My elbow was leaned on my knee, one leg over the other. My cellphone was in my hand, and I was watching Sana on it as he performed with his band. He looked so pretty here. A light blonde wig to his mid-back, curled in towards the bottom, a 1940's sort of style, reminded me of the starlet Veronica Lake. He wore a tipped red hat, and he wore a 1940's kind of dress, a cranberry color. His stockings were a dark color, and his shoes were smart looking patent black pumps. He wore his pearl necklace, and a small gold colored bracelet. His lips were a wine color, his eyes done in a classic style which matched his outfit, his eyeshadow a deep plum color as purely an accent. On his finger was a pretty ring, which I admired, gold with a pink colored stone. And his nails. No detail gone overlooked, I could see they were done in a nude color. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a film noir. 

The sound was off. I didn't want to wake him up. But, even so, I could hear his voice. It was a dusky thing for a song of this style. I watched him touch his hand to his face, close his eyes in the emotion of the song, and I let out a sigh, admiring him. He was singing "Heaven, Have Mercy" by Edith Piaf. He said Edith Piaf was like his god. He was singing an Edith Piaf song when I fell in love with him. 

He honestly was the best person who'd ever been interested in me. I remember when I told him about that. He was so shocked, appalled, when I told him about my past relationships. 

"How could anyone ever treat you like that? I can't imagine it. I don't want to imagine it. Oh, no... It won't ever happen again. I promise. I'll protect you."

I'll protect you.

I told him things that not even my mom or sisters knew. I was too ashamed to tell them. About how Kenji had cheated on me throughout our whole relationship and I just let him, because I thought I was in love. How Souta had ignored me around his friends, pretended like he didn't know me, but in private he was the nicest guy. How Goro just wanted me for sex, because he had a fetish for feminine men, and told me he was straight so we couldn't be in a relationship, but strung me along for years. How Keisuke once whipped me with a radio antenna, just snapped it right off my radio in a fit of rage, because I was too tired after traveling to go out to a movie with him. How I was single for years, because I didn't want to be treated like that anymore. Pretended like I didn't care about love anymore.

But every time Sana looked at me, I could tell he was checking on me, just this simple act, a show of love. Curious, searching eyes. Seeing if I was okay. Sometimes, I would catch him staring at me, and he'd nervously look away, like he shouldn't be looking at me, stealing a glance almost. That's how precious I am to him, and I'm grateful every day. 

Sana is so different. He doesn't think he's anything special, but he is the most special to me. When he first found me, I admit I had been depressed. Wondering why people always treated me like an object rather than someone to adore. 

I came down with the flu at the start of October. I talk to my mom on the phone every day, and she was concerned. But that's so different than having someone you romantically love. Mostly, I was hungry. A lot of times, I go out to eat with people. I don't cook for myself much. I wished someone would make miso soup for me. It's so comforting when I'm sick. So, in tears, I wrote a blog post about having the flu. I had to cancel a performance for the next day, so I apologized to fans who would have come to that. At the end of it, I mentioned wanting miso soup.

Less than an hour later, I got an email that wasn't from anyone I knew, an unfamiliar name. I opened it, and well... There he was. 

"Hello, there. How are you doing? I hope you're feeling better. My name is Morita Hiroki. I'm a jazz singer like you. I'm a good cook, and I know how to make pretty good miso soup."

I don't know why he didn't just say his name was Sana. Sana is his stage name, but he prefers it to Hiroki, which is the name he chose for himself. I don't know what his given name is, and I don't want to know. It's not important. Maybe he told me his name is Hiroki in an attempt to be formal. 

But I responded so quickly. I was intrigued. A jazz singer like me? If he was a Japanese jazz singer, how come I'd never heard of him before? I thought I knew everyone on the scene. At the very least, I betted we'd have a lot in common, both of us being jazz singers. So, I gave him my phone number in my response. Maybe I was being too trusting or naive, but I was so curious. The last sentence in the email seemed almost like a flirtatious wink, I thought. Could it be? 

After I sent it, after a few minutes, I let out a small noise of regret, my hand over my mouth. That email could have been from anybody. I didn't know this person. Why would I give out my personal phone number to them? I kind of hoped they wouldn't call. 

But then. 

My phone rang, and...there he was. I answered, and he said, "hello, this is Morita Hiroki. I'm sorry to impose, but I saw your blog post, and...are you okay?" 

He sounded just like a girl. I thought I was being duped at first, but through our conversation it became clear that he was part of the LGBTQ community, and I relaxed. He was so friendly and gentle over the phone. He talked about cooking, what he would cook for me if he could, wondered if I was getting enough nutrition with me being sick. He said he was so worried about me, this perfect stranger. We talked for an hour. Intrigued further, I asked if we could video call on the computer. I wanted to see what he looked like. He sounded so kind on the phone. I thought maybe I was moving too fast. But, there was just something... Something about him. He sounded so sincere.

When his camera turned on, I was taken aback. Sana has no idea how handsome he is. What I saw was a young man wearing a white collared button up that was cuffed up at his elbows, a silver necklace with a ball pendant around his neck. His hair was cut mid-neck length, pulled back half up and half down, flipped bangs swept just above his right eye, all a platinum bleach blonde color. He wore black eyeliner, and his ears were pierced, silver ball studs in. When he waved to me as a greeting, I could see on his wrist and extending to his forearm was a black and grey scale tattooed rose, and I'd later learn it was part of a pair, another on the other forearm. 

I was immediately attracted. My eyes must have been dinner plate sized, and my mouth was slightly open. I wondered like crazy how I'd never seen him before on the jazz scene. 

But I quickly got my answer. He told me he'd been in visual kei most of the whole time, a small local band in Osaka. They weren't very popular, and only did live performances. He didn't like to record anything, but there were a lot of their live performances on their Youtube channel. They weren't signed to any company, and mostly played the same small live houses over and over again. Now they lived in Tokyo, and had changed their style to jazz, because that was the music they liked the most, but were even less popular due to that. He even had a "day job", as he put it. He was a private violin teacher for kids, though he claimed to not have many students, and he had a front desk job at a local college. 

He told me he actually categorized himself as a classical musician. That made my curiosity level go to ten. I asked him to show me what he could do. He tapped his chin and looked to the side, and told me to wait a moment. I thought him tapping his chin was the cutest thing. 

When he came back, I leaned in to my computer. He was rosining a violin bow. Without using a tuner, he tuned his violin, listening for what he determined were the right notes. He asked me what he should play. I said to play his favorite song.

And he just... He played one of my songs. But I thought it sounded odd at first. And then I realized. 

He was playing my song, but it was my vocal part. 

I already liked him. But that sent me over the top. He was so casual about it. He'd seemed so casual the whole time. I later learned he was positively freaking out inside, and thought maybe he might creep me out by playing that song. But he was wrong. For him to have learned that for his violin. That meant so much to me. It also, I thought, meant that he was a friend. I admit, I let my guard down. Maybe, I should have been more cautious. It was honestly stupid of me to give him my address. 

But he just positively beamed on camera, his smile so kind. "I'll go buy some groceries. I'll make you some miso soup. Do you need anything else? Are you running out of anything, or want some snacks?"

I just said, "what?! Am I running out of anything? Who are you?!" Just laughing. He laughed with me, this adorable giggle. He said he was serious, and I tried to be as casual as he was, saying no, I was okay. 

About thirty minutes later, I heard a knock on my door. I still wasn't feeling much better than before, so it took me a bit to get to the door. He was patient, though. He didn't knock again. When I opened the door, I almost let out a squeak of delight. He was much shorter than I thought he'd be. Just this petite person. So cute. He was holding two bags of groceries, and his violin was slung on his back. He bowed to me and I let him in. I noticed he was wearing black leather pants with a silver colored chain coming from the pocket. He took off his boots in the entryway, revealing white socks on small, petite feet. 

Immediately, he ushered me to the couch. "You're sick, you must feel awful, please sit down. I'll cook for you. You must be so hungry." He was never worried that he'd catch my flu, even though I later learned he has asthma. 

He leaned his violin case against the kitchen wall, and set to work. I pointed to where my pots and pans were, and he found other utensils. I watched his back as he quickly worked. Cutting green onions, dicing tofu. Warming dashi and whisking it into the miso paste. In thirty minutes, he was all done and served it to me in my living room like I was something special. 

I asked if he wanted any, and he said he'd already eaten. I know now he declined due to being careful about his medical diet, but he'd wanted nothing more than to partake with me. As I was eating, he took a box of tissues out of one of the canvas grocery bags he'd brought. He set it next to my dish. So thoughtful. I thanked him sincerely. He just bowed slightly and smiled.

I ate quickly. It was honestly delicious. The perfect combination of everything, with a light, delicate taste. 

After this, he practically ordered me to take a nap. "Sleeping helps you heal," he'd said. I graciously accepted. My body was achy. He followed me to my bedroom, and tucked me in like I was a child, even tucking the blankets under my body. I was so comfortable, and my stomach was warm with the soup. I must have fallen asleep almost immediately. 

When I woke up, I found a cold strip on my forehead. He'd done this while I was sleeping? I took it off, and saw it was dark outside. I wondered where he'd went. Did he go home? It kind of felt like a fairy tale. This person had just popped up in my email, then popped up at my door, made me soup and put me to bed, and now he was gone. Like a fairy godmother or something. My heart did a flip flop. It was yearning to have him come back again. He'd been so gentle and kind. There was nothing aggressive about him. He wasn't forward. He seemed to genuinely care. 

And when I opened my bedroom door, what I heard. Oh, what I heard.

A thin, delicate sound was lilting up and down. Quiet, like a birdsong on a breeze. French words that were familiar to me. I almost floated towards them. I heard my dryer start up. What in the world? 

I found him in my small laundry room. He was surprised. He asked if I felt better, and then got nervous. "I know sometimes when people feel sick, chores can get left undone. So... I swept your apartment and I found some laundry, so... I'm sorry. Should I have left?"

The thing is, I was feeling better. A lot better. So I just smiled, and pressed him up against the wall. And I kissed him deeply. When my tongue slipped into his mouth, he let out a high moan and my heart went into hyperdrive. He wrapped his arms around me, and I never wanted him to let me go. 

When we got to the bed, he suddenly got nervous. He stopped me. I thought, oh no, I misread him. But, it turns out it wasn't that. 

It was then that he bowed his head so low, and put his hands on his knees. And he said, "I'm transgender. Please don't think any less of me. I'm sorry to tell you now, when we're...but you have to know. I was born female at birth. I am a transgender man. I have transitioned, but I am letting you know. My parts below might not match what you...um...had in mind. I'm sorry."

I was on the bed now. I gave a sympathetic face. "What in the world are you apologizing for? Why would I think any less of you? You're not different from anyone else." That's all I could think to say. 

He smiled so wide then. Visibly relaxed. He crawled onto the bed. 

And we made, what I can only describe as, love. Just this slow, tender, attentive, lustful thing. I'll never forget the noises he made. Most men I've met don't make much noise during sex. But he was vocal, and he made me... He made me do things I've never done before. His hands clung to my back as I kissed up his neck, his mouth kissed my ear as he gently moaned into it. 

It just felt like the most natural thing in the world. Like I should have been doing this my whole adult life. Where had he been? Where had he been hiding? In our conversation, he'd nervously said he'd been my fan for years. He'd just been there? This whole time? I couldn't believe it. 

Afterwards, he was so much more relaxed. We held each other in our arms. He kissed me a lot. I gave him teasing kisses and he giggled, and I laughed so much. I'd never had anything like that after sex. He was so playful with me. He didn't want to immediately leave, he didn't look at the time, he didn't want to roll over and go to sleep. Instead, we got into a conversation, just staring into each other's eyes, and somewhere along the way he started talking about his band. He told me about his band's name, Lyra, and how it was named after a constellation. He really liked the stories of the stars, he said. I asked him to tell me a story. And he told me a story. And then another story. And another. I just silently listened, watching his handsome face get so passionate, telling me stories. He made me feel so special, holding me like that, telling stories just for me. He noticed an eyelash on my cheek and without skipping a beat, he blew it away and said, "eyelash" and continued with his story. It made me smile, enchanted with him. 

At some point, I fell asleep in his arms. He fell asleep, too. And when I woke up the next morning, he was already awake, but still holding me. We just stared at each other for a few moments. And he smiled, his now familiar little shy smile. "Good morning," he said like a song and kissed me. 

If I said I was completely taken, I'd be making the biggest understatement in the world.

In the end, he stayed over for three days. He cooked every meal for me. We went to the grocery store together and I watched him pick out ingredients so carefully. He took so much joy in cooking for me. Omurice, a Korean dish called gimbap, an Italian dish called chicken Florentine, hayashi rice, and the French dish called chicken fricassee. I was in food heaven. On the third day, he made a cake. It was a gorgeous coffee flavored and chopped walnut cake with homemade raspberry jam. I stood next to him while he cooked and baked, my mouth slightly open in surprise every time. The most beautiful smells filled my whole apartment, and probably the hallway outside of it. I asked him where he learned to cook, and he just said it was something he was interested in, so casually, as he was chopping mushrooms for the hayashi rice.

That afternoon, he had to leave. He had to go to teach a student at their apartment. I wanted to beg him not to leave, but I knew that would be childish of me. Instead, I kissed him deeply and grabbed the collar of his shirt in a small attempt to get him not to leave as he kissed me back just as passionately. 

I saw him to the door, and he kissed me again in the doorway. I asked him to come back. Something inside of me was doing that yearning thing again. He said he'd of course come back, and when did I want to see him again? I just thought, immediately! But I said I'd call him. He kissed me one last time, holding me around the waist, his hand cupping the back of my head. I melted. 

After he left, I just sat on my couch, staring at the wall for a while. Wondering if all that had actually happened. I got up and went to the refrigerator, and discovered the still mostly whole cake that he'd made, carefully wrapped in plastic wrap. I unwrapped a little bit of it, went and got a fork, and took a mouthful. I moaned quietly in the deliciousness. The mixing of the fragrant raspberry and the strong coffee genoise, the crunch of the walnuts, all of it melting together immediately in my mouth. Remembering his hands, his long fingers, gripping the mixing spoon as he'd mixed the cake batter he was making just for me. His hands desperately grabbing at my back as we made love. I closed my eyes, as the sweet raspberry overwhelmed my mouth. 

I blinked my eyes. I was in his hospital room. I realized I'd been staring at the wall in thought. My cheeks were hot. I touched my cheek with my palm. My eyes flitted straight ahead, and I discovered him watching me from his bed. Those same gentle eyes, always checking to see if I was alright. 

"Oh, good evening, my darling," I chuckled, blushing more.

"Good evening. What were you thinking about?" He was smiling so much.

I reached my hand out to him, put my phone on the table behind me. My other hand encapsulated his hand between my own. "About you."

"Me?" Said so innocently, like it was a surprise. 

"Of course." 

"Oh." He made a wiggling movement, one he made when he was too happy. It meant his heart was full of butterflies. I laughed in the joy of it, and he laughed with me. He got a very cute expression on his face, biting his lower lip and looking off to the side, causing his eyes to be big.

"What is it?" I was still smiling so much, I couldn't help myself. 

"Um. I was thinking I wanted to cook something for you."

I sat up straight in my seat, excited. "What do you want to cook for me?"

"Coq au vin. I thought it would be romantic, because it's going to be Valentine's Day soon."

Ohhh. He'd never made that for me before. My mouth filled with water just thinking about it. I swallowed. His eyebrow creased, and my eyes softened at this. 

"Oh, but," he said quietly, "how am I going to cook that... I'm not sure I can stand for that long. I have to watch it cook. Um... I don't know." He looked so disappointed. My hands tightened around his hand. 

"I'll hold you," I tried to assure him. "I'll hold you the whole time. If you think you can manage it." 

He gave a small smile at this. I saw his eyes go glassy for a brief moment, and when he blinked they weren't glassy anymore. I leaned over, and before he could move, we were kissing. He let out a tiny moan, and I was a goner.