I slept straight through the night and awoke to a hand tightly grasping my small breast. My ring wasn't pulsing yet, though I couldn't imagine it would be long before it did. Mystery's hand was pulsing unusually, giving quick twitchy squeezes, and I wondered what kind of dream they were having. They gave a soft whimper. I pushed myself back into them, so that we were closer together. I hoped that this would help a little.
Then I noticed ... a certain tightness in both of my breasts. Sort of like when I had started hormone replacement therapy and my breasts had swollen. I reached a hand up to gently poke the boob that wasn't being grasped.
"Oh!" I said, a tenderness catching me off-guard. I felt around the nipple with my finger and thought I could feel a little wetness. I would have explored more, but my ring began to pulse.
Mystery stirred and let out a startled noise before they quickly released me. They then rolled to the opposite side of the bed and called over their shoulder with an uncharacteristically tired tone, "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," I replied, as my face burned red. Beyond my embarrassment from the awkwardness of this moment, I did not mind the cuddles. They were nice, even beyond my deep-seeded horniness. I looked at them, trying to think of how to respond, but noticed their eyes stared with uncharacteristic dullness at the log wall. Something else was going on.
I asked, "Are you alright?"
"Yeah," Mystery said, and shook their head tiredly. "I was just ... kind of having a nightmare, I think."
I sat up in bed and turned to face them, feeling quite unsure of myself. I found myself wanting to crawl over and sit next to them. But a lack of self-assurance left me scared that this might somehow make them feel uncomfortable. It did occur to me how foolish this idea was in the face of them having just been squeezing my boob.
I asked, "Do you want to talk about it?" Even as I asked the question, I felt like doing so really wasn't enough.
"Nah," Mystery replied, returning to their signature smile as they finally faced me again. "Just past life stuff. School, family, blah, blah, blah. I don't want to think about it. Want to get breakfast together, though?"
I felt like their feelings were more than that ... and distinctly like they were trying to spare me. The mental image of something I'd seen on television—a family member or close friend hugging another and prying in a gentle way—flashed in my eyes. But when I tried to move or make myself say something just the slightest bit assertive, I was rewarded with tunnel vision and my muscles freezing. What the hell was wrong with me?
Lamely, I heard myself reply with a chipper, "sure!" before climbing out of bed on my own side.
As I chastised myself inwardly, we gathered our robes and dirty clothes, exited the cabin, and swapped out our laundry for the neatly folded pile of fresh clothes. In an awkward silence, we meandered to the showering house. This time, I was arriving with the crowd instead of at the tail end of a rush, so there were plenty of people shuffling in around us. This was a bit intimidating, so I tried to keep my head down as best as possible.
As soon as I was able, I walked toward an open stall. It was only as I was closing it that Mystery brushed past me, into the same showering room. I paused, feeling my body freeze up.
They turned their head and said, "Oh ... did you want me to leave you?"
"No!" I blurted, not wanting to offend them. Then I feared that I might have sounded too overeager and awkward. So, I stuttered for the words. "I'm ... you ... are you sure you want, uhm."
Mystery opened their mouth in an 'oh,' as if they knew exactly what was going on. They walked to the door pulled it closed, and then led me by the shoulder to the bench in front of the rudimentary shower. Then they turned and began to undress. "It's nothing you haven't seen before. We're roomies! Besides, I used to shower and skinny dip with friends all the time growing up."
I swallowed and nodded, trying hard not to think about the wave of internal transphobia and shame rising in me. The feelings that came with constantly seeing people like me called perverts and predators. And the dysphoria that came with that ... of being forced to wonder if I really was a man just trying to be gross.