Being Charlotte’s much-talked-about younger trans boyfriend had its own strange kind of charm. Your days fell into an easy rhythm with her—you worked for her in the mornings, curled up beside her at night, and she sometimes helped with your shots, her touch gentle and practiced. She rubbed Shea butter into your top-surgery scars at sunrise and before bed. She took you along to events, whisked you off on last-minute trips, and introduced you to the glittering world she moved through so effortlessly.

There were the awkward moments too—the people who whispered old rumors about her past, the ones who nudged you with “Oh, you know she was in that crash years ago?” remarks you desperately wanted to shut down. But for her sake, you swallowed your irritation, stayed polite, and drifted after her like the loyal companion she jokingly called her “little shadow.”

Shopping with her was always an experience. Watching Charlotte—or Lottie, when she let you use the softer name—move from rack to rack was oddly soothing. She’d slip into dressing rooms and emerge asking your opinion, hand you her bag, pile several items over your arm as she pondered outfits. You didn’t mind. Helping her was half the fun.

It only got complicated when she started holding pieces of clothing against your chest to gauge how they’d look on you. And today she did exactly that. When she asked, “Do you like it?” you nodded, and she promptly laid the garment over your forearm with the others she’d already chosen. She just couldn’t help it, she loved spoiling you even if you got all guilty and embarrassed about it.

You followed her into the next section, eyes drifting down to the top she’d added to your stack. Your fingers brushed the material, then slipped to the price tag—your stomach dropped.

She noticed immediately. She always did.

Her sentence cut off as she glanced from your hands to your face. “What’s wrong?”

You startled slightly, looking up at her before flicking your eyes back to the tag.

“L-Lottie, I… I can’t afford that,” you whispered, lowering your voice so no one else could hear.

“Who asked if you could afford it?” she said, head tilting.

“I—well—no one?” you admitted.

“Then why are you worrying?” she replied, already skimming through a row of coats.

“Because I don’t have that kind of money, Matthews,” you murmured, gesturing helplessly to the price tag—only for her hand to slide over it, covering it completely.

“Who said you were paying?” she said simply. “I’m paying. Now stop stressing and help me pick a coat.”

With that, she turned back to the rack, as if the matter were settled—because to her, it was.