He stops, his cheeks flushed and lips tinged pink.
“Do that again,” he orders.
I shiver. “Make me.”
Intensity gleaming in his eyes, Will lifts me up by my thighs and carries me over to the workshop desk. There’s a gust of magic as he sweeps the books and herbs off the table and sits me down, yanking me close by the backs of my knees. Then he’s kissing me all over again as if he can’t bear another second apart. I hook my legs around him and roll my hips forward. It provokes a delighted hum from his throat that has me kissing him even harder, devouring him even more. Consciously or not, he’s whipping up a magical wind around us that’s really ruining Ruth’s organization, and it’s not long before vials are clattering to the floor around me.
“Your mum won’t be happy about that,” I say between kisses.
Will digs his fingers into my thighs, eyes closed.
“Please don’t talk about my mum right now.”
His indignation makes me laugh.
“What should I talk about, then?”
“Your mouth should be otherwise occupied.”
“Any ideas how?”
Our hands meet at his collar.
“Fliss, wait—”
“We can stop,” I say.
He shakes his head, those waves ruffled from all my traversing.
“No, it’s just…There’s something I haven’t told you.” Will’s voice cracks. He places his hands over mine, paused at his top button, and squeezes. “I, um, I’ve had a couple of procedures to help me become more…”
The words feel important to him, weighted, and I know well the fear that comes with rushing to explain.
“Take your time,” I say.
Instead of replying, he undoes his top button. Then another. I notice he’s trembling.
“Allow me,” I whisper right against the earrings that decorate his ear. The ones that saved our lives. I undo one more button and check his expression.
“Please. Go on.”
It’s a request. A plea.Please.
I open the rest of his shirt slowly, carefully, giving him plenty of time to stop me if he wants to. All the while, he skims his eyes across my face. He’s worried. Nervous. And when the shirt parts, I understand more. The first thing that springs to mind is the bouquet I made a few months ago: pastel blue morning glory for future happiness, white edelweiss for courage, and an eye-catching singular protea in full bloom, with triangular pink petals surrounding a bulbous white center, that carries the meaning of transformation. It wasn’t the first time I’d made a bouquet of that kind for customers who wished to celebrate the change in someone’s identity, but this time, when I delivered the flowers, I could hear the momentous party from the far end of the street. Over the strumming of the live band, therecipient of the bouquet had thanked me for their first gift addressed to their new chosen name and then asked for the name of the tailor who made the dress I was wearing. I remember thinking that I’d never seen that neighbor smile so widely before.
I glance up at Will with a question.May I?
He nods.
I trail a fingertip down the middle of his chest, passing two horizontal surgery scars that curve toward his armpits. The lines have faded to a soft pink and don’t look raised. I’ve only read up on herbal flower-based medicine so I can’t know for sure, but I’m guessing that the procedure wasn’t recent. Perhaps it was done around the age I saw in the memories.
Will clears his throat.
“Magic can do a lot but…I chose to get the tissue removed when I was fifteen,” he says. “Perks of having a healer as a mum is access to all the transitioning treatments I want—and the Library has a ton of experts in identity-affirming care too. My parents supported every choice I wanted to make pretty early on. They didn’t mind adjusting to having a son instead, so…”
“It makes no difference to me either.” I fell for him as he is, and although he’s rare and exceptional in my eyes, the procedures he’s talking about aren’t unheard of in Calla. My tongue trips over the question I want to ask. “Do…do they hurt? The scars?”
“No. Mum made some really good moisturizing balms at the start that helped them heal well. It’s been so long, sometimes I even forget they’re there.” He ropes a hand in my hair. There’s a vulnerable pinch between his eyebrows, but he has nothing to doubt. “Fliss…Being with me…I don’t know what expectations you had, or…”
