Chris was the first to move.

  “Carajo…” he said with a laugh, already closing the distance, a bottle in hand. “I thought Francis was pulling my leg.”

  He held the beer out. Francis took it from him and pressed it into David’s palm before he could decide what to do with his hands.

  “You actually came,” Chris added, grinning. “I owe Rowan five bucks.”

  David let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  Rowan stepped in beside Chris. She wore a fitted green top that caught the light when she moved, hair brushed smooth and deliberate, the kind of confidence that didn’t ask permission.

  “Dragged,” Rowan said lightly. “Kicking and screaming.”

  David forced a chuckle. “You’re not far off. Hey, Rowan.”

  “Hey.”

  Chris snorted. “Sounds about right.” He tipped his bottle toward David.

  David followed, lifting his own bottle in reply, the motion automatic.

  Chris drank.

  David did the same.

  The room didn’t stare anymore. It shifted. Conversations resumed, laughter softened into background noise.

  Francis stayed close, her presence steady at David’s side. She gave him a warm smile, then turned to the murmuring group.

  “Hey, y’all—this is Raven,” she said easily. “This is the gal I’ve been talkin’ about.”

  A few smiles surfaced. A couple nods. Someone raised a bottle in quiet greeting.

  Francis eased David a step farther in. “You already know us,” she said softly. “Let me introduce you to the others.”

  She nodded toward a woman in a Raiders jersey and baggy jeans. Jet-black hair spilled from the back of a ball cap, pulled through in a messy tail.

  “Angela,” Francis said. “Don’t let her fool you—she comes from the mean streets of Oakland.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Angela lifted two fingers in greeting, unapologetic.

  Francis shifted, indicating a woman holding a beer. Her blond hair fell to her neck in soft curls, brushed away from her face. She wore a neat denim skirt, a pink chiffon blouse, and slip-on flats that looked more practical than cute.

  “That’s Carson,” Francis went on. “She’s a genius with computers. Saved my tail more than once when my website tried to eat itself.”

  Carson smiled, quick and shy, and tipped the bottle toward David. “Welcome!”

  Francis’s hand moved again, this time toward a slender man in an Ozzy concert T-shirt, jeans, and ratty tennis shoes, standing half-turned toward the speakers like he was already negotiating with the music.

  “And that’s Jayden,” she said. “Works with Carson. Knows just as much about computers—pretends he doesn’t.”

  Jayden glanced over and shrugged. “I absolutely do not.”

  The room settled again, easy and expectant.

  Francis’s hand remained at David’s back.

  “Darlin’, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “Convincin’ a bull to do ballet would’ve been easier.”

  David huffed a breath that almost counted as a laugh.

  Chris tipped his bottle toward him. “Sí, chica. I’m still half expectin’ you to disappear right in front of my eyes.”

  Francis smiled, then sobered just a touch. “I wish I could tell you the hard part’s behind you,” she said gently. “Truth is… fear doesn’t like lettin’ go without a fight.”

  David’s heart skipped. “Wait…what do you mean by that?”

  His gaze slid down the hall toward the front door. It felt impossibly far away.

  Chris’s voice softened. “What she’s sayin’, chica…” He swept his bottle in a loose arc around the room. “All of us here? We’ve sat down and told our stories. What broke us. What brought us through that door.”

  Rowan nodded. “Yeah. I had to talk about how bein’ trans hit my life.” She shrugged. “Some good. A lot that wasn’t. Worth it…but not easy.”

  Chris met David’s eyes, steady. “Claro, chica?”

  David leaned slightly toward the hall again, his gaze lingering on the door before he pulled it back. “No,” he said quietly. “What are you gettin’ at?”

  Francis’s fingers curled a little tighter around his hand.

  “Darlin’,” she said, “we’ve all shared our stories. The good. The bad.”

  “Mostly bad,” Rowan muttered.

  A quiet weight settled over the room, shared and unspoken.

  David’s gaze drifted to the hallway again, measuring the distance, the ease of it. Leaving would be simple. Quiet.

  The memory rose without warning—the house at night, every room lit and empty, space stretching around him with nothing in it but his own footsteps. Not empty because of size. Empty because there was no one to share it with.

  He looked back at them.

  This wasn’t easy.

  But it wasn’t empty either.

  David drew a breath and let it out slowly. His fingers tightened around the bottle, then loosened again.

  “This isn’t…” He shook his head once. “I don’t even know where to start.”

  No one rushed him.

  The room stayed exactly where it was.

  David closed his eyes.

  For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of his own breathing—the room, the people, the door all slipping to the edges.

  Then the fog came.

  Fog pressed in, cool and close.

  It swallowed distance first—walls, edges, the sense of where he was meant to stand. Sound dulled. Shape followed.

  David stood in it, breath loud in his ears, unable to tell how far anything was anymore.