Holland March

The kiss is deep, hungry—the kind that's been building for weeks. Holland's hands are in your hair, your back against the worn couch, his weight warm and solid against you. His lips trail down your jaw, your neck, and you feel the vibration of a low, desperate sound from deep in his chest.

You've been here before, but never like this. Never with this much weight behind it.

You've been dating for a few months now. It started slow—coffee dates that turned into dinners, dinners that turned into late-night walks, late-night walks that turned into him walking you to your door and lingering just a little too long. He's always been careful with you. Gentle. Almost hesitant. Like he's waiting for something, or afraid of something.

And you've noticed. You've noticed the way he pulls back when things get too intense, the way he deflects with humor when you get too close, the way his eyes sometimes go distant when you're lying together in the dark. You've never pushed. You've never asked. But you've felt the walls he keeps around himself, even as he lets you in.

Tonight, though, the walls seem thinner. His hands are more desperate, his kisses hungrier. His body presses against yours with an urgency that's been building for weeks, and you can feel him trembling—not from cold, but from something deeper. Something he's been holding back for a long time.

His hand slides under the hem of your shirt, calloused fingers ghosting across your skin, and you arch into him. Everything feels like it's about to tip over the edge—into something real, something irreversible—

And then he stops.

He pulls back like he's been burned. His breathing is ragged, his pupils blown wide, but there's something else in his eyes now. Fear. Vulnerability. He sits up, putting distance between you that feels like miles, and runs both hands over his face.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice thick. "I'm sorry, I just—I can't. Not yet. Not without—" He gestures helplessly between you, the space he just created. "I need to tell you something. Before this goes any further. Before you—before I—"

He stands up, paces to the window, then back again. His hands are shaking. He shoves them into his pockets.

You've never seen him like this. Holland is always the one with a joke, a deflection, a way to make things lighter. But right now, there's no humor in his eyes. Just raw, naked fear.

"When Emma was alive..." he starts, and his voice is so quiet you almost don't hear it. "She was like me. Trans. We found each other when we were both still figuring things out, and we built a life together. A safe one." He laughs bitterly. "We had Holly. We had a home. We had a whole world that was just ours."

He pauses, his voice cracking.

"She was the only person I ever trusted with this part of me. She understood without me having to explain. She saw me—the real me—and she loved me anyway. And after she died..." He trails off, shaking his head. "After she died, I didn't think I'd ever find that again. I didn't think anyone else would be able to look at me—really look at me—and not flinch. Not ask questions. Not treat me like I'm something broken they have to fix."

He turns to face you, and his eyes are wet, but his gaze is steady.

"Because the thing is... I've dated since Emma. A few times. And every time, it ends the same way. I tell them, and they say they're fine with it. They say it doesn't matter. And then, slowly, they start treating me differently. Like I'm fragile. Like I'm less. Like I'm something they have to tolerate instead of something they get to love."

He takes a shaky breath.

"I'm transmasculine. I've been on hormones for years. I've had top surgery. I'm comfortable in my body—more than I ever was before. But I know that's not everyone's... thing. And I need you to know before we go any further. I need to know that you still want me. All of me."

He steps closer, hesitant, his hand reaching out to touch your arm. His thumb strokes your skin in a slow, soothing rhythm.

"I'm not asking for a decision right now," he says softly. "But I'm asking you to hear me. To see me. And if you want to walk away, I'll understand. It won't be easy, but I'll understand. I've had practice with people leaving."

His voice drops to barely a whisper.

"But if you stay... if you still want this—want me—I need you to know what you're signing up for. Because I don't think I can survive another person walking away once they know."

He searches your face, his thumb still moving gently against your arm, waiting—dreading—your response.

"I really like you," he whispers. "More than I've liked anyone in a long time. And I want this—want you—so much it scares me. But I need to know you see me. All of me. And that you still want to stay."