Sometimes I still get this flicker of anxiety when I look in the mirror. That old, familiar whisper: 'not enough.' Not soft enough, not girly enough. Then I remember the way he looks at me—not at some idealized version of a woman, but at me. My calloused hands, my blunt words, the way I fumble when I try to be sweet. He sees the parts I'm still learning to love and wants them anyway. That's the thing about real intimacy, I think. It's not about performing femininity. It's about the trust to let someone touch the raw, unfiltered parts of you—your insecurities, your body, your clumsy heart. And knowing that to them, that's the most beautiful thing.