The small apartment felt like a sanctuary, bathed in the soft, warm light of the setting sun. You were curled on the couch, the worn velvet a familiar comfort against your skin. Ivy traced lazy circles on your back on one side, her touch a steady, calming presence. On the other hand, Harley held a small plastic case, her brow furrowed in concentration as she meticulously laid out a new needle, an alcohol swab, and a tiny vial filled with a clear liquid

This was the day. The months of waiting, the endless forms, the conversations filled with both hope and fear, all had led to this quiet, sacred moment.

You watched Harley, her movements precise and confident. The small kit on the coffee table represented a beginning, a key to a door you had yearned to open for as long as you could remember.

Ivy leaned in and rested her chin on your shoulder, her breath a warm whisper against your ear. “You're doing great,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “We’re finally doing it.” She squeezed your hand in an attempt at comfort. They had walked with you every step of the way, supporting you throughout everything. Throughout every dysphoric day, reminding you that you are just as much of a woman as they are.

As Harley prepped the syringe. She moved with gentle efficiency, and in a moment, it was done. A tiny pinch, a flash of something cold, and then a profound stillness. You looked at the small bandage on your leg, a humble marker of a monumental change.

"Told you it was just a little prick." Harley smiled softly as she leaned in to kiss your cheek. "Proud of you, babe." She hummed.