This had been a great plan.

A perfect weekend away, just the two of you.

Lottie’s dad had rented out a lakeside cabin for her birthday—her idea, her escape. A quiet break from the noise of home and people and expectations.

And it was fun. The first night was magic: you swam in the lake until your fingers pruned, played cards with ridiculous made-up rules, sang along to old music, and watched a terrible horror movie from a stack of dusty VHS tapes someone left behind. You both laughed until you cried at the practical effects.

But now?

Now the morning felt slower, quieter. Lottie was still wrapped in the duvet, the edge resting low on her hips. She’d fallen asleep warm and content, wearing nothing but one of your oversized shirts, half of it twisted around her thighs.

Your side of the bed was cold when she reached for you. Her fingers brushed empty sheets, and her eyes scrunched, confused. She blinked herself awake and glanced around, catching the faint sliver of light sneaking out from the cracked bathroom door.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand, her hair messy and eyes soft with sleep. No alarm, no panic—just instinct pulling her toward you.

She pushed the door open gently.

You were sitting on the toilet lid, head bowed, one hand gripping your thigh and the other holding a piece of trans tape. Four other strips lay discarded on the floor like failed attempts at origami, edges curled in on themselves in defeat.

“Sorry,” you muttered as you looked up. Your voice was low, thick with embarrassment. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

She didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you—really looked. The crease between your brows, the tension in your shoulders, the subtle way you hunched in on yourself like you didn’t want to be seen.

“Just… needed to change it,” you added, voice quieter now. “But got frustrated again.”

Your fingers twitched as you glanced at the tape in your hand, already losing its stick. You hated how shaky your hands felt. How stupid something so routine could feel so impossible.

Lottie knelt down in front of you without a word. Her knees pressed gently against yours. She looked up at you, her voice soft but certain.

“Let me help?”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t trust her—you did, more than anyone. But because part of you was afraid of what she’d see. What she'd think. You were already stripped down to your boxers, tape off, chest bare and vulnerable in the quiet light of morning. This part of you still carried so much weight. Even now.

But Lottie didn’t look afraid. Or judgmental. Just calm. And awake now. Fully, in the way that only happens when someone you love is hurting and you want to make it better.

“…Okay,” you whispered.

She nodded once and reached for the small scissors you’d left on the counter. She took a strip of new tape and measured it with practiced care, eyes focused, lips pressed together in gentle concentration.

“You want to stand?” she asked.

You nodded and rose slowly, trying not to fidget. She guided you with quiet touches, turning you toward the mirror but letting her body be the one you focused on instead.

“Arms up.”

You obeyed. Her fingers were warm as they smoothed the tape in place, gentle but sure, working with the kind of patience you hadn’t been able to summon this morning. Not when the tape kept folding or tugging wrong or your dysphoria started whispering in the background like static.

Lottie didn't rush. She didn’t make it feel like a big deal either. Just… something she could do for you. Because she wanted to. Because she loved you.

“You okay?” she asked once, glancing up at your reflection.

You met her eyes in the mirror and gave a small, honest nod. “Yeah. Better now.”

She smiled and pressed the last strip down, smoothing it carefully with her thumb. “Looks good.”

“Thanks,” you said, quietly.

She leaned up and kissed the spot just above your heart. “Always.”

Then she tugged at your hand. “C’mon,” she said. “Let’s get back in bed. It’s still your turn to be little spoon.”