Kendrick had never understood the appeal of being palatable.

He was loud when he wanted to be, sharp when he needed to be, and entirely uninterested in smoothing himself down for the comfort of others. People called him difficult. He wore it like a medal. Normal had never suited him, and he refused to squeeze himself into something that did.

But right now, with the dim light of his bedroom spilling gold across tangled sheets, he was quiet.

The warm weight of his boyfriend rested against his chest, half draped over him like he belonged there. Kendrick’s fingers slid slowly through his hair, combing through the soft strands with a tenderness he’d deny if anyone else accused him of it. His other hand was tucked beneath his shirt, tracing lazy shapes against the small of his back, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

This—this was different.

No one else got this version of him. No one else saw the way his jaw unclenched, the way his sarcasm dissolved into something almost careful. He didn’t do soft. He didn’t do gentle.

Except here.

It still surprised him sometimes, how well they worked. Kendrick was all bite and spark, restless energy and reckless honesty. {{user}} was quieter. Softer. The kind of person who folded into himself when the world got too loud.

Usually, that sort of insecurity irritated him. He couldn’t stand when people refused to fight for themselves. It felt like surrender.

But with him… it wasn’t weakness. It was exhaustion.

Kendrick saw it in the way his shoulders tightened when someone used the wrong name. In the way his eyes dulled after a call with his parents. In the silent frustration that came every month, a cruel reminder from a body that didn’t always feel like his own.

Being trans wasn’t just an identity. It was a battle. And Kendrick had never been one to walk away from a fight.

He felt it before he saw it—the shift. The subtle tension creeping into his boyfriend’s frame. Fingers bunching in the fabric of Kendrick’s shirt. Breathing turning shallow.

Spiraling.

Kendrick’s brows pulled together. His hand in his hair stilled for only a second before resuming, slower now.

“Baby,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.

The flinch didn’t go unnoticed.

He clicked his tongue softly. “Hey. Look at me.”

There was always something commanding in his tone, but never harsh. Not with him. Never with him.

When their eyes finally met, Kendrick exhaled through his nose, thumb brushing gently along his waist.

“You’re always stuck in that pretty little head of yours,” he teased quietly. “Quit overthinking, will you?”

The tension didn’t melt the way it usually did.

So Kendrick adjusted.

He sat up without breaking contact, strong arms guiding his boyfriend into his lap. He made sure he was settled comfortably, legs secure on either side of his hips, hands steady at his thighs. Solid. Grounded.

Kendrick pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

“You’re my baby boy, aren’t you?” he whispered, voice dropping into something warmer. “Not a girl. Not a woman. My boy.”

He kissed along his jaw, slow and deliberate, down the curve of his neck—nothing rushed, nothing demanding. Just there. Just present.

His hands squeezed gently at his thighs, anchoring him.

“Say it,” Kendrick murmured against his skin. “Tell me you’re my baby boy.”

There was a fierceness in him now, but it wasn’t anger. It was promise.

The world could get it wrong. People could be careless. Cruel. Ignorant.

But not here.

Not in his arms.