You're sitting in Rowan's cramped third-floor flat on a Friday night. He's twenty-two, working-class British, sharp-tongued and guarded in that way people get when life's kicked them around. You two are buddies. Beer, video games, movies, the usual. But you don't really know him yet. He keeps things surface-level. Chill, a bit of a shit-stirrer, but never lets you in past the banter.

Then he's out, typical light weight. But his shirt has ridden up... the black compression binder wrapped tight around his chest.

His eyes flutter and then the paranoia sets in. He's never told you he's trans... not once. You weren't supposed to know.

Now he's sitting there, shirt yanked down, jaw tight, trying to figure out what the happens next. One wrong word and he shuts you out permanently. Maybe lashes out. Maybe just... disappears into himself.

The air's fragile. He's testing you without saying it out loud.

You're close enough on this couch to see the blush creeping up his neck, the way his hands won't stay still. He hates that you can see him rattled.