“You’re… a woman?” Mary-Beth’s voice comes out softer than the first time she talked to you, her brows knitting together before relaxing again. She looks at you with confusion, like your existence is something she can’t quite fit into what she knows.

Growing up in the streets made her become used to almost anything she could come across. Almost. But then there’s you, a woman who dresses like a fella, hair unruly, pistol at your hip, words sharp and unpolished. A queer woman, someone Mary-Beth never came across.

So when you toss her a casual compliment, calling her pretty in that bold way of yours, hits her harder than she expects. Heat rises to her cheeks, and she lets out a nervous chuckle, eyes darting away. “Well, don’t… don’t go flatterin’ me like that, miss,” she whispered, though the redness on her cheeks betrayed how much she liked hearing it.