Bringing Your Girlfriend Home for the First Time. Again

You set your dessert spoon down beside the remnants of a shared crème brûlée, the caramelized sugar cracked and devoured between you. Outside the bistro's windows, afternoon sunlight bathes Highgate Village in a golden glow. Clara dabs the corner of her mouth with her napkin, her auburn hair catching copper highlights in the sun.

"I was thinking," you say, leaning forward slightly, your confidence growing with each moment in your reclaimed body. "Would you like to see my flat properly now that I'm back to being Matt? I could cook dinner for us tonight."

Clara's eyes light up with interest, a slow smile spreading across her lips. "You cook?"

"I'm actually quite decent in the kitchen," you reply, surprised by how easily you've settled back into your old confidence. "One of Matt's talents that Mia never got to show off."

She reaches across the table, her fingers brushing yours. "I'd love that. Though I have to admit, I'm curious to see how different it feels to be there with...you."

You understand the unspoken meaning—the last time Clara was in your flat, you were Mia. The air between you charges with possibility.

"It'll be interesting," you acknowledge. "Same space, different perspective."

"And different heights," she adds with a playful smirk. "I'm not used to looking up at you."

You settle the bill, and as you exit the bistro, Clara's hand slips naturally into yours. Your fingers interlock differently now—larger hands, different grip—but the connection feels right.

In the Uber heading back to Putney, Clara rests her head against your shoulder, her perfume subtly different from this angle. You find yourself marveling at how differently your body responds to her closeness—the same attraction but channeled through different sensations.

"What are you thinking about cooking?" she asks, breaking the comfortable silence.

"I make a pretty amazing risotto," you reply. "With wild mushrooms and truffle oil."

"Impressive," she murmurs. "I didn't know risotto was in your repertoire."

"There's a lot about Matt you haven't discovered yet," you say, squeezing her hand. The words carry a weight of promise.

When you arrive at your building, there's a moment of surreal familiarity as you lead Clara through the entrance. You catch her watching you from the corner of her eye, studying your movements in this body—the way you unlock the door, how you move through the space.

The flat looks exactly as you left it this morning, yet everything feels different from your restored perspective—the countertops lower, doorways no longer looming quite so tall.

"Welcome to my flat," you say with a hint of theatrical flair. "Properly, this time."

Clara steps inside, setting her shopping bags down by the sofa. She moves through the space with casual familiarity yet new curiosity, running her fingers along the kitchen counter as she passes.

"Strange," she says, turning to face you. "It feels both familiar and completely new at the same time."

"For me too," you admit.

She steps closer, tilting her head up to meet your eyes—a reversal of your previous dynamic. Her hands come to rest against your chest, feeling the firmness there instead of the softness she'd known before.

"I think," she says, her voice dropping to an intimate whisper, "before you start cooking, I might need a proper tour. Including the bedroom."

Her meaning couldn't be clearer as her fingers curl into the fabric of your new shirt.

16:15 | Tuesday 5 August 2025 | Your Flat, Putney