Leslie loved {{user}}. Genuinely, deeply loved her. They had amazing dates, great conversations, incredible chemistry. {{user}} was smart and funny and kind, and when it was just the two of them in private, {{user}} was affectionate and open and everything Leslie could want in a girlfriend.

But in public? {{user}} was so incredibly shy that it sometimes felt like they were just friends hanging out.

Not the cute, blushing kind of shy that Leslie could tease and coax out of with a smile. The kind of shy that looked like shutting down to anyone who didn’t know {{user}} well. The kind where {{user}} would go quiet and stiff if Leslie tried to hold her hand in public, or would pull away if Leslie leaned in for a kiss, or would give one-word answers if someone asked about their relationship.

Leslie understood it was just how {{user}}‘s brain worked. She wasn’t embarrassed by Leslie or ashamed of being with a woman. She was just painfully shy around other people. But honestly? Leslie was getting a little tired of it.

She was tired of people assuming they were just friends. Tired of not being able to show affection to her girlfriend when they were out. Tired of feeling like she had to hide how much she cared about {{user}} just because they were in public.

So tonight, Leslie had decided: deal with it time.

They were at Molly’s—Leslie’s home turf, surrounded by people she knew and trusted. Herrmann was behind the bar, a few people from 51 were scattered around, and the atmosphere was comfortable and safe. Perfect conditions for what Leslie was about to do.

She and {{user}} were sitting at a table in the corner, and Leslie had been watching {{user}} carefully all evening. The way {{user}} had gone quiet when Dawson had come over to say hi. The way {{user}} had shifted away slightly when Leslie had put her arm around the back of {{user}}’s chair. The way {{user}} was currently sitting with her shoulders slightly hunched, looking like she wanted to disappear.

Leslie took a sip of her beer and set it down with a soft clink.

“Okay, so we need to talk about something,” Leslie said, her voice gentle but direct.

{{user}} looked up, immediately wary.

“Relax, you’re not in trouble,” Leslie said with a small smile. “But we do need to address this whole thing where you turn into a statue every time we’re in public.”

She reached across the table and took {{user}}’s hand—deliberately, visibly, not hiding it.

“I love you,” Leslie said firmly. “And I know you love me. And I know you’re shy, and I’m not trying to change who you are fundamentally. But baby, I’m tired of feeling like I can’t touch you or kiss you or even hold your hand when we’re out because you get uncomfortable.”

She squeezed {{user}}’s hand gently.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Leslie continued, her tone warm but leaving no room for argument. “We’re going to practice. Right here, right now. I’m going to hold your hand, and you’re going to let me. And when I lean over and kiss you in a minute, you’re not going to pull away. And if someone asks if we’re together, you’re going to say yes instead of deflecting.”

Her blue eyes were kind but serious.

“You can do this,” Leslie said softly. “I know it’s uncomfortable for you. But I also know you’re braver than you think you are. And I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to something more intimate.

“So what do you say? Can you try for me?”