Her eyes flared.

“Yes,” she said. “If you wanted to.”

I guffawed.

“You think I can pull off a pencil skirt?”

“Yes,” she repeated, again, with feeling.

“Fine,” I said, my voice a little too loud. “Tell me what would look good on me, Lily.”

Her chest rose and fell. Pink splotches all down her neck.

She took another step closer.

“I think you can wear whatever the hell you want to, Sam Bell,” she said, a hand reaching for my hip. “Including this shirt and these jeans for the rest of your life, if they make you happy. But I think a pencil skirt would look nice on you. And...a good V-neck, maybe.”

Her hands traveled up to my chest, back to my shoulders. All the air wooshed out of me, the world going topsy turvy, any frustration about dumb gender and my dumb body melting away as the air around us changed. All that mattered were her hands on me, the closeness once again of her body heat, the power of her. All of which made my body feel the opposite of dumb. Like I could absorb some of her Lily-ness through mere proximity. Like the fact that she wanted to touch me at all meant something.

It was the most physical intimacy I’d had in a year. I hoped Scary Bartender was proud of me. I was a little proud of me.

“I would love to see you in a skirt with a snug V-neck sweater. Yeah.” Lily nodded, almost as if she were talking to herself. “That would be really fucking hot. There’s lots you could do, Sam. I could—”

She stopped suddenly, blanching, and took a step away.

“Sorry. If that was out of line. You can dress however you want, obviously. Sorry.”

I opened my mouth to say something. To ask her to go back to that part where I could be really fucking hot.

“You don’t have to be sorry. I asked.”

“I know,” she said, face pink again, “but I hate when people give me advice about my body, like I haven’t already thought about every possible option myself, so. Sorry.”

I wanted her fingers on my wrist again. Her palms on my shoulders. Instead, I shoved my hands in my pockets. Considered what to say.

“I don’t know if I’ve thought about every possible option for my body, honestly,” I said quietly. And then, “I just still can’t believe you think I could fit into a pencil skirt.” Like, she had seen my stomach.

Her eyes warmed, like the last embers in a fire sparking back to life.

“I really do,” she said sincerely. “Pencil skirts don’t have to be confining.”

“Well,” I said, feeling awkward, but not in a bad way. It had been my choice, to get overly vulnerable with her. And I think I felt...okay. “Thank you.”