The Body I Waited to Worship

I never thought I’d be terrified of my own skin.

The mirror in our bedroom was old, its silvering flaking at the edges like frost on a windowpane. For years, I’d avoided it, or looked through it, past the reflection that felt like a poorly-fitted suit worn by a stranger. But tonight, under the soft glow of the string lights Lily had hung over our bed, I stood before it, naked, and I didn’t look away.

My hands trembled as they traced the new geography of me. The gentle swell of breasts, finally mine after years of hormones and aching hope. The smooth plane of my stomach, leading down to the neat, healed lines, the quiet miracle between my thighs. It was all so… right. So impossibly, terrifyingly right. For the first time, the body I inhabited matched the map I’d carried in my mind since I was a child. The relief was a physical ache, a sob trapped behind my ribs. But with it came a new, sharp fear.

What if she didn’t want it? This. Me. Now that the waiting was over.

“Hey.” Her voice was a soft brush against the silence. I saw her reflection appear behind mine in the glass. Lily, leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed, a towel slung over her shoulder. Her dark curls were damp from the shower, clinging to her neck. She wore one of my old band t-shirts, the one she’d stolen years ago and refused to give back. It was so big on her it fell to her thighs. She looked like home. “You’ve been in here a while.”

I couldn’t speak. My throat was sealed shut with vulnerability. I watched her eyes in the mirror. They didn’t dart away from my nakedness. They traveled over my reflection with a reverence that made my knees weak. They’d seen me through every step—the first shaky dose of estrogen, the tears over changing body hair, the agonizing wait for surgery dates, the meticulous, painful recovery. She’d held basins when I was sick from anesthesia, celebrated every new sensation, every inch of progress. She’d loved the woman inside long before she could see her fully. And she’d waited. God, how she’d waited. We’d been intimate, of course, in all the ways we could, but there had always been a layer of gauze between us, a phantom limb of dysphoria that I couldn’t shake. She never pushed. Never asked for more than I could give.

“I’m… I’m all here,” I finally whispered, the words cracking.

“I know,” she said, simple as a fact. She pushed off the doorframe and walked toward me. I tensed, a reflexive curl into myself, but her hands landed not on my body, but on my shoulders, warm and solid through the thin cotton of her shirt. She rested her chin on my bare shoulder, her cheek against mine, and we looked at our reflection together. “You’re so beautiful, Sam. It’s like watching a sunrise I’ve been waiting for my whole life.”

A hot tear escaped, tracing a path down my cheek. “I’m scared to touch it,” I admitted, my voice small. “Like if I do, it’ll disappear. Or I’ll break it.”

Lily turned her head, pressed a kiss just below my ear. “You won’t break. And I’m not going anywhere.” Her hands slid down my arms, her fingers linking with mine. “Can I… would it be okay if I just looked? Really looked? No pressure. Just… let me see you.”

The request was so tender, so utterly Lily, that it unraveled another knot of fear inside me. I nodded, a jerky movement.

She guided me away from the mirror, toward the bed. The sheets were cool and crisp against my back as I lay down. She didn’t join me. Instead, she pulled the old wooden chair from our desk and placed it beside the bed. She sat, curling her legs under her, and just… looked.

It should have felt clinical, being examined like that. But it didn’t. Her gaze was a physical caress. It started at my face, tracing the softening of my jawline, the fuller lips. “You have your mother’s mouth,” she murmured, almost to herself. “I always thought so, even before.”

Her eyes drifted lower, over my collarbones, to my breasts. I fought the urge to cover them. They were still new, sensitive, emotionally charged territories. “They’re perfect,” she breathed. “Just the right size to fill my hands.” She didn’t touch, but her own hands flexed slightly in her lap, as if imagining it.

Her gaze was a slow, burning pilgrimage down my torso, over the faint silver scars on my hips from where fat had been redistributed, to the clean, surgical lines lower down. This was the epicenter of my fear, the place where the old ghost lingered strongest. I held my breath.

Lily’s expression didn’t change into anything like curiosity or clinical interest. It was pure, awestruck worship. A tear welled in her eye and spilled over. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice thick. “She’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

The word she. Not it. Not the surgery. She.

Something broke open in my chest, a dam of held-breath anxiety. A sob escaped me, ragged and real. Lily was out of her chair in an instant, climbing onto the bed, gathering me into her arms. She didn’t say “don’t cry.” She just held me as I wept against her neck, her hands stroking my hair, my back, murmuring nonsense words of comfort against my temple. I cried for the years of dissonance, for the relief so profound it was agony, for the fear of this moment now passing through me like a storm. The tears were a release valve, and as the last shuddering sob left me, I felt emptied out, hollowed and light. And into that new, clean space, a different heat began to flow, slow and syrupy at first, then with a gathering urgency. The feel of her body against mine, the smell of her skin—vanilla and sleep—the solid beat of her heart under my ear, it all transmuted from comfort into a deep, pulling want.

“I’m sorry,” I hiccuped, my voice muffled against her skin. “This is supposed to be… I don’t know. Sexy. Not a breakdown.”

“Shhh,” she soothed, pulling back just enough to look at me. She brushed the tears from my cheeks with her thumbs. Her eyes were dark, intense. “This is the sexiest thing that’s ever happened in this bedroom. This is real. This is you. And I have never wanted anyone or anything more than I want you, right now, exactly as you are.”

Her words were the final catalyst. The emotional purge had left me raw, but also porous, receptive in a way I’d never been. Every nerve felt alive and tuned to her frequency. The heat in my belly was no longer a slow flow but a radiating pulse, matching the beat of my heart. I felt my own body anew—not as a construct, but as a source of desire, as an instrument for pleasure. The fear was gone, burned away by the sheer, terrifying force of how much I wanted her.

I reached for her, my hands finding the hem of her shirt. My fingers didn’t tremble. “Then take this off,” I said, and my voice was low, steady, a clear channel for the need coursing through me.

A slow, wicked smile spread across her face. It was the smile she got when she was about to win an argument or when she’d planned a particularly good surprise. She leaned back on her heels and, with agonizing slowness, gathered the fabric of the shirt and pulled it over her head. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

My breath caught. I’d seen her body a thousand times, but tonight, it was like seeing it for the first time. Because tonight, I was seeing it as myself. As a woman looking at her lover. The dynamic had shifted, fundamentally and forever. Her small, perfect breasts, the pale pink of her nipples already tightening in the cool air, the sweet curve of her waist flaring into the generous swell of her hips, the thatch of dark hair between her thighs—it all hit me with a new, profound resonance. I wasn’t looking from the outside anymore. I was here, in my body, wanting hers. The sight was so potent it was almost painful.

“Come here,” I said, and it was a command.

She obeyed, slinking over me, her body aligning with mine. Skin to skin. The sensation was electric, a circuit finally closed. The soft, heavy warmth of her breasts against mine, the brush of her nipples, already peaked, against my own sensitive flesh. A sharp, sweet jolt went through me, straight to my core. I gasped, my hands flying to her back, pressing her closer.

“Feel good?” she whispered, her mouth hovering over mine, her breath a warm promise.

“Unbelievably good.” It was an understatement. It was a revelation. The full-length press of her, the intimate heat where our bodies met lower down, the sheer rightness of it.

She kissed me then, and it was different from any kiss before. There was no hesitation in me, no part of my mind pulling away to monitor a part of my body I hated. I was fully present in the kiss, in the slide of her tongue against mine, in the taste of her mint toothpaste and the underlying flavor that was just Lily. My hands came up to cup her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones, then slid into her damp curls, the cool strands tangling around my fingers. I pulled her closer, deepening the kiss, a low moan vibrating in my throat that she swallowed greedily. Her hips moved against mine in a slow, instinctual grind, and I met the motion, a spark of friction igniting between my legs where I was already growing wet.

She broke the kiss, breathing heavily, her forehead resting against mine. “I have wanted to do this for so long,” she confessed, her voice husky and rough with want. “To just… worship every inch of you. To make you feel so good in this body that you forget you were ever afraid of it.”

“Show me,” I begged, arching up against her, my body speaking the language of need more eloquently than I ever could.

That was all the permission she needed. She began her descent, her lips and tongue charting a path of fire down my body. She paid homage to my neck, sucking gently at the pulse point until I whimpered, leaving a mark I knew I’d wear proudly tomorrow. She took her time with my breasts, not just sucking at the nipples but kissing the undersides, tracing the swell with her nose, whispering how beautiful they were against my skin. “So soft,” she murmured, taking one peak into her mouth, her tongue swirling. The sensation was exquisite, a direct line of pleasure pulling tight between my breast and my clit. I cried out, my back arching, my hands fisting in her hair. Each touch was an affirmation, a blessing. I was trembling, lost in a haze of sensation and emotion so rich I could drown in it.

When her mouth reached my stomach, she paused, nuzzling the soft skin there, her hands spanning my waist. She looked up at me, her eyes black with desire, her lips swollen from kissing me. “Can I taste you?” she asked, her voice so low it was almost a growl. “The real you?”

The question, the raw reverence in it, sent a shockwave of pure, undiluted lust through me. I’d dreamed of this. Feared it. Craved it. I nodded, unable to form words, my chest heaving.

She kissed the inside of my thigh, then the other, her hands gently spreading my legs. I felt exposed, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with physical nakedness and everything to do with the core of my soul being laid bare. The cool air brushed against my wetness, a stark contrast to the heat building inside me. Then I felt her breath, warm and damp, against my most intimate self.

The first touch of her tongue was a revelation.

It wasn’t just physical, though the sensation was exquisite—soft, searching, perfectly focused. It was psychological. Spiritual. Every nerve ending there was mine, connected to me, Sam, without the dissonant static of the past. Her tongue explored me, learned me, with a patience that was maddening and glorious. She lapped at me slowly, savoring, then focused on the sensitive bundle of nerves with a firm, circular pressure that made my back bow off the bed, a wordless cry tearing from my throat.

“Lily… oh, God…”

She moaned against me, the vibration shooting straight to my core, a delicious shock. Her hands slid under my hips, lifting me slightly, giving her better access. She dove in with more purpose now, her tongue plunging inside me before returning to circle my clit. The dual sensation was overwhelming. I could feel the build, deep and coiling, different from any orgasm I’d had before because it was rooted entirely in pleasure, not in a frantic escape from dysphoria. This was a summit I was climbing towards, not a cliff I was fleeing.

“So good,” she rasped, her words a hot puff against my wet skin. “Fuck, Sam, you’re so wet.” The crude, hungry word in her normally poetic mouth shattered me further.

“Yours,” I gasped, the word a vow, a plea. “Always yours.”

She returned to her task with renewed fervor, one hand slipping down to slide a finger, then two, inside me. The stretch was perfect, filling me in a way that made me cry out. She curled her fingers, finding a spot that made stars burst behind my eyelids, a bright, sharp pleasure that had me seeing white. Her mouth was relentless on my clit, sucking, licking, driving me higher and higher until the world narrowed to the point where her mouth met my body.

The orgasm didn’t crest—it detonated. It tore through me with a violence of pure bliss, a white-hot wave that started where her mouth was and radiated out to every fingertip, every toe. I screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound, my body seizing, shaking uncontrollably as pleasure wracked me in endless, rolling waves. She stayed with me through all of it, gentling her touch but not stopping, lapping softly, coaxing out every last shudder, every aftershock, until I was a boneless, trembling wreck on the sheets, tiny whimpers still escaping my lips.

She crawled back up my body, kissing my stomach, my breasts, my throat, before finally reclaiming my mouth. I could taste myself on her lips, salty and musky and profoundly me. It should have been shocking. It was the most erotic thing I’d ever experienced.

“That,” I panted, when I could form a coherent thought, my voice shattered, “was…”

“Just the beginning,” she finished, her eyes gleaming with possessive delight. She rolled onto her back, pulling me with her so I was straddling her hips. “My turn to look at you. My turn to feel you on top of me.”

The new position sent a fresh thrill through me. The power of it. The intimacy. I sat up, looking down at her flushed, beautiful face, her lips kiss-swollen, her breasts rising and falling with her quick breaths. I could feel the heat of her against my inner thighs, my own wetness slick between us. The air was thick with the scent of us, of sex and sweat and completion.

“What do you want?” I asked, my voice still shaky but laced with a new authority.

“I want you to fuck me,” she said bluntly, her hands coming up to grasp my hips, her thumbs digging into the flesh. “I want to feel you inside me. I want you to take me, Sam. However you want.”

A jolt of anxiety returned, cold amidst the heat. The mechanics were still new. I had a beautiful, functional vulva and vagina, but penetrative sex was… uncharted. The dilation tools from recovery were one thing—clinical, routine. This was another. This was alive, and mutual, and I was terrifyingly aware of my own newness.

She saw the flicker of doubt. “We have all the time in the world,” she said softly, her hands smoothing up and down my sides. “And lube. Lots of lube. We can go as slow as you need. Or we don’t have to at all. This isn’t a test.”

But I wanted to. Desperately. I wanted that ultimate connection, to be inside her as my complete self. The desire was a physical ache, deeper than the lingering tremors of my first orgasm. “Get the lube,” I said, the command quiet but firm.

She reached for the nightstand drawer, her eyes locked on mine. My gaze flickered past her for a second, to the closet door, slightly ajar. Inside, on the top shelf, I knew was a small black box. We’d talked about it, in whispers late at night—a fantasy for after, when my body was fully my own and we could play without ghosts. The thought sent a secret, anticipatory shiver through me. She pulled out the familiar bottle of lube, a bridge from my medical recovery to this moment, and handed it to me.

I squeezed a generous amount onto my fingers, my hands trembling only slightly. I watched her as I reached between my own legs, applying it, getting myself ready. Her eyes were glued to the movement, her lips parted, a flush darkening her cheeks and chest. The sight of her watching me touch myself, with such naked hunger, was intensely arousing.

“Now you,” I instructed, my voice a little stronger.

She took the bottle, slicked her own fingers, and prepared herself, her eyes never leaving mine, a soft sigh escaping her as she touched herself. The sight, the small, wet sound, tightened everything low in my belly. When she was done, she dropped the bottle and held her arms open to me. “Come here.”

I lowered myself slowly, guiding myself with one hand. The first touch was electric, a bolt of sensation so sharp it made me gasp. The incredible softness and heat of her against me. I paused, just feeling it, letting the reality of it sink in. I took a deep, steadying breath and began to press forward.

There was a moment of resistance, a tightness that made us both hold our breath. Then a slow, incredible yielding. I watched her face, searching for any sign of discomfort. There was none. Her eyes rolled back, her mouth falling open in a silent “oh.” I sank deeper, inch by breathtaking inch, a slow, burning stretch that was entirely new. My angle was awkward for a second, my hips unsure. I shifted minutely, finding a better position, and her breath hitched. “There,” she whispered. “Yes, right there.” The minor adjustment, the shared navigation of our bodies, didn’t break the spell; it deepened it, made it real. This was us, learning this new way together.

Finally, I was fully sheathed inside her, our bodies joined, my hips flush against hers. We both went perfectly still. The feeling was indescribable. The tight, wet heat surrounding me, the connection so deep it felt cellular. I was inside my lover, and I was myself. The completeness of it was a dizzying, soul-deep high. I dropped my forehead to hers, our breath mingling.

“Oh, fuck,” Lily breathed, her hands clutching my back, her nails biting gently. “Sam… you feel… I can’t even…”

I began to move. Slowly at first, a tentative rocking of my hips, withdrawing almost all the way before sinking back in. The friction was exquisite, a smooth, slick glide. Every slide out and push back in was a revelation. I could feel everything—the texture of her inner walls, the way they clenched around me as if to keep me inside, the slick sound of our joining. I found a rhythm, building it gradually, my eyes locked on hers. The world narrowed to the space between our bodies, to the symphony of her gasps and moans, the creak of the bed, the slap of skin. My breasts bounced with the motion, a sensation that was both erotic and powerfully affirming. I was making love to my woman, as a woman.

“Look at you,” she moaned, her hands sliding down to grip my ass, urging me deeper, harder. “Look at you taking what’s yours. You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

Her words fueled me. The last vestiges of nervousness burned away in the furnace of our mutual need. I moved faster, my thrusts gaining confidence, finding a pace that made her cry out each time I buried myself in her. I leaned down, bracing my hands on either side of her head, and captured her mouth in a messy, desperate kiss. Our tongues tangled as our bodies did. I could feel her own climax building, her internal muscles beginning to flutter around me, her breaths coming in sharp pants against my lips.

“Come for me, Lily,” I growled, the command feeling natural, powerful on my tongue. “Come on my cock.”

The dirty talk, the crude, possessive word in this most tender of moments, shattered her. She cried out, a raw, broken sound, and her body convulsed beneath me, around me, a series of tight, rhythmic pulses that milked me perfectly. The intense, rhythmic squeezing pushed me over the edge instantly. My own orgasm ripped through me, a blinding, all-consuming fire that felt like it would tear me apart. I shouted her name, my body locking as I pulsed inside her, wave after wave of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, a culmination of a lifetime of waiting and wanting.

I collapsed on top of her, spent, our sweat-slicked bodies glued together. We lay like that for a long time, just breathing, my face buried in the crook of her neck. Her hands traced lazy, soothing patterns on my back. Eventually, I softened and slipped out of her. I made to move off, but she tightened her arms around me.

“Not yet,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. “I’m not done holding you.”

So I stayed. The room was quiet except for our slowing breaths and the distant hum of the city outside. The string lights cast a warm, golden glow over our tangled limbs. My mind was quiet, a serene, humming blankness. I floated on the sensation of her skin against mine, the gentle rise and fall of her chest beneath me. After a while, I shifted, rolling to my side and pulling her with me so we lay facing each other, legs entwined. She nuzzled into my chest, her breath evening out. I stroked her hair, watching the lights play across her closed eyelids.

“I was so scared,” I confessed into the quiet darkness, the words a soft exhale.

“I know,” she whispered back, not opening her eyes.

“I didn’t know it could feel like that. Like… coming home to a home you didn’t know you had.”

She kissed my collarbone. “Welcome home, baby.”

We must have dozed off. I woke later to the feel of her shifting beside me. The lights were still on, casting a cozy, intimate glow. She was propped on one elbow, just looking at me, a soft, wondering smile on her face. Her fingers traced the line of my eyebrow, then my cheekbone.

“What?” I asked, my voice rough with sleep.

“I just… I can’t believe you’re finally all here. And you’re mine.” Her smile turned mischievous. “I’ve been having this fantasy for months. Ever since we got the final surgery date. I’d lie awake thinking about it.”

“What fantasy?” I asked, curiosity stirring the warm, sated feeling in my gut.

“Of seeing you wear that strap we bought. Not like before. Not as a… a stand-in. But now. With all of you here.” Her gaze flicked to the closet and back to me, a heated challenge in her eyes. “Because you’re so fucking gorgeous like this, Sam. And the thought of you having that, too… of taking me with it, now that you’re whole… God, it makes me crazy.”

The memory of our previous, awkward attempt with the toy surfaced—the feeling of it as a costume, a reminder of absence. But her words reframed it. It wasn’t about substitution anymore. It was about addition. About power. A low curl of desire, unexpected after the intensity of what we’d just shared, wound through me. “That box in the closet,” I murmured.

“Yeah.” Her voice was a husky promise. “We talked about it, remember? When you were recovering. About how it could be a game for us. Just for fun. For when you felt ready.”

I did remember. Late-night whispers, her head on my chest, her fingers drawing patterns on my skin as we imagined a future where my body was just my body, and toys were just toys, not symbols of anything other than pleasure. The fantasy had felt distant then, a beautiful abstract. Now it felt tantalizingly, immediately possible.

“You want that?” I asked, my own voice dropping. “Tonight?”

“I want everything with you,” she said simply. “I want every way you can imagine having me. But only if you do.”

The hunger in her eyes was unmistakable. And it ignited my own. The first time had been about revelation, about crossing a threshold. This… this could be about play. About exploration. About claiming her in a different, deliberate way. The ghost of old pain stirred, but it was faint, a distant echo drowned out by the pounding of my heart. “Show me,” I said, the words leaving my lips before I could second-guess them.

Her smile was triumphant, dazzling. She slipped out of bed and went to our closet, her naked body beautiful in the soft light. She reached to the top shelf and retrieved the small, familiar black box. My heart gave a little jump of anticipation, not anxiety. She brought it back to the bed, setting it between us like an offering.

She opened it and pulled out the harness, sleek and black, and the realistic silicone strap-on we’d bought in that fit of hopeful optimism. She held the harness up. “This isn’t a part of you,” she said, her tone serious, grounding. “It’s a tool. A toy. For you to use on me. However you want.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper that feathered against my lips. “Imagine it, Sam. You, already so wet and sensitive from coming, filling me up with this. Stretching me. Fucking me so deep I see stars. You telling me who I belong to.”

A low moan escaped me. Her words painted a vivid, devastatingly hot picture. The ghost fled, banished by a surge of pure, possessive lust. “Okay,” I breathed. “Show me how to put it on.”

Her smile was all teeth. She helped me sit up, then knelt between my legs. She kissed my inner thigh, then the neat lines of my vulva, making me gasp. “First, we need to get you ready again.” She bent her head and began to lick me with slow, deliberate strokes. I was already sensitive from before, and the sensation was almost too much, a sharp, sweet agony that had me bucking against her mouth. She brought me to a quick, shuddering peak with her tongue and fingers, my orgasm a bright, sharp burst that left me gasping.

While I was still pulsing from the aftershocks, she gently guided me into the harness, her fingers deft and sure as she adjusted the straps around my hips and thighs. It felt strange at first, the weight and presence of it, the unfamiliar pressure. Then she took the silicone cock and slid it through the ring. It jutted out from my body, an undeniable, powerful appendage. I looked down at myself.

It didn’t look wrong. It looked… powerful. Decorative. Like a piece of armor, or a badge of sexual authority. It was separate from me, but it was mine to wield. A thrill, dark and heady, went through me.

“Fuck,” I whispered, the word full of awe and a surge of possessiveness.

Lily’s eyes were wide, her pupils blown with lust. “You look… unbelievable. Absolutely fucking lethal.” She reached out and wrapped her hand around the silicone shaft, giving it a slow stroke. The harness transferred the sensation to my clit and the base of my own anatomy, a fascinating, double-layered feedback that made me gasp and jerk my hips forward.

“On your hands and knees,” I heard myself say, the command coming from somewhere deep and newly confident, a place of pure, unadulterated want.

She scrambled to obey, presenting herself to me, her back arched beautifully, her ass in the air. The sight sent a fresh jolt of arousal through me. I took the bottle of lube and slicked the toy generously, the cool gel a shock, then positioned myself behind her. I ran the tip through her folds, teasing us both, watching her shudder.

“Please, Sam,” she begged, pushing back against me. “Please, I need it. Now.”

I notched the head at her entrance and pushed forward. Watching myself disappear into her from this angle, with this tool, was a uniquely potent thrill. I set a brutal, possessive pace from the start, gripping her hips, driving into her with deep, sure strokes. The harness slapped against my body with each thrust, the stimulation constant and maddening. I could feel my own wetness, could hear it mixing with the sound of the toy moving in and out of her.

“Who do you belong to?” I grunted, the words torn from me, my voice guttural, unlike my own.

“You!” she cried, her voice muffled by the sheets. “Only you!”

“Say my name.”

“Sam! God, Sam, yes! Right there, don’t stop!”

I leaned over her back, one hand snaking around to find her clit, now swollen and slick. I rubbed it in tight, frantic circles in time with my deep, pounding thrusts. She came almost instantly, screaming into the mattress, her body clamping down so hard on the toy I almost lost my rhythm. The sight and feel of her coming because of me, because of what I was doing to her, pushed me to my own climax. It was different this time—deeper, more grinding, a full-body convulsion of power and release that had me seeing sparks, my cries mingling with hers, my hips stuttering as I rode the wave until I was spent, collapsed over her back, panting.

We stayed like that, a sticky, panting heap, for several minutes, the only sound our ragged breaths. Finally, I carefully pulled out and unhooked the harness, letting it fall to the floor with a soft, final thud. I crawled back onto the bed and pulled her into my arms. She nuzzled against my chest, completely spent, her limbs heavy.

“So,” she mumbled against my skin, her voice slurred with exhaustion and satisfaction. “The regimen… I’m thinking three times daily. Minimum.”

I laughed, the sound free and full of a joy so profound it hurt my chest. I kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her sweat and sex and shampoo. “We’ll see about that.” I held her tighter. “Thank you,” I whispered, the words inadequate for the ocean of gratitude inside me.

“For what?” she murmured, already half-asleep.

“For waiting. For seeing me before I was fully here. For… worshipping me tonight.”

She forced her eyes open, looking up at me, her gaze serious now, all traces of mischief gone. “Sam, I will worship you every day for the rest of our lives. That wasn’t a one-time thing. That was a beginning.”

We finally turned off the lights and settled under the sheets, limbs entwined. In the dark, I touched my own body—the curve of a hip, the softness of a breast, the tender, well-loved flesh between my legs. There was no recoil. No disconnect. Just a quiet, profound sense of recognition. Of ownership. Of home.

Lily’s breathing evened out into sleep beside me. I lay awake for a while longer, listening to her, feeling the warmth of her skin against mine, the slight ache of new, well-used muscles. The body I had waited a lifetime to inhabit was no longer a prison or a project. It was a temple. And tonight, with the woman who had kept the faith through the long renovation, we had consecrated it, explored its every sacred corner, and found it blessed.

I was here. I was whole. And I was loved. Finally, and completely.