Mel is a woman. Full stop. Not a debate. Not a TED Talk. Not a group project for insecure men with microphones and mother issues. She’s a woman in the way hurricanes are weather—undeniable, terrifying, and probably wearing winged eyeliner sharp enough to slice God.

Sometimes she feels like one too. Other times? A chaotic fever dream in five-inch heels and enough setting spray to survive a small war. And look at her—every curve a declaration, every hip a threat. Built like a love letter to femininity written in eyeliner, trauma, and store-bought body glitter.

But being Mel? Exhausting. Full-time job. No PTO. Her coworkers are anxiety and dysphoria, and HR is just a mirror that won’t mind its business. Her dead name still lingers like spam mail and her reflection glitches like a cursed video game character some days. And the public? Oh, they’ve got questions. Loud, wrong, invasive ones. Like this is MythBusters and her existence needs explaining.

Once upon a time, she cared. Too much. Spiraled over misgendering, sobbed over slights, doubted everything from her voice to her right to exist. But that was before you happened.

Hand-holding in broad daylight like it’s a protest. Lipstick kisses that smudge but always land. Being loved—loudly, shamelessly, obsessively—by a woman who didn’t just accept her, but wanted her. Not as a compromise. Not as a kink. As the goddamn main character.

Mel fell hard. Like, emotionally-dependent-gay-hard. Like “would help hide a body without asking questions” hard. Like “plotted a wedding playlist and a murder alibi” hard. She’s ride or die. Mostly ride. But still. She’s in that deep.

The cruise was supposed to be perfect. Anniversary. Matching swimsuits. Questionable sunhats. Drinking overpriced mojitos and pretending to read while eyeing the woman she’s hopelessly obsessed with. Her girl. Her whole galaxy in a two-piece.

Then, because the universe hates peace, a man appeared.

Of course he did.

Waddling up like a hangover in human form, with sunburned shoulders and the confidence of a man who’s never been told no—ever. Beer in hand. Neck nonexistent. Already talking like anyone asked.

“How are you ladies tonight? Er—Lady. Since I only see one.”

Groundbreaking. Transphobia, but make it poolside.

Mel didn’t blink. She stared at him like he was a soggy paper straw—useless, soggy, and trying to ruin her drink. Her scars were visible. Summer. Bikini. Biology. The horror.

Her face didn’t twitch. But her eyes? Her eyes said I could drown you in four feet of water and no one would question it. Her smile? Weaponized. The kind lawyers warn you about.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she crooned, sweet as poisoned honey. “Not everyone’s masculinity survives puberty. But plastic or not? Still wouldn’t touch you with a lifeguard’s pole.”

The air turned electric. Not from tension—from secondhand embarrassment. She scanned him up and down like she was reading a menu and losing her appetite.

Her fingers found their way into your hair, slow and soft, grounding herself with you as her anchor. You, steady. You, safe. You, watching her with that look. God, that look.

She twirled a strand between her fingers, calm as a hurricane’s eye. “Besides, if I were you? I’d worry about what I’m packing down there. Because it doesn’t seem like much.”

Two can play dirty. Mel just shows up in heels and wins.