Noah blows out a breath and nods. “I want to get better at this,” he says. “Not just the physical stuff. All of it. Letting you in. Not running when I get overwhelmed.”
“Me too,” I admit softly. “I spent so long pretending I didn’t need you, and I don’t ever want to do that again.”
“So… we try?”
I smile, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his forehead, letting it linger. “Yeah, Blue. We try. As slow as you need, as fast as you want. Whatever works for you, works for me.”
“Okay,” he whispers, voice wobbly but more confident. “Yeah. Okay.”
When he goes quiet, tracing soft, uncertain shapes over the back of my hand, I know something’s coming before he even opens his mouth. “Damien?” His voice is hesitant, barely above a whisper.
I hum, never stopping the slow, grounding strokes up his arm. “Yeah, Blue?”
He’s quiet for a second, and then, so softly I almost miss it, asks, “Is it… weird? That I like when you call me Babygirl? Or good girl?”
I let my hand still for a moment, just to be sure I heard him right. He’s tense beside me again, holding his breath, cheeks and ears bright pink. “Noah, nothing about that is weird. Not to me. But I want to know where you’re at, baby. Where is this coming from?”
He takes a breath, but his nerves are obvious—the flush on his cheeks, the way his voice shakes. “I don’t feel like a girl, and I don’t want to be one. I just—I love wearing lace and heels andfeeling pretty. And I like… the way it feels when you call me those things. Not all the time, but… with you, my brain switches off, and everything feels so good.” He stumbles over the words, rushing to fill the space with explanation. “I know it probably doesn’t make sense. I’m not trying to be anyone else, I’m not thinking about transitioning. I just—like it. I don’t know why.”
I see him bracing for disappointment, for me to pull back or judge him. Instead, I take his hand and tug him gently in between my legs. He lets me, settling against my chest, and I wrap my arms around him, thumb brushing the high, anxious flush on his cheek.
“Blue, there’s nothing weird about feeling that way,” I say, keeping my voice steady and sure. “People prefer all sorts of things for all sorts of reasons. Some guys want to be called ‘sir’ or ‘slut’ or ‘prince’ or whatever. Some girls want to be called ‘daddy.’ Hell, some people want to be called things you and I haven’t even thought of yet. It’s not about gender unless you want it to be. It’s about what makes you feel good, what lets you feel seen.”
His shoulders ease a little, some of the tension bleeding out of him, but I see the questions aren’t done. “But what does that make me?” he asks quietly. “If I don’t fit in a box, if I don’t know what to call myself, does it mean I’m—nothing?”
I hold his gaze, giving him nothing but truth. “It makes you Noah Adams. That’s it. You don’t owe anyone a label or a map of your brain, not even me. You can want what you want, or change your mind a dozen times. I mean—fuck, it took me forever to figure out I’m bi. It was years of not feeling straight enough for one group, or queer enough for another. And honestly I still don’t always know where I land. But the good thing is, there’s no prize for figuring it out first. All that matters is what makes you happy, what makes you feel good in your skin. You never haveto pick a box and stay in it. You just have to be you, and that’s always enough.”
He nods, and his breath shudders out, relief shaking his whole frame. There’s a pink flush across his cheeks now and a shy, secret pride blooming in his eyes.
“And for the record,” I add, brushing my thumb over his lower lip, “when I call you Babygirl or good girl, I’m not trying to force you into a role or misgender you. I made a sensitive call after seeing you in the lace last night, and I should’ve checked in before just running with it, but—fuck me, you lit up, baby. I’ve never seen you look at me like that. So, yeah, maybe I leaned into it because I wanted to see that look again. But if it ever feels wrong, or if you need something else, or even if you just want to experiment with what feels good and what doesn’t… you tell me, yeah? I want you to have every good thing, every safe thing.”
A slow smile spreads across his lips, almost bashful, but it reaches his eyes this time. He leans in, nuzzling at my jaw, letting himself be small and soft, knowing it’s not a punishment, it’s a privilege. “That… that helps a bit.”
I smile, tucking a hand under the hoodie he’s wearing, letting my fingers brush the delicate edge of the bralette he still has on. “I love seeing you like this—brave enough to be open with me. You let me see all the things you’re scared to want, and that’s fucking beautiful, Blue.”
He shudders as some quiet, buried part of him breaks free. “Thank you, Mien,” he whispers. “For loving me… just like this.”
I huff a low, fond sound, pressing a kiss to his hair. “You’re easy to love, baby. If one day you want to be my good girl, and the next you just want to be Blue, that’s how we do it. I’m here for every version of you.”
He squirms, hiding his face deeper, but I can feel how much it means to him—the way his whole body softens against me. “Does it ever get less confusing?”
I grin and kiss his temple. “No, but it gets better. You get better at knowing what you want. Better at asking for it, better at letting yourself have it. That’s all that matters.”
He nods, breathing easier now, and I squeeze his hip just to remind him I’m here, always here. “You good now, Babygirl?” I ask.
He laughs, quietly, and it sounds so happy it makes my own heart ache. “Yeah. I’m good.”
I smile, brushing my thumb along his jaw, soaking in how relaxed and open he is in my arms. For a minute, we just stand there, the morning thick with hope and a little bit of fear. He squeezes my hand one last time before letting go to finish his coffee, back straightening as he steps back into his routine. But the difference is there in the way he glances back at me every few seconds, the way he doesn’t flinch when I brush a hand down his back as I pass.
Ten minutes later, he stops halfway to the bedroom door and turns to me with a soft, grateful smile. “You should probably go home and change before you’re late for practice, Mr. ‘I Slept Over in My Boyfriend’s Bed.’”
“Boyfriend, huh?” I grin, not even pretending to be cool. “Guess I’ll just have to come back later and do it again.”
He snorts, but there’s pride in the way he stands, in the way he lets me see him—messy hair, crooked smile, nerves and all. “You better. No running away this time, Mien, becausethis timeI’m chasing.”
After kissing him goodbye, it feels less like a goodbye and more like a promise: I’ll be back. We’ll try again. We’ll keep trying until this feels as easy as breathing. Until all the years we lost don’t matter anymore—because the ones ahead of us finally do.
Damien
