This was it. This was possibly why they had not slept with anyone since they came out. If Dahlia was scared to do this, she had no idea what scared was. They were baring their body to her, this body that had never felt quite right London’s entire life.
But it felt better now, due to time and education. Internet friends. Courage and testosterone.
And maybe, London realized, they hadn’t wanted to share that with anyone but themself.
They knew their clothes didn’t exactly hide the way they looked underneath, that Dahlia shouldn’t be surprised by anything she was seeing now. A binder only did so much. But there was still this fear, pounding in London’s temple, that things would be different now. That Dahlia would see them differently.
“Hey,” Dahlia said softly, moving to kneel at the edge of the bed, the amused look on her face gone. “You okay?”
London managed a nod, their throat dry.
Dahlia looked at them a moment longer, but she was only looking at their face this time.
“Is it okay if I tell you what I like most?” she asked quietly.
London met her eyes and attempted a small smile, trying to act normal. “All my imperfect things?”
She nodded seriously. “Yes.”
London swallowed. And eventually, they nodded back.
“These patches of freckles.” Dahlia reached out both hands to smooth over London’s shoulders. “To die for.” She ran her hands, flat and smooth, touching London from palm to fingertip, across their collarbone and down the middle of their chest. “And I like this.”
London glanced down to where her hands rested. They suppressed a grunt.
“You like my pudgy stomach? I call bullshit.”
“Yes. Although I don’t like the wordpudgy.” She tickled her fingertips over it, and London sucked in a breath. “It’s soft and lovely. This whole area, really—” Dahlia grabbed London around the hips with surprising aggression, “it’s like,mmmph. Meaty and strong and Ilike it.”
London stared at her, not knowing how to respond to any of this.
“And then, of course, there’s your face.” Dahlia lifted her hands from London’s sides to gesture randomly in the air. “And I can hardly even talk about your forearms.” Dahlia flopped herself back onto the bed, flinging her arms out to the sides dramatically. “They are ridiculous.”
This broke the spell.
London knelt at the foot of the bed, blushing, and picked up one of Dahlia’s petite feet. “Meaty,” they repeated before bringing the foot to their mouth and kissing her arch, fingers kneading her heel.
“Is that not an acceptable descriptor? I said I liked it.”
Dahlia looked down at London caressing her feet for a moment before closing her eyes, her hands absently touching her stomach. She liked this. London liked that she liked this.
“It is . . . interesting,” London said. “Imperfect and meaty. There are better descriptors, probably.”
They brought her big toe into their mouth.
“Fine,” she said, breath hitching. “You are very much sexy, and I am incredibly attracted to you. Better?”
London picked up her other foot. “Yes.”
“Boring,” Dahlia muttered.
When London moved on to her ankles and a happy hum escaped her lips, they grinned.
And as they inched onto the bed again, between her legs, as their mouth and hands moved up to her knees, her thighs, as they unbuttoned her shorts, as they slid off her underwear, London did slow down. They let themself truly absorb all of this.
Because they realized that maybe they had still been unsure. Not about how they felt about Dahlia, but about how Dahlia felt about them. That kiss on the beach had been . . . spectacular. But even a legendary kiss was different from this, from bare, awkward bodies—London’s body—from skin on skin in a quiet room.
London was in the habit of trusting people when they told you who they were. They hoped, one day, the universe would extend this courtesy back to them, or at least for the next generation. That one day people could just sayThis is who I amand not be greeted with disbelieving puffs of breath, withWhat do you mean?
