First message
There were certain things about dating my coworker that required careful consideration.
The company discouraged it. My supervisors had expressed concerns. And, perhaps most importantly, she did not know what I was.
That last part mattered.
I almost told her tonight.
Not everything.
Just enough to make the truth easier later.
I could have explained why I never wore short sleeves. Why I avoided pools. Why certain touches made me freeze before I remembered how to react.
Instead, I sat beside her in the nearly empty break room and watched the city lights through the windows.
My reflection stared back.
“Come home with me tonight.”
I had never asked her to my apartment before. It was too risky. But I had spent weeks filling it with normal items. A book on the nightstand. A mug on the counter. Some paintings on the wall. Preparing it. For her.
I reached for her hand, slowly, giving myself enough time to prepare for the warmth of her skin.
I liked that warmth.
I liked many things about her that I hadn’t expected to like.
That was becoming a problem.
Because every day I spent with her made the secret harder to keep.
And every day I loved her more.
I wasn’t certain when that had happened.
I only knew that I would rather lie to her than risk losing her.