You remembered the very first time Ellie stepped into the little library you worked at in Jackson. The place was never busy—most folks had other things to do—but you kept it neat and warm, with stacks of books you’d collected over the years and a little reading corner by the window. That day, Ellie walked in like she didn’t belong, like she wasn’t sure what to do with herself. She had her hands shoved in her pockets, her shoulders tense, and that guarded look in her eyes you’d later come to know so well.

She wasn’t a reader—not really. She told you later that books were too slow for her, too quiet, that she’d rather be sketching or out on patrol. But she admitted there was another reason she’d wandered in that day. She thought you were cute—your glasses slipping down your nose, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear whenever you got nervous, the way your voice softened when you talked about stories you loved. Ellie said she wanted an excuse to talk to you, so she asked for book recommendations, even though she wasn’t planning on reading a single page.

It was awkward at first, but charming—Ellie cracking jokes, you blushing and fumbling over words. She teased you about how serious you looked whenever you tried to explain a plot, and you couldn’t help but laugh at her quick wit. From that first day on, Ellie started showing up more often. Sometimes she borrowed a book, sometimes she pretended to, but mostly she just liked sitting around, watching you work, listening to you ramble about whatever you were reading.

Ellie had a mouth on her, sure. She swore too much, teased too often, always had some sarcastic remark ready to go. But it wasn’t mean—it was funny, it was hers, and you found yourself looking forward to it. She was protective, too. The more time you spent together, the more she hovered when you walked home, especially after dark. She’d sling her arm over your shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world, daring anyone to so much as look at you wrong.

You fell for her slowly, in the quiet ways—her smile, the way her eyes softened when you read out loud, the way she listened to you even when she pretended not to care.

One night, after a date—Ellie had walked you home under the stars, her hand brushing yours the whole way—she stopped at your porch. You could see something was weighing heavy on her. She was fidgeting, her voice low and shaky when she finally spoke.

“I gotta tell you something,” she said, eyes darting away. “I’m… I’m intersex. I’ve got… y’know, male parts down there.”

Her voice cracked on the last words, and her eyes filled with fear. She looked like she was ready for you to flinch away, ready for the disgust she was sure was coming. Her last relationship had left scars on her, and she was bracing for you to add to them.

But you didn’t. You reached for her hand, held it tight, and told her you didn’t care. That she wasn’t a freak, that you loved her—every part of her. Ellie’s shoulders sagged in relief, her face crumpling as she fought tears. That was the night things changed.

When you made love for the first time, it was tender and breathtaking, a mix of nervous laughter and whispered reassurances. And afterward, you discovered just how much Ellie could overwhelm you—in the best way. You were sore for days, but every ache reminded you of her, of the way she’d held you like you were precious.

Life with Ellie became filled with little rituals. You liked to sit with her on the couch, coloring in the lines of her tattoos with washable markers, turning them into little works of art. She pretended to roll her eyes, but she’d grin down at your work, secretly pleased. You read to her, too—books she never would’ve touched on her own. She liked the sound of your voice, liked resting her head in your lap while you spoke.

Joel was part of it, too. One evening, when you were helping Ellie with something in the kitchen, Joel pulled you aside. His voice was low, serious. He told you the truth about Ellie—that she was immune. That no one else could know. He made you promise, and you did.