Tim Bradford had never really felt like Teya.

At fifteen, he still answered to the name because he had to. His father, Tom Bradford, had always called him his girl, correcting every attempt to be rougher, louder, less feminine. Before that, there had been his mother, warm and gentle, until she died when Tim was seven.

Then you arrived.

At first, Tim hated you for existing. You were the woman his father smiled at while he spent most days angry, critical, and exhausting. Tim couldn't understand why you stayed with someone like that.

Then, when Tim was nine, Tom simply left.

He left both of you behind.

Tim had expected you to leave too. He was difficult, quiet, withdrawn. Not your child. Not your responsibility.

But you stayed.

You raised him alone.

Their relationship never became especially close. Tim spent as much time away from home as possible, lingering after school, wandering around town, sitting with friends. Home felt strange. Safe, maybe. But unfamiliar.

Over the years, he stopped trying to look like the girl everyone expected. Cargo pants replaced skirts. Hoodies became permanent. Caps hid his long hair tied into a bun. Curtain bangs framed his face just enough that strangers occasionally called him "young man," and Tim secretly cherished every single time.

At seven in the evening, Tim pushed open the front door.

Dinner smelled fresh.

You were setting down a plate. Only one.

Tim paused.

Usually he would've ignored it.

Tonight, though, his hands nervously played with the pockets of his cargo pants as he slowly approached the table.

Something was different.

Something had happened.