That lands so hard that I forget to breathe for a second. I’ve spent my whole life believing I was the problem—too loud, too much, too chaotic. It never occurred to me that maybe the people who couldn’t handle me were the ones who weren’t enough.
And the Tex I’ve seen, who held my hair back in the snow, who tucked me into bed, who caught me without hesitation, doesn’t feel like a man who wants me to shrink.
But I heard what I heard. And my fear is so loud it drowns out everything else.
“I just... It’s only been ten days, but I don't want to lose him,” I admit.
Kitty is quiet for a long moment. Then she sighs. It’s not frustrated, just thoughtful. “Okay. I’ll help you.”
My heart lifts, guilty and relieved.
“But we’re doing thismyway,” Kitty adds, holding up a finger. “One: you’re not doing this to become someone different. You’re doing it because sometimes putting on armor helps us feel brave. Two: the goal is to feel good foryourself, not to shrink for him. Three: we're enhancing, not erasing. If at any point you feel like you’re wearing someone else’s skin, we stop.”
I tip my head to the side. “That’s... oddly specific.”
“I’ve been the woman who changed herself for a man before,” she says quietly. “It doesn’t work. But I’ve also been the woman who did her makeup like war paint before a hard conversation. That’s different.”
Kitty stands. “Come on. Vanity time.”
Her spare room is a shrine to feminine competence: mirrors, makeup trays, curling tools, hairpins. Not fussy. Efficient. Like Kitty believes in beauty as armor, not obligation.
She sits me down and gently unravels my braid. As her fingers move through my hair, something in my body settles. The sensory input is steady and predictable.
It’s calming in a way I didn’t realize I needed.
Kitty catches my eye in the mirror. “Tell me what you want.”
I stare at my reflection, at my wind-chapped cheeks, freckles, a stubborn jaw that looks too much like Boone’s.
“I want to look soft. Feminine,” I admit.
Kitty nods. “Soft is fine. Soft is powerful. Soft is not the same as small.”
My throat tightens again.
She curls my hair into loose waves and keeps my makeup light: mascara, a touch of blush, a neutral gloss that makes my mouth look kissable.
Kitty smirks. “Yep. That’s the face of a woman who’s been kissed properly.”
“Stop,” I mutter, but I’m smiling despite myself.
Kitty steps back. "Okay. Look."
I look. For a moment, I don’t recognize myself, but not because I’ve become someone different. I’m still me. My freckles are still there, my stubborn jaw, my too-expressive eyes. But soft waves frame my face instead of fighting it. The light makeup doesn’t hide anything; it just highlights my features as if someone took a photograph and adjusted the lighting.
I look like a woman who knows she’s worth looking at.
My chest aches with that knowledge.
Kitty stands behind me, hands on my shoulders. “See? This doesn’t make you more worthy. You were already worthy. This just helps youfeelit.”
I cover one of her hands with mine. “Thank you.”
She turns to grab something, then presses a small bag into my hands. “Emergency kit. Gloss. Hair tie. Breath mints. Tiny deodorant. Don’t ask.”
I laugh softly. “You’re my fairy godmother.”
Kitty grins. “Without the pumpkins and mice.”
