We keep coming back to each other as we stir the sauce. Backwards hugs and arm squeezes, deep inhales of tomatoey goodness. When we place the pan on the table, my heart has lightened and filled with warmth. The pan has the spaghetti and the meatballs in and Freddy has sprinkled twists of basil on the top. It is colourful and beautiful and I love how it is all in the one pan.

Bellies full, we rush out of the door. We always seem to be running a little late, always too full of the previous activity to let go in time. We make it to a small room upstairs in a gloomy building. We creep in at the back and listen to a night of beautiful words. At the end we are standing and hugging close and a priest wanders over and leans in to us. “God fucking loves you,” she says.

Afterwards we are brimming with a need to write, so we scramble to a coffee shop and order hot chocolate.

It isn’t quite hot enough to burn our mouths even as we gulp it down too fast. We scribble ideas in silence, and just before our pens begin to slow the server tells us they are closing soon. As we turn to leave, Freddy approaches the counter and asks about the pastries going to waste. I swallow the surprise in my mouth as they hand them over for free. We walk out with one each and I brush almond crumbs from my mouth as we walk back to the station, grinning with the delight of a surprise gift. I think it is pure magic, but Freddy just grins, mouth full of croissant, and says, “Shy bairns get nowt.”

All The Things They Said We Couldn’t Have: TC Oakes-Monger’s stories of trans joy and love