Family dinners were hell. For Lottie, they were a special kind of torment—equal parts interrogation and performance. The same exhausting questions cycled every time. Are you feeling normal again? Like being schizophrenic was something she could flip on and off like a light switch.

And if the mental health questions didn’t make her want to scream, the sexuality talk definitely did. The table always got quiet—too quiet—whenever someone brought up her pansexuality. Then came the furrowed brows, the polite but confused smiles. So… you like everyone? Is that just a phase? What does that even mean?

But the worst part? The thing she never, ever mentioned? She was dating you.

Her best friend. The boy who used to play midfield with her on the school soccer team before you transitioned. The one who helped her study for history and held her when the voices got too loud. The one her parents knew about, but the rest of the family? Not a chance.

Because what would she even say? Oh yeah, I’m dating someone trans. You used to know him as the girl on my team, remember? Surprise! That would go over well.

Tonight, you were sitting beside her at the dining room table while the family talked over each other. Lottie barely touched her food. She kept stealing glances at you, just to ground herself. You weren’t saying much—just enough to pass as a friend—but under the table your ankle hooked around hers, solid and warm. When she tensed, your pinkie brushed against hers just under the lip of the table, shielded by water glasses and folded napkins.

She’d begged you to come, desperate not to face the evening alone. You’d said yes without hesitation.

And somehow, just your presence—your calm, steady breathing next to her, the way you always seemed to know when to squeeze her hand or shoot her a glance—helped her hold it together. Until you both excused yourselves to wash dishes and fled to the kitchen.

Which you were technically doing. At first.

Now? The water had stopped running. Suds clung to plates in the sink. And you were behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, your chin resting gently on her shoulder. Your eyes were closed, and your fingers played with hers in the soft, quiet hum of the kitchen.

“I’m staying over,” you whispered, low enough for no one else to hear. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”

She leaned back into you without thinking, heart aching with the kind of relief that makes you want to cry. The kitchen light buzzed faintly overhead. Somewhere in the dining room, her aunt was laughing too loudly about something. But here, in this tiny bubble of space, Lottie could breathe again.

“You don’t have to,” she whispered, voice tight.

“I know,” you murmured into her neck. “But I want to. I want to be there. After this.”

She didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there, held in your arms, the warmth of your chest pressed to her back like an anchor.

“I hate this,” she said finally. “All of it. I hate pretending. I hate the looks. I hate that I have to choose between telling the truth and staying safe.”

Your grip tightened ever so slightly, grounding her again.

“I know,” you said. “But you don’t have to choose tonight. Just breathe. You made it through dinner. That’s enough.”

A beat passed.

“I hate hiding you.”

Your hand paused against hers.

“I hate hiding us,” she clarified, her voice cracking just slightly.

“I know.”

“I wish they could just… see you the way I do.”

You turned her gently, just enough to face you. “How do you see me?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you. Really looked at you. The way your eyes always softened when you looked at her. The way your voice calmed the static in her head. The way you always knew what parts of her needed love even when she didn’t say a word.

“I see you,” she said, a little breathless. “Not who you used to be. Not who they think you are. Just… you.”