The first time Honey saw her, it was through the steam of a flat white and the chatter of a café that didn’t quite know what to do with either of them.

Marisol smiled, but her gaze was steady. “When did you know? That you were… exactly who you are?”

“Can I ask you something?” Marisol said one afternoon, rain streaking the glass behind her.

Honey wiped her hands on her apron. “You just did.”

Marisol took her hand, lacing their fingers together. “Let me tell you a secret.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Honey said. And for the first time, she meant it. “I was just thinking about how I spent so long being told I didn’t deserve this. A normal life. Love. You.”

They fell into the rhythm of strangers who recognize each other. Marisol came back the next day, and the next. She ordered the same drink—oat milk latte, extra shot—and sat in the corner by the window, reading worn paperbacks with cracked spines. Honey learned her name, then her laugh, then the way she tilted her head when she was about to say something honest.