cdurhamesq

[cdurhamesq]

When You're Ready...

[Mr. Reed x FtM Trans OC] SFW!!

Summary: Riley is scared to tell his boyfriend the truth about his gender identity. When he lets out a confession he wasn't ready to give, he has to be shown his worst fears are far from reality.

✨Tags: soft angst, emotional hurt/comfort, trans characters, coming out✨

⛔️ TWs: Emotional distress, panic attack, mild self harm, themes of gender dysphoria ⛔️

The late afternoon poured through the blinds, casting warm stripes across the entangled bedsheets.  Riley and Mr. Reed lay intertwined together on top of the covers, their legs like vines, bare skin warm where it touched. The ceiling fan spun lazily above them, humming a quiet rhythm that neither of them spoke over for what seemed like hours.

Riley rested his head against Mr. Reed’s shoulder, fingers absentmindedly tracing circles over his smooth, aged chest. It had been a slow day. A good one. The kind where nothing urgent needed doing and silence felt like something shared, not something empty.

“You know something I’ve always loved about you is the way you seem to find your own little sketchbook on my chest every morning.” Mr. Reed broke the silence with a crackly voice.

Riley hummed at his compliment, continuing his small imaginary brushstrokes along his lover’s skin. “And I love the way you read signs out loud when we’re driving,” Riley said suddenly, his voice soft, eyes half-lidded, chuckling smally.

Mr. Reed smiled. “What?”

“You always do it. Like, every time. Even when it’s obvious,” Riley scrunched his nose and put on his best impression of the old British man in his bed, “‘Left lane ends,’ ‘No outlet. Hmm,’ It’s like your brain can’t not say it.” 

He laughed. “Maybe I just want to make sure you’re paying attention. Sometimes I wonder if you even can drive with how often I’m taking you places.”

Riley smirked. “Whatever. Still love it.”

There was a quiet pause. Mr. Reed’s hand found its way into Riley’s hair, brushing gently through it. He spoke next.

“I love how you never finish your coffee. Even when you say you will.”

“I mean to.”

“I know.”

Another small smile. They were exchanging little truths, and neither of them realized yet that they were dancing on the edge of something bigger.

“I love your neck,” Riley whispered after a beat, placing a soft kiss on his skin. “And your soft skin. And the way your chest feels when I fall asleep on you.” He hesitated. His voice dropped even lower. “I love your shoulders, and the little freckles on them. And your long legs. Your cute little butt.” They both gave quiet laugh, Mr. Reed pinching Riley’s side at his cheekiness.

“That’s cheesier than mine.”

Riley shrugged, lips curled in a smile as he continued. “I love your hands. And your arms. And definitely your voice—” He paused, something subtle shifting in his tone, “—sometimes I wish I almost had your body.”

The words landed with a weight that immediately changed the air between them.

Mr. Reed blinked, a smile still on his lips, but fading fast. “What do you mean?”

Riley froze. His smile disappeared like a switch had been flipped. “Nothing. Forget it. That was stupid. I didn’t mean it.”

Mr. Reed reached out a hand. “Hey, Ri. Wait—”

But Riley was already pulling on the first pair of sweatpants he could find and a dirty hoodie, hurrying to dress. His breath was shallow and a sweaty heat washed over his body.

“Riley—” Mr. Reed tried again, sitting up now, frowning. “Talk to me, please? What is this, what’s got you so shaken?”

“Just—don’t, okay?” Riley’s voice cracked on the last word. “Forget I said anything.”

He left the room, feet padding quick across the wood floor. Mr. Reed sat still for a second, trying to process what had just happened, heart pounding—not in anger, but in confusion and concern, before quickly dressing and following.

When he came around the corner, he found Riley in the living room, nestled in the corner of the couch picking at his nails as he stared off into space. His thumb was tucked under his other fingers, picking at the nail, hard and fast—too fast. Blood welled along the edge of the cuticle.

“Hey,” Mr. Reed said gently. “Stop it, please? You’re hurting yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Riley didn’t look at him.

Mr. Reed stepped forward slowly and reached for his hand. He took it with the same care you’d use to catch a bird—like any sudden move might scare it off. He pressed his thumb gently to Riley’s in an attempt to clot the small wound.

“Please,” he said quietly. “Just talk to me.”

Riley’s jaw tightened. His shoulders trembled.

“I can’t.” 

Mr. Reed didn’t push. He kept his hand wrapped in his and sat himself a foot or so away from his younger lover on the small sofa. Riley didn’t pull away—but he didn’t help either. His body was frozen stiff with tension, shoulders high and rigid.

“I’m not mad,” Mr. Reed said quietly. “And I’m not leaving. Whatever’s going on… I’m not going anywhere.” He took a deep breath, watching for any signs of break. “I’m not going to pretend I know what’s going on,” he continued, softly. “But I can tell you this—whatever it is, it’s not going to make me leave.”

Riley let out a breath. It sounded more like a scoff. “You say that now.”

“I mean it now.”

“You think you can handle everything,” Riley muttered. His voice was trembling, but there was steel behind it. “But your heart—it’s soft. It’s kind. I don’t want to be the thing that shatters it. Not with my… bullshit.”

There was a long silence.

Mr. Reed looked at him, really looked. Riley’s eyes were glassy and distant, like he was already bracing for goodbye.

“My heart isn't as fragile as you think,” Mr. Reed said, voice low but sure. “It might break a little, yes. But it would mend. Because I love you. And love means staying even when it hurts.”

He reached up, thumb brushing beneath Riley’s eye, catching the tear that had started its slow descent.

“Especially when it hurts,” he added. Mr. Reed watched as his boyfriend broke in front of him. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… quietly folded in on himself, shoulders hitching, breath catching in soft, choked sobs. He leaned into Mr. Reed like he didn’t trust his own weight anymore.

And so Reed held him. No questions. No demands. Just warmth and steadiness and arms that didn’t let go.

+++

After a while, Mr. Reed shifted slightly, trying to lift the weight in the room without breaking the moment. “So,” he said, “I’m just going to take a wild guess and say this isn’t about secretly running a drug cartel.”

Riley let out a wet laugh against his chest.

“Okay…” Mr. Reed went on. “Then could it be a black-market organ thing?” He scrunched his nose, “You know, underground surgery… fake passports? You would have the brain for that sort of thing.” 

“Stop,” Riley said, voice muffled by his shirt, but he was smiling now. Just barely.

“Or I mean, if you’ve been laundering money, I hope you’ve at least set some aside for retirement. I’m not going to keep working till I’m eighty just because your criminal empire has poor financial planning. You’ve got this poor old bloke still going off at sixty-four busting his—”

He paused when he took note of Riley pulling back slightly, eyes red and puffy, but with a trace of amusement breaking through. “You’re an idiot,” he whispered.

Mr. Reed grinned. “Takes one to love one, my darling.”

They sat like that for a long while, the tension thinning out around them, not gone, but less jagged now. Riley didn’t speak the thing he’d buried. Mr. Reed didn’t ask again. He just stayed there, a grounding point, quiet and close.

The secret lived between them still.

But so did the choice to stay.

+++

The evening faded in slowly. The old kitchen lights hummed overhead, soft and yellow against the cool blue outside.  Dinner had been quiet. Not cold—but quieter than usual. Riley picked at his food more than he ate it, the weight of something pressing just behind his eyes.

Mr. Reed didn’t bring up the afternoon right away. He didn’t mention the tears, or the tension, or the way Riley’s voice had broken like thin glass against his chest. Instead, he told a story about the bookstore—something about a kid insisting loudly that grapes were just baby watermelons—and Riley had managed a small, tired smile.

But when they were done with dishes and the silence came back—heavier now that there was nothing to distract them—Mr. Reed leaned against the counter and glanced over at Riley, who was drying his hands, slow and methodical like he was buying time with every swipe of the towel.

He offered Riley a small smile, as he crossed his arms, watching him. He shifted, sitting up slightly. “You doing okay?” he asked.

Riley nodded, too fast. “Yeah.”

Mr. Reed didn’t press. He watched the flicker of the thought across Riley’s face, the way his eyes were somewhere else entirely.

“You’ve been quiet.”

Riley gave a small shrug. “Tired.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Riley paused. “Sure.”

“That thing you said earlier,” Mr. Reed began gently, voice low and almost hesitant. “In bed. About… wanting my body.”

Riley flinched—not visibly, not enough for someone else to notice. But inside, something pulled. Tight. He didn’t look at him.

Mr. Reed kept his tone calm. “I know you said to forget it. But I haven’t. Not because I’m trying to make it a thing. I just… I’ve been thinking about it. And it felt like there was more behind it.”

Riley’s hands had dropped the towel and disappeared into the sleeves of his sweatshirt. He was pulling at the fabric with restless fingers, twisting, tugging. “I was just tired,” he said, his voice low. “I didn’t mean anything.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Riley.”

The way Mr. Reed said it—gentle, not accusatory—made it worse somehow. Riley bit down on the inside of his cheek. He hated this part. The almost part. The crackling space where a truth wanted to be let out but hadn’t figured out how yet.

“I’m not trying to force you to say anything,” Mr. Reed continued, slower now. “I just… I don’t like feeling you pull away from me when I don’t know why.”

That got him.

Riley closed his eyes. His chest ached in that deep, aching way that didn’t come with bruises, but it almost feels like it would be easier if it’d had. He couldn’t explain it—couldn’t unravel everything inside of him into neat little pieces for someone else to carry. But the pain of silence was starting to match the pain of being known.

“It’s not—” he began, then stopped. His throat bobbed with the effort to find the right words. His shoulders rose as he drew in a shaky breath, and then he turned away from the counter, standing now with arms folded tightly across his chest like a shield. His jaw tensed. “I don’t know how to say it,” he admitted.

“You don’t have to say anything you’re not ready to,” Mr. Reed said quickly. “Seriously. I’m not trying to pull it out of you.” Mr. Reed didn’t move closer. He didn’t make it heavier. He just waited. Riley felt that patience like a hand reaching out in the dark.

“I’ve been thinking about it for weeks,” Riley finally said, voice rough and unsteady. “How to say it. When. If I should even say it.”

Mr. Reed didn’t speak. Just listened.

Riley’s breath trembled as he forced himself to look up. “Can I ask you something first?”

“Anything.”

He hesitated. God, it would be easier to just spit it out. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He needed something to land on first. Something to tell him the ground wouldn’t fall away when he leapt.

Riley’s hands clenched tighter under his arms. He took one step closer, just enough that the words wouldn't feel like they had to cross a canyon to get where they were going. “If things were different,” Riley said carefully, “if you weren’t with me right now—do you think… you could ever see yourself dating a guy?”

It was a quiet question.

But it came from the center of him—tender and terrified.

Mr. Reed blinked. Not in surprise exactly, but in that slow way someone does when they’re choosing their words carefully. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t rush. He didn’t let silence hang too long, either.

“I think,” he said finally, “if I met someone who made me feel what you make me feel… yeah. I could.”

Riley’s eyes flickered.

“And not in some theoretical way,” Mr. Reed added, voice still soft but stronger now. “Not like a ‘maybe in another life’ thing. If it was real—if it was love—I wouldn’t care what box it came in.”

Riley swallowed hard. His heart was trying to crawl up his throat. It wasn’t everything, not yet—but it was something. A space opening. A door not slamming shut.

He didn’t cry this time. But he didn’t speak either. Mr. Reed didn’t ask anything else. He didn’t push. He just stepped forward and opened his arms.

Riley walked into them without a word.

There, in the hush between words left unsaid, he finally started to believe that maybe… maybe he could speak the rest someday.

And Mr. Reed—he just stayed still.

Close.

Unmoving.

Waiting.

As if to say: When you’re ready, I’m still here.