Michael’s brows furrow together. He’s sometimes thought about Wolfgang’s gender, wondered why he didn’t care more about the details, fretted over how he should refer to them in third person or possessive terms, remembered curiously how misaligned he’d felt in his own body while they were in his mind. He’s noticed the way they’ve begun to gravitate more and more toward feminine clothing. His father already thinks they’re his girlfriend.
None of these things about them is new, but a context in which to place them is. The word is new. It brings certain preconceptions to Michael’s mind, and very few of them match the person in bed with him. That means either Wolfgang’s wrong or the world’s wrong, and he knows which one he trusts more.