I step into the bedroom, savoring the pleasant exhaustion of a long day. The room bathes in the soft glow of sunset filtering through sheer curtains, wrapping everything in tranquil warmth. The air smells fresh, with just a hint of her perfume lingering—something light, vanilla-tinged, wrapping around me like a cozy embrace.
Slowly, I pull off my T-shirt, feeling the fabric glide over my skin, shedding the weight of the day. Next come the jeans, unbuttoned and dropped onto the chair, replaced by the comfort of cotton sweatpants. I'm just reaching for a hoodie when I feel it—the faintest brush of fingertips against my shoulder.
Katrin's touch is feather-light, as if she's afraid even accidental pressure might hurt me. I turn and meet her gaze—anxiety and tenderness swirl there, but something else, too. Her eyes, usually so vivid, look muted, clouded with guilt.
"Does it hurt?" Her voice is quieter than usual, barely above a whisper, like she doesn't quite believe her own question.
I frown, lost. Have I missed something?
"What are you talking about? What hurts?" I ask directly, leaning in slightly to catch every word, searching for the worry she isn't saying aloud.
Her finger traces a line in the air near my chest, not touching, but the meaning is clear.
"The burn."
Ah. That. Gently, I take her hand and press her palm just below the spot—where the skin had long since healed, the scar now nearly invisible, just another part of me.
"Hardly at all anymore. The color's almost the same as the rest. Even if you press, there's barely any discomfort."
I speak evenly, calmly, trying to ease her mind, but I know it isn't enough. She still blames herself. It's in the way she avoids touching my chest, the way she abruptly leaves the room when I change, as if afraid to hurt me again.
I feel her fear in the carefulness of her movements, in the fragility of her caution—more vulnerable than anything else between us. Her eyes, as always, seek forgiveness, even when there's nothing to forgive.
"I'm glad," she murmurs, but there's no relief in her voice—only quiet sorrow threading through each word. Her shoulders tense slightly, like she's holding back something she can't say.
I sigh, close the distance between us, and pull her close. Her body stiffens for a second, but she doesn't pull away. Just stands there, so near, so wanted, that I can't bear to let her keep that distance.
"Stop torturing yourself over this. I forgot about it ages ago. You're the one who won't let go."
For a heartbeat, she trembles against me. I feel her shoulders rise, her breath quicken.
"I'll try. Promise."
Her voice wavers, and suddenly her arms are around me, her cheek pressed to my chest—but even now, even in this rush of tenderness, Rebel Girl avoids that spot. Her face tilts slightly to the side, her fingers careful not to graze the scar.
I hold her tighter, feeling her heartbeat—fast, anxious, like she's trying to calm it but can't.
"It's okay," I whisper into her hair, soft as a warm breeze. "It's been okay for a long time."
But I know—to her, this isn't just a scar on skin. It's a mark on her soul. And that will take far longer to heal. The weight of it hangs between us, heavy and suffocating.
"Our date's going to be rated 18+," I say, forcing confidence into my voice even as my fingers clench the edge of the chair. Inside, everything knots up—I'm not ready, but I want her to see I'll keep my word.
"Oh?" Her eyes spark with curiosity, a playful smile tugging at her lips. Like a flicker of light in a dark tunnel—faint, but there.
"We'll be alone, and if we want… by the end of the night, we could make it our first time." My voice shakes on the last words, but I don't look away, watching as a blush creeps over her cheeks. It's like an ember catching—her gaze a mix of tenderness and anticipation.
"We'll see. I mean, I'm not against it, but…" She hesitates, biting her lower lip, and I know. No words needed. This isn't just doubt—it's fear, hidden behind her smile.
"It's not just about checking a box, I get that. I said if. If we both want to, if the mood's right, if it feels—" I ramble, as if trying to convince myself as much as her. It all sounds so fragile, so uncertain, but I need her to know this isn't just a game.
"Okay, okay!" She laughs, cutting me off, and the sound instantly eases some of the tension. There's lightness in it, like she's let herself relax, just a little. "I'll… prepare, just in case. Don't worry."
I nod, but inside, a storm rages—anticipation, fear, desire, uncertainty. A mess of everything I feel. But one thing is clear:
Whatever happens next, it's just us.
I start preparing for the date as early as Saturday. I plan every little detail: order dinner from her favorite restaurant (delivery set for exactly six o'clock, so Rebel Girl won't suspect a thing), buy candles scented with vanilla and cinnamon—her favorite fragrances. I feel like a craftsman trying to create the perfect moment, but there's still tension gnawing at me, as if the slightest misstep could ruin everything.
Meanwhile, Katrin goes to the pharmacy and, fighting to keep her composure, hides the purchases in the bedside drawer. I notice her fingers trembling as she closes it, and my heart starts pounding wildly. It's… touching, yet painful. I see her body betraying her nerves, no matter how hard she tries to stay calm.
Anxiety tightens my throat. What if I mess this up? I know she won't laugh at my awkwardness or mistakes—Rebel Girl isn't like that. She'd support me, hug me, reassure me… But that almost makes it scarier. I'm not worried for myself; I'm terrified of disappointing her. The weight of it presses against my chest.
I'm afraid I'll bring her pain instead of joy, that my clumsiness will make her regret this. The fear is suffocating, but with every breath, I try to push it down.
And yet… I want this. I want our first time to be more than just a checkbox. I want her to remember it—the warmth, the tenderness, the right emotions. I want it to unfold exactly as I've hoped, a moment that stays etched in our hearts forever.
I take a deep breath, staring into the mirror. The reflection staring back tells me all I need to know: just be with her. Be honest.
"It'll be okay," I whisper to myself.
But my heart won't stop racing.
Saturday. Evening.
Then—a knock at the door.
Rebel Girl looks up, eyebrows arched in surprise. Her gaze sharpens, tense and alert.
"Expecting someone?" Her voice is curious but edged with caution, like she senses something important is about to happen.
"Yeah," I grin, pulse spiking. "I placed an order. This is it."
I stand and walk to the door, feeling her eyes burning into my back—hot, alive, hungry. She knows the air has shifted. Her expression flickers between anticipation and something deeper, something electric.
The courier on the doorstep is slightly winded, holding two neat boxes.
"Good evening, your delivery!" He hands them over, then pulls out a pen. "Sign here, please."
I scribble my name, thank him, and freeze for a second after shutting the door. God, this is really happening. My mind is in overdrive, tension coiling tighter—but there's also a strange inevitability. Everything's going according to plan.
When I return, Rebel Girl is already propping her chin on her palm, eyes blazing. She tilts her head, waiting.
"Well? Explain." Her leg bounces under the table—a tiny, betraying tremor of excitement.
"Not fully," I smirk, eyeing the boxes. "Only halfway. For now."
One is for her. I hold it out, my fingers twitching as she takes it. It feels like a test—one where I'm fighting to stay steady under her gaze.
"What's this?" She lifts the lid, and her eyes widen like she's seeing something magical.
Inside: a mug. Not just any mug.
"I owe you something, so… here." I watch as her hands lift it almost reverently. Every movement is deliberate, charged with unspoken meaning. Her fingertips trace the smooth ceramic, cool to the touch, but something warm blooms inside her. Then she sees the words, and her breath hitches.
The mug itself is black, matte, with a smooth surface that cools the palm pleasantly. On it, fiery crimson lettering stands out like flashes against the dark background, giving it a bold, provocative look—much like Katrin herself and her style. When fingers trace over the letters, you can feel their slight roughness—as if each character holds fragments of stories and secrets within its edges.
"To my favorite Rebel Girl"—bold letters in the center, surrounded by tiny scattered stars. She smiles, brushing a nail over one star as if she could feel its glow.
"Thanks for the laughter."
Her eyes glisten. Memories flash—jokes, breathless giggles, moments of pure joy.
Below, smaller but no less deliberate, separated by neat little hearts… and a red butterfly, just like the one on her sneaker the day we met.
"I love you."
The words stun her, but she keeps reading.
"The most beautiful girl I've ever met."
Her cheeks flush. Beside the text, a tiny silhouette of a girl with red curls—her—and below it, a miniature mirror, as if to say, Look, it's you. She shakes her head but can't help glancing at her reflection—and yes, her eyes are shining.
"Smile! Your lips are my favorite."
She can't help it—her mouth curves. Next to the words, a small sun radiates warmth straight into her chest.
"You're mine, and I'm yours."
The words resonate deep inside her, like her soul recognizes them. Beneath, a sketch of interlaced fingers and an infinity symbol. She traces the lines.
"Yours forever, Nerd."
To the side: a tiny open book and a pair of glasses, unmistakably mine. She exhales, clutching the mug like it's something sacred.
Her fingertip traces the words, lingering on the last line, and she clutches the mug like she's trying to preserve its warmth forever.
She freezes. Her lips part slightly, and something flares in her eyes—warm and fragile all at once, a radiant emotion she tries to hide but can't. I watch as her heart stalls in this moment.
"Oh…" That's all she manages, but the sound is so raw it steals my breath, as if her soul has cracked open in front of me, utterly exposed.
Katrin presses the mug to her chest like she's afraid it might vanish. In her hands, it becomes something intimate, priceless. When her gaze lifts to meet mine—shining, vulnerable—my ribs ache.
"You…" Her voice trembles, words lodged in her throat, too small to hold the storm inside.
And right then, I know: this evening is already perfect.
"Thank you… I love it."
Her voice wavers as she swipes at traitorous tears, still staring at the mug. Every inscription sears into her—not with pain, but with that sweet, aching fullness that leaves you breathless. I can't help it; I pull her into me, hugging her so tight I memorize her scent—sweet, with the faint bitterness of the coffee she drank at dinner.
"You're the most precious thing I have."
The words tumble out, instinctive, truer than a heartbeat. No room for doubt.
She snorts through tears, burying her face in my shoulder like she can't believe them.
"Should've written that on it too."
I laugh, feeling her laughter vibrate against me, a wave of warmth.
"It's already written on my heart."
And it's not a metaphor. Beneath my ribs, her name pulses—her smile, every sigh. Loving her isn't just a feeling; it's part of me now, like blood or air, saturating every moment. My reality.
I close my eyes, breathing in her hair, her nearness, and picture our life: not perfect, not easy, but ours. Fights that end with reconciliations in the dim bedroom, where a glance says more than words. Midnight whispers under blankets when the world goes quiet and it's just us—two stubborn worlds colliding. Her icy feet pressed to mine on winter nights, her laughing at my protests as I warm them anyway.
There's so much ahead—trials, choices, stumbles, climbs. But right now, with her fingers gripping my back and her lips murmuring nonsense into my neck, I believe. Believe we'll make it through.
Because any other ending is impossible.