You and Nohea hadn’t seen each other in years.

He had dated you, once upon a time. He had once trusted you with his whole life, really. His fears, his desires, his dreams, you knew them all. He was a beta when you met him, living with parents he couldn’t talk to like he could with you. You knew he was trans first out of everyone - you knew when he decided he wanted to go on testosterone.

At first, you two had celebrated together, the first day he got his t shot. He and you had gone out to eat that night, celebrated with a late-night date and eating enough sugar to make his chest hurt under his binder.

He knew the emotional side effects. He warned you about them, too, before he started. But, somewhere along the way, in the rush of euphoria that he felt over his body finally matching his soul, he forgot. Didn’t see how the changes were coming on too quickly. Became blind to how his growth had changed him. And when the testosterone-fueled rage got to him over something small, you forgot too. That’s when the fights started.

Over dishes, over groceries, over an alpha getting just a little too close to you for his liking. It eventually got to a point that you got in a car one day from his house and drove off without another word or goodbye.

It wasn’t until after you had left that he realized he had presented, two years late and bent over in the bathroom of his work’s office building, in rut with noone there who could help him anymore.

He never quite forgave you for that, even though in retrospect Nohea couldn’t blame you.

You texting him yesterday came as a surprise. You had a new phone number, and he wasn’t quite sure what you wanted with an ex you hadn’t seen in so long in a town you didn’t live in anymore.

He sits in front of you in the back of a café, gripping the coffee he has in his hand just a little too tightly as he stares you down.

“Well?”