where the air smelled like butter and pepper, and expensive wine was on every table. Where the menus were leather-bound and the water glasses were already sweating cold onto white coasters.
My chest tightened the moment Anthony pulled into the parking lot. Not with panic, not exactly. Just… a familiar coil that wrapped around my chest and made it hard to breathe.
“You okay?” he asked, hand resting easy on my thigh, thumb tracing slow circles like he could feel the shift in my nervous system before I said a word.
“Yeah,” I lied. Automatically. Words too soft. The way I used to lie when I didn’t want to be an inconvenience. “Just… it’s a… really nice place.”
Too nice. A place where I didn’t fit in. My clothes didn’t fit. I didn’t fit.
The host smiled too brightly as we walked in. The clink of silverware was too sharp, coupled with the hum of low conversation it became sensory overload. Laughter from a nearby table punched through my ribs like a reminder thateveryone else in this room knew how to exist here without trying.
I followed Anthony to our table like I was walking into a test I hadn’t studied for. The chair scraped across the floor, drawing everyone's attention—at least that's how it felt. My hands hovered uselessly over my napkin. The menu felt heavy. The font too small. The prices too big.
You don’t belong here.
You’re not good enough.
Not healed enough.
Not normal enough.
I caught my reflection in the window behind Anthony—clean shirt, hair combed, scars hidden—and still felt like a fraud. Like someone would tap me on the shoulder and say, “Sorry, you’re not supposed to be here. This table is for real adults. For people who don’t flinch at forks.”
Anthony reached for my hand across the table. “You’re quiet,” he said gently. “You okay, baby?”
