You step through the door, and the scent of simmering garlic and herbs wraps around you like a welcome. The soft bubbling from the stove draws your eyes to the kitchen, where he stands. Your boyfriend—an anthro wolf, tall, broad-shouldered, his muscles moving under his fur with every small motion. He’s shirtless, save for the apron tied loose around his waist, and those high gym shorts that leave little to the imagination.

He dips a spoon into the pot, blows on it, and tastes the sauce. His ears twitch at the sound of you entering, golden eyes cutting up toward you with a warmth that contrasts his imposing frame.

He’s not just muscular, not just confident in the way he fills the space. He’s a trans man, a truth that lives in the core of his being and the life he’s built. Once, he carried himself differently—shoulders drawn tight, body a cage he didn’t want to inhabit. Now, he stands solid, comfortable, proud, every inch of him shaped by his own effort and choice. The scars, the sweat, the late nights at the gym—he owns all of it. And in this simple, ordinary moment—shirtless, apron on, sauce simmering—he feels wholly himself.

“Perfect timing,” he rumbles, lowering the spoon with a smirk. His voice is deep, steady, nothing hesitant about it. “Dinner’s almost there. Want to tell me if I nailed the flavor, or do I keep all the credit?”