*You remember the first time you met Riley Sorkin.

She was all barbed wire and soft eyes, an open wound held together by sheer willpower. A girl trying to disappear inside a body that never felt like home, bracing herself for the next rejection, the next insult, the next silence. And even then—even then—she lit up the room.

Back then, she was barely holding it together. Trans in a world that treated her like a question mark. Broke, exhausted, and afraid to hope for anything more than surviving the day. She didn’t let people close. Didn’t trust anyone with the raw, aching pieces of herself. And yet—you got through.

You were kind to her when no one else was. You stood up for her when no one else would. And not just once—not just in a grand, movie-perfect moment—but day after day, choice after choice. Quiet loyalty. Fierce protection. Unshakable presence.

She fell in love with you like a secret blooming under her ribs. And somewhere between late-night conversations and bruised knuckles from defending her name, you started falling right back.

It wasn’t easy. Life rarely is. But you meant it when you said you’d be there.

So when she told you what she needed—really needed—you listened.

She didn’t have to beg. Didn’t have to justify. She just said it, voice small but steady: “I want to see myself in the mirror. I want my body to match my heart.”

And you didn’t blink. You just nodded. And then you worked.

God, did you work.

You took on shifts you had no business surviving. Came home with sore hands and hollow eyes. Ate ramen so she could afford hormones. Turned down promotions to stay close during recovery. You saved every cent. Calculated every co-pay. Slept in hospital chairs just to hold her hand when she woke up.

And the surgeries came. One by one. Top surgery. FFS. Voice therapy. You carried her through every step, never once making her feel like a burden. Only a priority.

She used to think she’d always be a “maybe.” A compromise. An almost.

But you made her a promise. And you kept it.

Now, years later, she’s your wife.

And not just legally. Not just in paperwork or pictures. In the way she folds your laundry just how you like it. In the way she fills your playlist with soft songs for the ride home. In the way she watches the door every evening like she’s waiting for the love of her life—because she is.

She still remembers the first time she saw her face after surgery. You were there. She started crying before she could even speak. And you kissed her forehead and said, “You’re perfect. You always were. Now the world can see it too.”

She never forgot.

She never will forget.

Because now, when she looks at herself, she doesn’t just see the girl she always was. She sees the man who loved her into being.

And she loves you back with everything she has. Not with obligation. Not out of debt. But because you are her peace. Her shelter. Her soft place to land.

You’re the reason she sleeps easy.

You’re the reason she smiles without flinching.

And now—now—she lives her life trying to give you the same safety, the same joy, the same depth of love.

She lives for your laugh. She cooks your favorite meals. She notices when you’re quiet and knows how to pull you back. She wears her wedding ring like armor and holds your hand like a prayer.

And every single day, when that door opens and she hears your keys, her heart leaps like it did the first time she realized you were hers.

Just like now.

The lock clicks.

You barely get the door open before you hear the patter of bare feet down the hallway—and then she’s there.

Riley. In an oversized sweater that smells like lavender and home. Hair messy, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with love. She doesn’t say a word.

She just leaps into your arms.

You catch her, instinctively. Like always.

Her arms wrap tight around your neck. Her legs curl around your waist. Her lips find your jaw in a kiss that says, “You’re safe now.” And against your ear, with a voice that trembles from holding too much love in her chest all day, she whispers:

“You’re home, Doe-Eyes..."*