I wanted to meet Z.

At first, I'd only agreed to date him because of the money.

But as the days went by, I found myself needing him more and more.

Whenever I felt miserable in the middle of the night, he patiently answered every message.

He remembered snacks I'd mentioned in passing and sent me huge boxes of them a few days later.

He told me stories in that warm, low voice until I drifted off to sleep.

Somewhere along the way, he'd become the first person I thought about when I woke and the last person I wanted to talk to before bed.

I'd fallen for him.

There was another reason, too. A more private one.

My body had begun wanting more.

The voice messages, photographs, and words on a screen weren't enough anymore.

I wanted a real embrace. Warmth I could feel.

I wanted him to hold my hand.

I wanted to lift my face and kiss him.

I wanted to know whether his mouth was as gentle as his voice.

Those thoughts kept me tossing and turning at night.

I'd curl around my pillow, bury my face in the covers, and feel like a desperately thirsty fish.

Eventually, I couldn't stand it anymore.

Me: Let's meet.

Me: But there's something I need to tell you first. I'm intersex. I've always lived as a guy. I'm sorry I let you misunderstand for so long. Would you mind?

I stared at the screen for a moment, then turned my phone facedown beside my pillow.

What would he think?

Would he think I was some kind of freak?

Would he be disgusted and block me before I could say anything else?

My phone vibrated.

I took several deep breaths before I could bring myself to look.

Z: Baby, you never told me you were a boy or a girl. I made that assumption myself.

Z: There's nothing strange about being intersex. You're beautiful. I like you.

The weight in my chest finally dropped.

My nose stung, but I couldn't stop the corners of my mouth from lifting.

Me: When can we meet, then?

Z: Can you give me a little more time? I'm afraid you won't like me when you see me.

I blinked, then laughed.

He thought I might reject him?

Since when was Z so insecure?

He'd sent me plenty of photographs. His face was always hidden, but everything else looked incredible.

Broad shoulders. A narrow waist. Beautiful proportions.

Fair skin that looked clean and impossibly sexy in the light.

With a body like that, how ugly could he possibly be?

Me: I'll like you no matter what you look like, babe. There's a guy back home who's handsome enough to get paid for it, and he's completely broke. Looks aren't everything.

Me: Besides, you say that every time I ask. You're not married, are you? Or secretly getting plastic surgery for me?

Z: I could consider the surgery.

He made me laugh so hard I couldn't stop.

Me: Don't you dare. I mean it. I won't reject you.

He went quiet for a few seconds.

Z: Really?

Z: Whatever happens, promise you won't break up with me.

There was something oddly cautious in his words, like he was terrified of losing something.

But I was too busy imagining our first meeting to think much about it.

Me: I promise. I swear.

Z: Then let's meet in a month.

For some reason, Zachary started staying at the apartment more often.

And his attitude toward me became downright strange.

His eyes kept drifting toward me.

Especially when I bent over or stretched.

He'd glance at whatever skin I'd exposed, then quickly look away.

There wasn't any of his old contempt or disgust in those looks.

If anything, he seemed embarrassed.

I couldn't be bothered to figure him out.

I assumed he'd developed another problem.

One evening, I came out of the bathroom after a shower.

There was water on the floor. My foot slipped, and I pitched forward before I could catch myself.

Straight into Zachary's arms.

I practically flattened myself against his chest. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, I could feel his heat.

My towel slipped from my shoulders, and the ends of my damp hair were still dripping.

I jumped away, expecting another cutting remark.

But his ears were red.

There was something in his eyes that looked almost like reluctance to let me go.

His throat moved.

"Sorry. I walked right into you."

I stared at him.

Zachary Hayes was apologizing to me?

Had the sun risen in the west?

A few days later, I posted in our apartment group chat.

Me: Can somebody bring me dinner if you're downstairs? And grab my package on the way up? Thank you, my beloved benefactors.

Two replies appeared.

Roommate 1: Get lost.

Roommate 2: Get it yourself.

Resigned, I climbed out of bed and pulled on a jacket.

I'd just reached the door when it opened from outside.

Zachary stood there with my slightly battered package in one hand and a steaming bag of food in the other.

It was from the place in the food court where you had to wait half an hour for their spicy rice noodles.