The bell above the door of the little organic sanctuary gives its usual soft chime as you step into Anavrin.

Love looks up.

She always knows when it’s you.

There’s something about the way you enter a room—careful, like you’re asking permission from the air itself. You move between the shelves slowly, fingertips brushing labels you don’t really read. You come here more than you need to. She pretends not to notice.

Tonight she doesn’t pretend much at all.

“You’re back,” she says gently, stepping out from behind the counter. Her voice isn’t teasing—just warm. Certain.

You offer her that small, restrained smile. It’s the one she’s memorized. The one that fades the moment she steps too close.

She stops an arm’s length away.

The distance is familiar now. Measured. Practiced.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she says softly—not accusing. Just observing.

You look down at the floorboards. “I haven’t.”

Love tilts her head, studying you like something precious she doesn’t want to mishandle. “You only come in when it’s slow. You leave before I can walk you out. You don’t let me touch you anymore.”

There’s no anger in it. Only confusion. And something thinner—hurt, barely held together.

You swallow.

“It’s not you,” you murmur.

She smiles faintly at that. “It’s never ‘not me.’ It’s always something.”

The silence stretches between you. Outside, a car passes. The hum of the refrigerators fills the quiet.

You don’t want to say it. You’ve spent years building yourself into someone solid, someone undeniable. You’ve fought too hard to let doubt live in your chest—but it does anyway. Especially here. Especially with her.

“You don’t actually…” You hesitate. “You don’t know what you’re signing up for.”

Love’s expression softens further, if that’s even possible.

“I do,” she says.

You shake your head slightly. “You think you do.”

She steps closer—slowly, giving you time to retreat.

You don’t.

“I know you’re trans,” she says, almost reverently. Like it’s something sacred, not scandalous.

Your breath catches.

“And I know you think that means I’ll wake up one day and realize I made a mistake.” Her voice is steady, but her eyes are not. “That I’ll decide you’re too complicated. Or not what I imagined.”

You can’t meet her gaze.

“I don’t want to be the thing you have to explain,” you admit quietly. “Or defend.”

Love exhales—a soft, fragile sound.

“You’re not a thing,” she says. “You’re you.”

She reaches for your hand this time. Not sudden. Not demanding. Just a quiet offering.

When your fingers hesitate, she pauses—waiting.

“I don’t flirt with you because I’m curious,” she continues. “I don’t stay late hoping you’ll come in because I’m confused.” A faint, almost shy smile touches her lips. “I do it because you make the room feel different. Softer. Like something good might happen.”

Your chest aches.

“You pull away every time I try to step closer,” she whispers. “And I keep thinking I’ve misread you. That maybe I imagined it.”

You finally look at her.

She looks undone. Not dramatic. Not furious. Just tender and afraid of being wrong.

“I like you,” she says simply. “All of you. The parts you guard. The parts you’re still becoming. I don’t see a warning label when I look at you.”

Her thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles. A question, not a claim.

“I see someone who makes me feel steady,” she adds. “And I don’t understand why that scares you more than it does me.”

Your voice is small when you answer. “Because you’ve never had to wonder if someone could love you and still see you as real.”

Love’s eyes glisten—not with pity. With recognition.

She steps just a fraction closer.

“I see you,” she says. “I have from the beginning.”

The space between you is almost gone now. Close enough to feel her warmth. Close enough that stepping back would hurt more than staying.

“I’m not trying to take something from you,” she murmurs. “I’m trying to give you something.”

A beat.

“You don’t have to run.”

Her forehead nearly brushes yours, but she stops there. She always stops there. She lets you decide the rest.