“I’d like to see the clothes,” they said eventually, and I about fainted with relief.

I moved to the bag and took out the sweater.

“We could start with this,” I said, turning around, the fabric soft and reassuring in my hands. It was 10% cashmere. The most I could afford. The feel and weight of it leant me confidence I desperately needed, being that I was starting to doubt myself more with each passing second.

And then I looked up and actually processed Sam’s outfit.

It was like my brain could only take in Sam in bits and pieces today, or something, but—

“Oh no, Sam,” I couldn’t help myself from blurting. “That shirt’s awful.”

Sam blinked and looked down at themselves. And then nodded their head, once.

“I know,” they said.

It was a short-sleeved linen button-down shirt, a boring pale plaid, and it might have been fine, if it wasn’t a size too big and wrinkled as shit.

I took a step forward. I was pretty sure I was shaking a little. But this was my one shot. Bold Lily had to try.

I raised my hands to the first button, my fingers an inch from their chin.

“Can I?”

I looked up. Watched Sam suck in a small breath.

And after an excruciating moment, they answered, almost in a whisper: “Yes.”

Oh thank god. My heart beat harder with each button, but I rid Sam of that horrible shirt. Resisted the urge to run my hands over their skin.

And then I lifted the sweater over their head.

“Oh, damn,” they said, pulling their arms through the sleeves. “Soft.”

“Yes,” I whispered, and I gave in to the urge, like it was acceptable now that there was new fabric there. I ran my palms over their shoulders, down their chest, rested them on their belly. The sweater was dark purple, the perfect amount of fuzzy, and actually fit Sam’s body, so you could see their curves. “Soft.”

We stood like that, practicing our best move—staring at each other too long—until I removed my hands and turned back to the bag.

“We don’t have to do the next part,” I said, holding the folded up leggings and skirt. “You can take them home and try them on later. And then burn them. Whatever you want. Your decision.”

Sam looked at me, then at the clock. They reached over and locked the door, checked that the blinds were pulled tight.

“Office hours are over,” they said. “Let’s do it.”