our lady of the underground - watergirl (trans!wb) x trans!reader
word count: 5.5k
contains: reader is a trans man and watergirl is a trans woman, herman to heather pipeline, jewish!watergirl, childhood friends to lovers, mention of parental death, flashbacks ofc, both reader and watergirl have medically/socially/legally transitioned, bar fights, mention of injury, miscommunication, yearning hours, mention of transphobia, happy endings
summary: almost a decade after your childhood friend moved away, you find them again, both of you different in many ways but still the same at your core. will you resume where you left off, in that airport where you shared a brief kiss, or has the fire of romance burned out after so many years apart?
a/n: this has been in the works since february but seeing that @patheticwhitemenlover is hosting their dispatching pride event with a T4T category, it gave me the push i needed to finish this. ofc watergirl’s design is based on this amazing art by @death0rchids :) anywho, i hope you all enjoy!
High school was hell, but Herman Edelman made it worth it.
The two of you were thick as thieves, two losers against the world. Your mothers were best friends, even planning on having babies at the same time, which meant you two were best friends since the womb. From birth and onward, you and Herman were inseparable.
Then his parents died.
When your mother opened the door to the police officer, you and Herman were playing Mario Kart in the living room like you always do on Friday nights, laughing and trying to make the other lose. You only paused the game when you saw the tears flowing down your mother’s cheeks.
A drunk driver hit them, they were dead at the scene when the paramedics arrived.
You remembered cradling your best friend in the bath tub, his whole body slumped over in your arms and leaking water through every pore of skin. All the pain only amplified his powers, water flooding the tub with ease, as you tried to console him.
Yet, it was no use, the water wouldn’t quell and his sobs haunt you to this day.
You remembered standing by Herman at his parents’ gravesite the next day, as per Jewish tradition. Your arms were intertwined for stability while both you focused on the rabbi reciting the Kaddish. Dressed in modest black attire with your hair covered by a veil while he donned a soggy suit and yarmulke, both you and Herman could only stare at the matching shrouded caskets in the dug out holes.
When asked if he would want to shovel, Herman could only reply meekly that he was scared his powers would make his parents’ burial sites too muddy.
So you grabbed the shovel and placed Herman’s hands over yours, shoveling dirt over the graves together.
The day Shiva—the seven day mourning period in the Jewish faith—concluded, you stood before Herman at the airport’s boarding gate. Being only fifteen years old, Herman couldn’t live on his own, so his grandmother took custody of him. Yet, she lived all the way out on the West Coast in Los Angeles, so far away from your little no-name town in the Northeast.
“I don’t- I don’t wa- wanna go,” sniffled Herman, tears already coating his steely blue eyes. He only had a few more minutes before he had to board the plane to LA.
“I don’t want you to go either,” you murmured to your best friend, tears of your own glistening, “But we can still talk. We can call and I could see about visiting in the summer.”
“Prom- Promise?”
“Promise.”
Herman looked down at you, being over six feet because of his growth spurt. Gangly limbs, ance scattered about his sharp cheeks, glasses threatening to slide off his face at a moment’s notice.
He was the most beautiful man you had ever met.
“I love you, Herman.”
Herman’s eyes widened at your words, opening his mouth to reply but the stewardess had cut him off with the announcement that it was time to board.
“I- I love you. Th- Thanks— Thank you for everything.”
The two of you embraced as long as possible before he was forced to pull away, needing to board now or he would miss his flight. Without a second thought, you pecked Herman on the lips.
A full body blush broke out on his pale skin, as he touched the spot you kissed. You smiled at him and he smiled back before finally walking through the gate and vanishing.
Your first and last kiss together.
Days of no contact turned into weeks, then to months, and finally to years.
Herman Edelman vanished from your life, most likely to move on from the pain of the past and to start a new life in LA.
Meanwhile, you were stuck grieving for the boy you had loved since you were in middle school.
Yet, you couldn’t let heartbreak define you. You made it through high school, graduated from college with honors, made friends, dated on occasion, and so on. Most importantly, though?
You became your true self, the man you were always meant to be.
You always knew that you weren’t a girl, your parents affectionately referring to you as their little tomboy through your life. Yet, it clicked when you went to New York City Pride with a few friends.
It was easy to accept that you were bisexual, having dated all sorts of people while in college. You befriended many of your fellow queers, some of whom would become your lifelong friends. Said friends eventually invited you to NYC Pride, where you saw a group of the most beautiful men walking in the parade. The group had a sign up while they made their way through the chaos and excitement of the event.
Trans Men 4 Liberation
“I can be a man,” you whispered to yourself with the biggest smile, “I can be a man like them.”
Now, here you are, nursing a cocktail at one of LA’s most premier queer bars Our Lady of the Underground, a mouthful of a name, but perfect for a mouthful of a club. You had moved to LA after getting hired at one of SDN’s—Superhero Dispatch Network—newest branches as a biomechanial engineer, your work on a body-compatible power dampener sparking their interest in you.
What made you create this? you remember one of the SDN higher ups asking you about the device at your onboarding meeting. Surely, there’s not really a market for it, right?
I made it because of someone very dear to me, whose powers would benefit from such a device. I don’t care about its profitability, I care about its ability to make people’s lives better is what you told them.
You haven’t started work yet, but you’re excited to. As of this year, you finished your transition: all your legal documents up to date with your chosen name and gender marker, five or so years on HRT, top surgery done, and so on. Sure, you had to deal with transphobes from time to time, but hopefully less so in LA than back home. Here in LA means a new—
BAM!
A beer bottle heads towards your face, but you block it with your arm. It shatters upon impact, glass shards embedding into your skin and foamy beer staining your clothes.
“Motherfucker!” you curse, slamming your fists against the table and jumping to your feet to see who’s responsible for your next hospital bill. However, you quickly abandon your revenge quest when you see that an all out brawl has broken out. Chairs and drinks fly about the room, as normies and supes alike square up against one another, chaos lit up under pulsating neon lights.
A rhino hybrid in fetish gear runs up to you, ready to impale you with his horn, but you manage to put an energy shield up in time, avoiding your fate of becoming a kebab. You’ve never considered yourself to be super until that very moment, as you could only muster small energy shields in exchange for immense focus, a power you inherited as a late bloomer at age sixteen.
Nonetheless, your energy shield is enough to send the enraged hybrid flying across the room, a sickly thud echoing when his back collides with the wall. You attempt to transverse the battlefield of drunken leather daddies and twinks, but the exit is blocked.
“Follow me!”
A voice calls out to you, as you feel a hand wrap around your wrist. You don’t think twice and let the stranger drag you out of the club, throwing up the occasional energy shield when need be. Finally, night air kisses your skin upon your escape, the coolness a nice contrast to the bubbling heat of the club’s interior.
“Holy shit…” you let out a weak laugh and try to catch your breath, “You seriously saved my—”
The stranger’s hand is still around your wrist, their fingers pianist-like and nails painted baby blue. There’s a small scar under the first knuckle of their thumb, one you surprisingly recognize.
“Are- you sure this is safe?”
You open up the little pocket knife your father gifted you for your eleventh birthday.
“Of course, it is!”
“Can you go— Go first then!”
“Okay, I will!”
You crave a singular letter—an initial—under your left thumb and hold the wound up.
“Now, you gotta lick it.”
“No— Wh- What?! Lick it?!”
“We won’t be bonded otherwise.”
There’s a slight pause before a tongue laps your wound up.
“Okay, your turn!”
You hand the pocket knife over.
“Can’t you… do- do it for me?”
“Aw, don’t be a crybaby!”
“I’m- I’m not! I trust you more…”
You hold the pocket knife up.
“Okay, then I can do it for you.”
You crave the initial of your first name under the right thumb and quickly lick up the blood.
“There! Now we just gotta say the promise.”
“The promise?”
“That no matter what happens, we will always care about the other.”
The two of you exchange smiles.
“Do you promise?”
“I- I promise!”
“I promise, too.”
You intertwine hands together.
“Then we’re bonded for life.”
Under the stranger’s right thumb, the scar’s your first initial while the scar under your left thumb is that of a H.
“Her-” you look up with hope in your eyes, only for your words to die on your tongue.
Before you stands the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. Tall as an Amazonian with ginger hair draped over a spaghetti strap party dress, she looks back at you with concern. She possesses a hooked nose and rosy cheeks, a lively flush to her otherwise pale body. The droplets of water that roll off her skin glisten under the moonlight, the miscellaneous freckles that cover her body like constellations and her bluish grey eyes amplified.
“Are- Are you okay?”
The same stutter, the same scar, the same person you loved since middle school.
“What do you go by now?” you ask.
She’s taken aback, bewildered by your question. You get back on your feet and show her your scarred thumb, “I still hope it starts with H, or else we’re gonna need a redo. Don’t worry, though. My first initial is still the—”
The ethereal woman before you breaks out into that familiar smile of hers and embraces you tight, squishing your face against her perky breasts. She holds you for what seems like hours, as you slowly wrap your arms around her sides and hug her back.
“It’s- It’s you,” her voice cracks, “It’s you.”
“It’s me,” you whisper back, “A little different now, but still me.”
She pulls back and cups your face, examining your features. All you can do is smile fondly at her, your chest full of warmth and joy.
“You’re bleeding,” she then comments with a frown, to which you merely laugh and reply, “Shoulda seen the other guy.”
“I can- I can patch you up,” she reassures you, pulling a small first aid kit out of her purse and procuring some tweezers.
“At least, tell me your name before you do that,” you request.
She smiles wearily, “You’re… still th- the same as ever, huh?” and you nod, earning a small chuckle from the ginger.
“Heath- Heather. Heather Edelman.”
You sit on the curb outside of the club while Heather carefully plucks the glass shards from your arm. The bar fight quells down, but the club’s owners decide to close early for the night, as SDN heroes come by to escort folks to the paddy wagon on disorderly conduct charges.
“Why didn’t you ever call me?” you suddenly ask Heather when she plucks the remaining glass shards from your skin.
“I tried,” she answers before licking her hand and slapping it over one of your cuts. You shiver a bit from the sudden coolness of her spit, only to be amazed when it leaves your skin perfectly healed.
“And now you got healing spit?” you comment with a tiny laugh, “Cool.”
Heather returns your laugh, but quickly elaborates to you, “Grandma… Grandma got sick soon after I moved in. I had to take care of her, the cats, school- but I did try… my phone- my phone got waterlogged and I couldn’t- I couldn’t afford a new one and I didn’t have your number memorized—”
You abruptly pull her into a hug and bury your face in the crook of her neck.
“I missed you every single day for the past nine years.”
Heather slumps forward in your embrace, sobs hiccupping from her diaphragm.
“I saved up- I saved up so much money to get- to get a flight to visit you- in the summer like we promised… but by the time I could afford it, I had- I had started my transition…” her voice trails off, “Your dad th- threatened to shoot- shoot me if I didn’t leave right then and there.”
You remember that day, it had only been a week or so since your college graduation when you witnessed a confrontation between your dad and a stranger outside your house. Of course, you couldn’t hear what words were being exchanged, but whatever your dad said was enough to scare them off.
“Fucking hell,” you curse under your breath, anger bubbling up in your stomach. How could your father—the man who bandaged your boo boos, who cried with joy when you won engineering competitions and graduated from school, who comforted you after breakups and failures—do such a thing to the child of his late best friends?
“I’m sorry,” is all you can say to Heather, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she whispers with a weak smile, “It’s in- It’s in the past,” the ginger then gestures at you with a small frown, “Does he… know? Ab- About you.”
“Yes,” you confess.
“Did he… accept you?”
“Yes.”
Relief floods Heather’s face, “Th- Thank God,” she smiles softly at you, “That’s— What a relief.”
“Yeah,” you hum, “Took him some time, though. Mom was accepting right off the bat, but Dad was definitely… shocked? Angry? No clue, but he went to a support group for parents and family members of trans kids, that helped him understand.”
“I’m- I’m glad,” murmurs Heather.
“How about your grandma?” you ask.
Heather grins at you, “I was worried- scared that she wouldn’t accept- accept me because of her age… but she- she was part of— She was there for the Stonewall Riot! Friends with drag- drag queens, other trans folks… she understood immediately.”
“I’m glad,” you rest a hand on her cheek, a timid smile gracing your lips, “I’m really glad, Heather.”
Eventually, Heather gets you all patched up, any injuries you sustained fading into light scars. The two of you get back on your feet and look around the outside of the bar, most of the patrons either shipped off to some holding cells or left the property.
In a bold move, you try to offer getting a drink together to Heather, “Do you wanna get a proper—”
“There you are, Wet Fart Girl!” an accented voice cuts you off, as a long-haired man in a fishnet crop top and a woman with colorful Afro puffs approach the both of you, “Been looking everywhere for you!”
“Sorry!” laughs Heather sheepishly, “I- I was helping an old— my friend.”
Your chest tightens when she refers to you as her friend, grateful that she still considers you one but your heart craves more… much more.
“Oh, he’s cute,” comments the other woman. You see Heather open her mouth, but quickly closes it; you swear that her cheeks are a darker pink.
“Eh. He’s fine,” retorts the man with the ponytail. You playfully scoff and decide to introduce yourself to the two of them, assuming that they’re friends of Heather. The woman with the Afro puff soon gawks at you and questions, “Wait, are you that new guy Blazer hired?”
“Blazer?” you quirk an eyebrow at her.
“Our- Our boss,” elaborates Heather.
“Overheard her yapping with Royd about some new guy from the East Coast joining the roster or something,” the other woman shrugs, “So you the guy or nah?”
“I mean, I did get a job at one of the California SDN branch,” you think back to your job acceptance letters, “The… Torrance Branch? I think.”
“That’s- That’s our branch!” exclaims Heather, her eyes sparkling with excitement, “We- We get to be coworkers!”
You break out in a big smile, “Oh cool! You guys engineers, too?”
The man beside Heather snorts, “Oh, hell no. We’re bona fide heroes.”
Your smile widens and turn to Heather, taking her hands in yours. She always dreamed of becoming a hero since elementary school when the two of you witnessed the hero Waterspout putting out a five alarm fire in your neighborhood with ease.
“You did it,” you squeeze her hands, not minding the moisture, “I’m so proud of you, Heather.”
Her cheeks redden, unable to get the words out for a response so she opts to smile and nod. Suddenly, your phone rings and you let go Heather’s hands to check it.
“Shit, I gotta go,” you sigh, “I get at least a few hours of sleep before my first day tomorrow,” you look up at Heather and flash her one more smile, “See you tomorrow?”
“See- See you tomorrow!” she exclaims.
You order yourself an Uber and bid the three of them goodbye, heading back to your new apartment. Your chest fills with joy and excitement, thanking the universe for such a wonderful reunion with your childhood best friend.
Outside the club, Chad and Alice watch Heather’s lovestruck expression linger after you take your leave, the two of them snickering at their coworker and friend’s reaction.
“Oh, she’s so whipped.”
You park outside SDN Torrance, coffee in one hand and some generic breakfast sandwich in the other. Your messenger bag swings with each step you take, as you approach the entrance to your new workplace.
“Hi there,” you greet the lobby receptionist after finishing your breakfast, “Do you know where I can find Blonde Blazer?”
“Right here!”
You whip your head around and see a tall, muscular blonde in a yellow and blue superhero suit. Politely, you give her a nod and introduce yourself to your new boss.
“So good to have you on staff,” your new boss comments while the two of you walk to her office, “Royd has been looking for a lab partner for months.”
“Royd? Not Roy?” you ask.
“He can explain it,” chuckles Blonde Blazer, “But let’s head inside my office. I have your work shirts there.”
You nod and enter a sleek office with your boss. Blonde Blazer heads to her desk and holds out a box of work shirts, a mix of dress shirts and polos.
“You can go change in the locker rooms downstairs. Besides the uniform shirt, we have a business casual dress code for non-hero personnel,” explains your boss, as she slips the box into your bag, “The lab is on the same level, too. Royd should be inside. Have a good first day!”
“Thanks, Boss,” you give her a nod and exit her office without another word, excited to get the work day started.
You turn the corner to get to the elevators, but unfortunately collide with someone in the process. Losing your balance, you brace yourself to hit the floor, but a wet hand grabs you by the wrist and holds you tight, "Got you— I got you!"
"Heather?" you peer up at the tall woman, taking in the sight of her hero attire. She dons a similar color scheme to Blonde Blazer, a bright yellow and blue wetsuit with knee and elbow pads. Her hair is done in two braids and a pair of swim goggles rest on her forehead.
"Watergirl," she answers, "We— Heroes aren't really allowed to go— to use th- their civilian names when— while on the clock."
"Gotcha," you nod, "It's fitting."
"Yeah?" her lips curl up into a giddy smile.
"Very," you hum before readjusting your hold on your bag, "I gotta get going, but can I get your number? If you have a new phone."
"I do!" she exclaims with pride, "Royd— He made me a waterproof one!"
You two then exchange phone numbers and part ways, but now with a pep in your step. After ten or so minutes, you get into your work shirt and find the lab, the automatic doors opening with a hiss. At one of the work station, the biggest man you’ve ever seen is welding something, sparks flying while his tools buzz.
"Uhm, are you Royd?" you ask the man in the lab.
He stops what he's doing and turns to face you, lifting up his welding mask to reveal quite the handsome face. The man sets his tools down and stands up, his height just as huge as the rest of him, "That me, brotha! You da new guy?"
You confirm with a nod, only to be surprised with a powerful pat on the back from Royd. For a second, you swear his strength forces that one stubborn knot out of your muscles from prolonged slouching at your desk.
"Welcome to the lab!" your new work buddy moves onto giving you the tour of the lab. You marvel at the miscellaneous blueprints that lay about, as well as the various works in progress. The smell of metal and sweat comforts you.
I'm gonna like it here.
You and Royd hit it off almost instantly. His positive attitude is infectious, as it rubs off on you while the two of you jam to a band you have a shared interest in. While Royd works on his latest assignment, he requests you to review some confiscated blueprints and see if you can modify any for SDN.
“Saw your prototype,” the Samoan comments aloud, “The power dampener. Great invention. Cortex’s ‘prints might be of use to you.”
“Cortex?” you ask.
“Big brain villain,” hums Royd, “Wanted to empower non-supes and enslave them for world domination.”
“Weird,” you purse your lips together, “But maybe his stuff can help me.”
You proceed to unwrap all the blueprints in the box labeled Cortex and begin dissecting the various inventions. Nothing seems to peek your interest until—
“Holy shit,” you let out a laugh of disbelief, holding the prized blueprint. It’s of a mind control collar, but the premise is functionally the same as your power dampener prototype, “Yo, Royd! Do we have any mircoleads?”
“Middle drawer labeled the medical equipment,” answers your lab partner.
You rush to the designated drawer and gather the rest of the necessary materials before heading to your work station. It takes two or so hours to make, but you fashion a metal bracelet with a variety of buttons around it. You snap the bracelet around your wrist, wincing a bit when the needles pierce your skin.
“I think I did,” you voice to Royd.
“Did what?” he asks.
“My power dampener,” you hold up the bracelet.
Royd grins, “Let’s test it!”
The two of you head to the testing zone in the lab and Royd puts on his glasses, pen and notebook in hand to document the results.
“Test One,” you set the power dampener to a 25% decrease. You take a deep breath and summon an energy shield. It’s stable, but not noticeable weaker. Royd takes note of that and you set the bracelet to 50% before creating another energy shield. This time, you see it flicker, still stable but visibly weaker.
“Okay, it’s working,” you can barely contain your excitement at the success.
“What about a 75% decrease?” voices Royd.
“Oh, yeah,” you make the shield vanish and change the setting, “Let’s see.”
You summon one last energy shield, this one barely visible. Before you can celebrate your success, the bracelet begins to heat up and spark before combusting around your wrist, filling the room with smoke.
With his super strength, Royd pries the power dampener off you and contain the fire, as you clutch your injured wrist.
“I think I need to go to the hospital.”
You have second degree burns around your wrist, your skin hot and blistering. Thankfully, one of the nurses has healing powers, shining your burned skin in golden light until you’re left good as new.
“Thank you,” you tell the nurse, grateful that you don’t have to deal with such a burdensome injury.
The nurse gives you a thumbs up and allows you to return to your work duties. You exit the infirmary, only to run into Heather again, “Heather-”
The words die in your mouth when you see the tearful look on your best friend’s face. With a frown, you act on instinct, reaching and cupping her face in your hands, wiping away her tears, “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“N- No,” she shakes her head, “I- I was going— I went to the lab to ask if you wanted— if you would have lunch with me, but- but Royd said you- you got hurt,” more tears roll down her cheeks.
“Oh, Heather, I’m okay. I promise,” you reassure her, reaching up and wiping away some of her tears.
“You promise?” she looks at you with pitiful eyes.
“I swear on Mr. Turtle’s grace,” you inform her, invoking your only childhood pet’s deceased nature to highlight the seriousness of your promise.
“Okay,” she pulls back to take care of her remaining tears, “Wh- What happened, th- though?”
“I’ll explain at lunch.”
The two of you soon head up on the roof of the branch building, partaking in food from the nearby Tex-Mex food truck.
“I got hired because of my engineering thesis project,” you open the story to Watergirl between bites of your burrito bowl, “It’s a power dampener, an alternative to the power nullifying collars used in prisons.”
“A power dampener?” the ginger gawks at you.
“Yup,” you hum.
“Why?”
“Why? Why what?”
“Why make th- that?”
You pause, as Heather adverts her gaze and stares down at her heavily wrapped burrito.
“Because of you.”
Her eyes widen, “Because of me?”
“Yeah,” you set your meal aside and explain, “I know how difficult controlling your powers was for you growing up and the only things available for that help are nullifiers, which are either used in correctional facilities or are priced ridiculously high.”
You peer over at Heather, who’s now staring you with curiosity, “But I know that the nullifiers can make supes pretty sick and that a lot of supes want to be able to adjust their powers’ intensity whenever they want or need to… so I made a power dampener.”
“Th- That’s amazing!” exclaims Heather, her eyes twinkling with awe and excitement.
You chuckle at her and add on, “It’s actually how I got this job. What I made just a prototype, though,” you pause before mentioning to your friend, “I was able to make a newer version by reworking some old blueprints from Cortex, but it’s why I ended up in the medical wing.”
“Wh- What exactly happened?”
“It worked at a 25% and 50% decrease, but overheated when I turned it up to a 75% decrease. Gave me second degree burns.”
Heather goes silent, as do you. Still holding your burrito bowl, you go to take a bite, but your friend speaks up:
“You could’ve gotten really hurt.”
Her voice is strained, as if she’s ready to cry at any second. You frown and inform her, “I had to test it on myself—”
“No!” the ginger cuts you off, much to your surprise. A bit of steam wafts off her body, something you haven’t seen since she witnessed middle school bully Jimmy Wilson pushing you down the stairs.
“Heather, it’s okay—” you try to reassure her, but to no avail.
“No, it’s not!” Heather balls up her fists, more steam rising from her body, “Wh- What if you got more hurt? Or- Or die? Like Mechaman.”
You want to question what Heather means by that, but you opt to set your meal aside and hold out your hands to her. She stares at them for a minute before relaxing her hands and taking yours.
“I’m sorry for scaring you, I didn’t realize…” you trail off, “I’m sorry.”
“I just- I just got you back. I don’t want you to get- to lose you again.,” she confesses.
“Heather…” you squeeze her hands, “Heather, I-”
Your phone suddenly rings, your alarm going off to signal that your lunch break is over. Wordlessly, you let go of Heather’s hands and turn off the alarm before grabbing your burrito bowl and standing up.
“I’ll see you later,” you murmur to her.
“See you… Yeah,” she replies.
Without another word, the two of you part ways and return to your jobs.
That day’s See you later turns into a week with no interaction between you and Heather.
At first, you chalk it up to her being busy with hero work and you with your lab duties. Yet, whenever you got a chance to see her, Heather would find some way to evade you. Her avoidance scratches at the old but present wound of your almost decade long absence from each other’s lives.
So with a little help from Royd, you manage to corner Heather in the lab during the lunch break.
The ginger idles before you, bewildered. She then asks, “Royd— He said he had something for- for me? Do- Do you know where— Is he here?” to which you reply, “No, I asked him to get you down here for me.”
Heather frowns, slouching even more while she stands in place. You cross your arms and state, “We need to talk.”
The heroine doesn’t respond, but the increase in her water output betrays what she’s feeling.
“Why are you avoiding me?” you question Heather, “You just told me—” your breath hitches, “You told me you didn’t want to lose me again.”
“I’m sorry,” is all she says.
“Then why are you avoiding me?” you reiterate.
Heather begins to pull at her braids, “I- I got wrapped up with hero work, I’m sorry.”
“Heather,” you take a step closer and guide her hands off her braids, “Please, please tell me the truth.”
“I- I love you.”
Those three words shoot straight through your heart like Cupid’s arrow.
“What?”
“I- I- I love you,” Heather’s bottom lip quivers, “Th- That’s why I’ve been— I was scared, I am scared— I don’t wanna lose- I don’t wanna ruin everything,” she stammers, more and more droplets rolling off her body and onto the floor.
You’re silent while she continues to ramble, “Seeing you at the club— Seeing who you’ve become but at the same time, you still being you— Then having you work here— God, everything, I can’t—”
“Heather,” you grasp her hands.
“Yeah?” she whispers, her voice tight with emotion.
“I love you, too.”
Heather looks at you as if you grew a second head, but that expression morphs into one akin to winning the lottery, as she breaks out into a huge grin, “You do- You really do?”
“Yes,” you nod and squeeze her hands, “I’ve loved you since middle school, Heather Edelman.”
Like an excited puppy, Heather captures your lips in a sweet—albeit clumsy—kiss, her lips soft and tasting of blue raspberry chapstick. You move your hands to her face and cup her cheeks, holding her gently.
You remember the kiss you shared at the airport, how brief and fleeting it had been. You had spent countless nights during your youth wondering if you’d ever feel her lips against yours again, if it would be different than that single peck.
And now you have.
And it’s better than anything you ever imagine.
You lose track of how long you’ve been kissing Heather, only pulling away once you need air. A thin string of saliva connects your lips to hers, an anchor of your love for one another.
“I’ve loved you since- since elementary school,” the heroine sheepishly admits.
“Really?” you chuckle, surprised.
“Really!” she exclaims, “I always… I always had- I hoped that you- that I would find you again.”
You kiss Heather once more on the lips, longer than a peck but shorter than the earlier kiss. Pulling back, you murmur to her, “Well, you found me.”
Heather smiles widely at your words, “I found you,” she repeats back, pressing her forehead against yours, “I found you.”
A comfortable silence falls upon the two of you, as you place your hands on Heather’s waist and hold her still. You share a tender moment of unspoken connection, grounding both of you to this new reality.
You found each other once more.
