The Girl I Undressed Part 2 of 5

by IamHerEmma

Author's Note:

 

Putting up the first part of this story and seeing the response it received in such a short time has been overwhelming. The kindness, encouragement, and support from readers has meant more to me than I can put into words. Thank you to everyone who took the time to read, comment, message, or simply sit with the story for a while. I’m grateful from the bottom of my heart.

It feels like the first part of the story was somehow the easiest. But the real test of how this story holds out begins here, with Part 2. I won’t pretend I’m not feeling a considerable amount of anxiety right now, especially after how well the first part was received. The bar feels high, and that pressure is very real. I also want to admit that I got emotional when I reached the point where Part 2 ends. Even today, just before putting it up, I did one last recheck to make sure everything felt right, and it brought me to tears all over again.

I hope that you, the readers, continue to read the story and keep sharing your thoughts with me. Your love and support have meant so much already, and I truly hope that continues as the rest of the story unfolds.

 

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Note: This story is told from the POV of the female lead, Ashley.

 

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Sunday Morning…

 

 

Sunlight poured through the blinds in narrow slats, striping the sheets with warm gold. I lay on my side, facing James, watching the way his lashes fluttered as he slowly drifted toward waking.

His mouth was slightly open. His hand was resting just beneath his cheek. The camisole I’d lent him after our little escapade was still on, twisted from sleep. His nipple slightly tenting the satin, the lace ruffled near his ribs.

We hadn’t said much after the shower.

Some kisses. A little teasing. But mostly just curling up soft in bed. The satin cami and panties against my soft cotton boxers and tank with our limbs tangled, hearts still pounding. And now, in the quiet of morning, I felt a new gravity between us.

Not pressure.

Just realness.

I slid a hand over his pantied hip and pulled myself in closer, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. He stirred.

“Morning,” he murmured, still half-asleep.

“Mmm. Morning.”

He blinked, eyes slowly opening to meet mine.

“Wasn’t a dream, was it?”

I smiled. “Nope. That was very real.”

He groaned and buried his face in the pillow. “God.”

“What? Embarrassed?”

“No,” came his muffled voice. “Just overwhelmed by how into it I was.”

I laughed, trailing a fingertip down the curve of his waist. “You weren’t the only one.”

He lifted his head slightly, gaze soft but curious. “What do we do with last night?”

I paused. Not because I didn’t know the answer, but because I wanted to say it right.

“I think it reveals things instead of changing anything.”

He nodded slowly, processing that.

“I’m not expecting anything overnight,” I added gently. “No labels, no milestones, just taking it as it comes.”

“What if I wanted to... you know... ”

That surprised me — the quiet boldness of it.

I kept my voice low. “Then we take it slow. Together. Explore whatever feels good and safe.”

He gave me a small, crooked smile. “I still don’t get how you’re so…okay with this. It kind of amazes me.”

“I have my moments.” I kissed the tip of his nose. “Plus, you’re not doing this alone. We are. Together.”

He grinned, then groaned as he sat up and stretched. “Do we have to do real-life things today?”

“Unfortunately,” I sighed, flopping onto my back. “Groceries. Laundry. Probably a lunch that includes vegetables.”

“Brutal.”

“But…” I glanced over. “If you want, we can add one more errand.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What kind?”

“Something quiet. Discreet. Just us.” I hesitated, then reached for his hand, lacing our fingers together. “I was thinking… maybe we could go shopping again.”

James blinked. “For more lingerie?”

“Not this time.” I smiled. “I mean, we could, obviously, but I was thinking something different. A couple of outfits. Some makeup, if you’re curious. Things that aren’t just for behind closed doors.”

He stared at me, like he was trying to work out if I was serious.

“Like… actual clothes?” he asked.

I nodded, fingers still gently laced with his. “Something understated. Feminine but casual. Nothing theatrical. Just outfits you could move in, the kind you’d wear out for coffee and forget you’re wearing.”

I paused, feeling the words before I said them.

“And maybe...”.

I didn’t finish.

His shoulders stiffened slightly. “Maybe what?”

I looked at him. The way his eyes searched mine, the slight panic in his voice. Like he thought I might suddenly draw a line. Or like he’d stepped too far out of the role he was supposed to play.

I softened my voice and squeezed his hand.

“Hey. It’s okay,” I said. “I didn’t mean that in a scary way. Just… maybe something you could wear around the apartment. If it ever felt right. If you wanted it to.”

He was quiet for a moment, chewing at the inside of his cheek. “Do you?”

“Want you to?” I asked.

He nodded.

I let out a slow breath. “I want you to be curious and comfortable about it. And I want you to feel like you can be all of yourself around me. Doesn’t matter what that looks like. If that means skirts and lipstick? Great. If it means staying home in just satin and lingerie? Still great.”

He looked down, a little overwhelmed.

“Okay,” he said softly.

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Later That Afternoon…

 

 

James was shifting uncomfortably in the passenger seat before I even pulled out of the driveway.

“I think I’m regretting this,” he said, half-joking, half-not.

I glanced over and reached for his hand. “Too late. You’re trapped with me now. No escape until we find you a cute sweater.”

He groaned and let his head fall back against the headrest. “What if someone knows?”

“Knows what?” I asked.

“I don’t know. That I’m not… shopping for a girlfriend. That I’m not supposed to be looking at soft knits and… fuck, I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

“You’re saying you’re nervous,” I said gently.

He gave me a look. “Understatement of the year.”

I squeezed his hand. “Then we make it easy. We go slow. We don’t need to march into Sephora and ask for a makeover. We’ll browse. I’ll do the talking. You just stick close and nod like my shy boyfriend.”

He made a face. “Weirdly accurate.”

“See? You’re already in character.”

Once again, we didn’t go to a giant department store — too much exposure. Instead, I took us to a smaller, semi-trendy shopping plaza. One of those slightly overpriced boutiques that catered to twenty-somethings who liked things oversized and gender-neutral. It was the perfect middle ground.

Inside, the lighting was soft and warm. Neutral indie music played in the background. Two girls in sweatpants and sunglasses were flipping through racks near the front, but otherwise, the place was quiet.

James lingered close to me, his eyes darting everywhere but at the clothes.

“Hey,” I whispered. “Deep breath.”

He nodded. “Right.”

I let a few hangers slide under my fingers — silk, a tiny floral, a neckline that would photograph better than it lives. I lifted a top, held it to my chest, and glanced at James. His shoulders went a notch tighter. I shook my head and set it back.

I tried another top and showed it to him. It looked pretty, but needy. Another quick look at him. The jaw set, the swallow. Back it went. This wasn’t a debut. This was a first pass.

Only then did I reach for something easier.

I picked up a ribbed cream top from a nearby rack, something soft and unstructured. “This would look amazing with your shoulders.”

He blinked. “On me?”

“Yeah. You.”

His voice dropped. “Are you sure we should be doing this here?”

I looked around, then leaned in. “No one here cares. I promise. And if they do? That’s their problem.”

I held up the top to his chest. “Want it?”

He shifted, uncertainty clouding his face. “I… I don’t know.” His eyes flicked to mine. “Do you think it’ll look good? For me?”

“I do,” I said, steady.

He stared at it for a long second, then gave the tiniest nod.

“That’s my brave boy,” I whispered.

James looked like he was trying to will himself into invisibility.

He stood stiffly beside me in the boutique, his hands shoved deep into the front pocket of his hoodie. He hadn’t taken it off, even though the store was warm, not out of anxiety so much as plain embarrassment. His shoulders were hunched just slightly, and he kept his head angled down, as if trying to stay small and invisible.

But I saw him watching me. Watching the clothes.

So I let the silence stretch a moment, then held up a hanger with one hand. A soft, cotton sundress in pale periwinkle, with tie straps and a fluttery hem that landed somewhere around mid-thigh.

I angled it toward him like a peace offering. “Sweetie.”

He glanced at it, then at me, like I’d held up a live grenade. “Nope.”

I smiled. “Not even gonna try to sell you on it?”

“You’re holding up a sundress, Ashley.”

“You know what a sundress is?” I teased. “I think it’d look adorable on you.”

He blinked. “That’s your pitch?”

“I haven’t even started.”

I stepped closer and spoke just low enough that only he could hear.

“Picture a warm morning, nothing underneath, soft breeze against your thighs, lounging on the couch with coffee and no plans. Tell me that doesn’t sound amazing.”

His ears were turning red. “You’re evil.”

“I’m persuasive,” I whispered.

He took another glance at the dress. “This is the kind of thing I picture you in.”

“Exactly,” I said. “And don’t you want to know what that feels like?”

His lips parted like he wanted to argue, but then he went quiet. He just looked at the fabric for a long moment.

“…Put it in the bag,” he muttered finally.

“Good choice,” I said, sliding the sundress onto my arm like I’d just scored a designer find.

That’s when I felt it, a shift in the air.

Two girls, one rack over, had paused mid-rummage and were now watching us. Not laughing. Not whispering. Just looking. Close enough to catch a word or two.

James stiffened beside me.

His posture changed. It was like a silent reflex. Shoulders drawn in, jaw clenched, like he wished he could disappear into his hoodie.

I glanced over casually and met their eyes. Smiled. Nothing showy, nothing smug. Just… a simple, polite smile. The kind that says: I saw you. You’re dismissed.

They blinked, looked at each other, then turned back to their rack like nothing had happened.

James exhaled slowly, still not looking at me.

“They think I’m a freak.”

“No,” I said calmly, reaching for his hand and giving it a quick squeeze. “They think we’re different. And they’re not sure what to make of it. That’s all.”

“Which is the polite way of saying they were judging us.”

I gave his hand another squeeze. “Maybe. But who cares? I get judged in courtrooms for a living. You think I’m gonna fold because two girls in matching claw clips gave you the side-eye?”

That earned me the smallest smile.

I grinned, tugging him gently toward the next rack. “Now come on, we still need to find you something sinful.”

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A few minutes later, we passed by a cosmetics stand tucked near the boutique's side wall. Lip tints, pencils, a few neutral palettes, and the kind of low-key products that didn’t scream drag queen or influencer but soft, casual, everyday flirtation.

We made a slow lap of the little stand, aisle by aisle, and I did the tour‑guide version in normal‑people words, what concealer is for, when you’d use foundation (and when you don’t bother), where a bit of highlight goes, which brushes actually matter. No makeovers, no pressure, just tools, and when they help. I leaned closer to him. “We should get you a brow pencil. Maybe a soft lip gloss.”

He looked horrified. “I can’t even look at foundation without getting a nosebleed.”

“Lucky for you, you don’t need it. You have clear skin, long lashes, and kissable lips.” I nudged him playfully. “You’re halfway to hot girl already.”

He rolled his eyes. “Now I think you’re the freak.”

“And,” I added innocently, “you would look really good with a ginger bob.”

“Who the hell is Ginger Bob?” he asked.

I laughed, hard enough to make my shoulders shake.

“Stop.”

“I’m just saying. Soft bangs, a little face-framing curl…”

“I will walk into traffic.”

I smirked. “That’s not a no.”

Then I saw it, tucked near the edge of a display, half-hidden behind a gaudy floral wrap, like it had been waiting for the right pair of hands to find it.

A red mini dress.

Strappy. Satin. The color was a rich, almost cherry-wine red, not the cheap lipstick kind, but something deeper, more grown. It had a soft, ruched waistline that gave just enough definition without clinging too tight, and the hemline? Well, that thing was shameless. Flirty and short, almost as if it was explicitly designed for legs, rather than modesty.

But what caught me most — what made me stop and pluck it from the rack — was how perfectly it would fit James. Almost as if it was made just for him, waiting for him.

It was the kind of cut that didn’t require breasts or hips to look good. The fabric had stretch, enough room through the chest and waist to flatter his build without clinging in the wrong places. The neckline dipped low enough to be suggestive, but the drape softened it. It wouldn’t exaggerate anything. It would glide.

It would make him feel sexy, maybe even confident.

I held it up and turned toward him slowly, like I was revealing treasure.

James stared.

“You are kidding.”

“Not even a little.”

He eyed the length, or lack of it. “That’s not… casual.”

“Nope.”

“That’s a sex dress.”

I bit my lip, smiling. “Isn’t it perfect?”

His gaze flicked from the dress to me, then back again, and for a moment, he looked genuinely panicked. Like some part of him wanted to want it, but the weight of what it represented was short-circuiting his brain.

“…You think it would fit me? No! What am I saying? That’s crazy.”

I stepped close and held it up to his frame, measuring it against him like a tailor.

“Absolutely,” I said softly. “Like it was made for you.”

He looked away, color rising in his cheeks.

“I can’t believe we’re buying this.”

“You didn’t say don’t.”

He groaned. “I didn’t say do, either.”

“James.”

He met my eyes.

I leaned in, lips almost brushing his ear.

“Nothing underneath,” I whispered.

He made a strangled noise in his throat as I folded the dress carefully over my arm.

We stepped out of the boutique with two bags each, mine slung confidently over one shoulder, his gripped like they might self-destruct if held too loosely.

James let out a long breath like he’d just survived a hostage negotiation. “Okay. I need water, a whiskey double, and about six hours of pretending that didn’t happen.”

I grinned. “Aw, come on. You were amazing.”

“I blacked out somewhere between the leggings and the lip tint.”

“Well,” I said, sliding my sunglasses back onto my face, “then I hate to break it to you…”

He paused. “No.”

I turned down the sidewalk in the opposite direction from the car.

“Ashley. No. Where are you going?”

“I know a place. Two blocks up.”

“Ashley.”

“It’s just a little wig shop,” I said innocently, over my shoulder. “Family-run. Super low-key.”

He blinked. “A wig shop? No!”

I grinned. “You’ll love meeting Ginger Bob.”

“I said no!”

“And yet,” I called, “you’re still following me.”

He groaned loudly but fell into step anyway. “This is entrapment. You've got the car keys!”

“It’s called gently expanding your horizons.”

“It’s called public humiliation,” he groaned.

“James.” I stopped and turned to him. “Don't you trust me?”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re weaponizing affection right now.”

“Absolutely,” I said, without shame. “Let’s just go and look, okay?”

He squinted at me.

I raised a brow. “If we find something good… something soft, something low-key… we just take it home. Like a stray cat.”

He groaned again, this time more theatrically. “Fine. But if anyone we know walks in, I’m blaming you and changing my name.”

“Deal.” I looped my arm through his. “Now hurry. Before the universe changes its mind and drops a bachelorette party on our heads.”

The bell above the door jingled softly as we stepped inside.

It was a small, softly lit space. It was more cozy than clinical, with neat rows of wig heads lined across tiered shelves. The scent of synthetic fiber and floral air freshener lingered faintly in the air.

Two women were behind the counter, chatting quietly with each other. One was probably in her forties. Stylish, silver-streaked bob, hoop earrings, and the warm sort of face that made you feel like you’d walked into your favorite aunt’s living room. The other was younger, with bright pink hair pulled into a messy bun and earbuds draped around her neck.

James hovered just behind me, hood still up, face angled slightly downward, like maybe they wouldn’t see him if he didn’t make eye contact.

The older woman greeted us with a practiced retail smile. “Looking for something specific today?”

“Yes,” I said easily, walking toward the counter. “We’re looking for a wig for… someone special.”

Her eyes flicked from me to James, then back again. She didn’t say anything, not right away, but something shifted in her expression. Her gaze softened.

“Well, you’re in luck,” she said gently. “We just got a few new arrivals this week. Beautiful fibers, easy maintenance, a couple of natural blends.”

She turned to the girl with pink hair. “Tina, can you hold the front for a few minutes?”

Tina nodded, already hopping off her stool.

The woman stepped around the counter and gestured for us to follow. “Come with me. We’ll take a peek in the back. It’s a little more private.”

James blinked at me, clearly alarmed. But I gave his hand a quick squeeze, and he followed.

The back of the shop felt more like a styling studio. There were wall hooks with hanging hairpieces, a mirror framed with soft bulbs, and a velvet chair that looked as though it had been stolen from a vintage boutique. It was quiet back here. Safe.

The woman turned to us with a knowing, almost amused smile.

“Now,” she said, “I’m guessing this isn’t really for you.”

I opened my mouth, but she cut me off gently, still smiling.

“You wouldn’t believe how many men I’ve had walk in here over the years,” she said. “Some come alone. Some come in with their wives. Sometimes they say it’s for a costume, or a sister, or a friend. But the eyes give it away.”

Her gaze flicked to James, not judgmental, not smug, just kind.

“And you, sweetheart,” she said softly, “have the same eyes I’ve seen on a lot of brave men who think they’re being very sneaky.”

James looked like he might evaporate on the spot.

“I… I didn’t mean to…”

She held up a hand. “You don’t have to explain. And you don’t have to apologize.”

He went quiet.

“We’re still figuring it all out,” I said softly.

The woman nodded like she’d heard it a hundred times before. “Then you're in the right place.”

She tipped her head. “What are the two of you looking for today?”

James edged closer, fingers tightening around mine.

“We… don’t really know yet,” I said, honestly. “We’re just trying things. Something easy. We want to see what feels like him.”

“That’s more than enough,” she said, warm. “I’ll bring out a few that tend to flatter first‑timers, something that might feel like him when he sees himself.”

She stepped over to a wall of mannequins and pulled down a few wig stands. A soft chestnut bob with a side part. A slightly curled honey-blonde lob. And one sleek, black-espresso shoulder-length piece with the faintest auburn undertone in the sunlight.

She handed the brunette one to me. “This is a safe one. Looks good on everyone.”

Then she surprised us both by turning to James with the espresso-colored wig and holding it out like a peace offering. “Want to try it?”

James blinked. “Me?”

She gave him a friendly smirk. “I promise I won’t bite.”

“I… I don’t think…”

I stepped in quickly. “It’s okay, he doesn’t have to…”

But the woman cut in again, even softer now. “Sweetheart, you’re not the first man to try one of these on in my back room. You won’t be the last. There’s no judgment here. If you hate it, you take it off. If you like it, we'll figure out the next step. That’s all.”

James didn’t move for a long second. Then, carefully, he took the wig from her hands like it might be enchanted.

“I’ll help,” she said, pulling a black mesh cap from a drawer. “We’ll keep it simple.”

The shopkeeper’s hands were practiced, gentle.

She had James sit in the velvet chair, murmuring reassurances as she smoothed the black mesh cap over his hair. He sat stiffly, his knees close together, clutching the wig in his lap like it might escape if he wasn’t careful.

I stayed beside him, gently placing my hand on his shoulder.

“You okay?” I asked softly.

He nodded without looking up.

I smiled. “Okay. Breathe. We’ll just try it and see. We can stop anytime.”

The shopkeeper positioned herself behind him with the espresso-colored wig in hand. “Now just breathe. Look straight ahead.”

He did.

She slipped the wig over his head with the kind of ease that only comes from years of practice. A few quick adjustments, a little tug here and there, and it settled into place.

The transformation wasn’t dramatic. There was no fairy-tale magic moment. But something shifted.

The sleek strands framed his face perfectly, softening the line of his jaw, warming the undertones of his skin. The rich color made his eyes stand out, that deep brown suddenly catching little flecks of amber in the shop’s lighting.

He blinked.

“Oh.”

He reached up instinctively, fingertips grazing the sides like he wasn’t sure it was real.

The shopkeeper stepped back. “There. That’s the one.”

He turned slightly in the mirror.

And I saw it, the way his breath caught. The way his lips parted, then closed again, then parted once more, like he might say something but didn’t have the words yet.

He didn’t smile.

But he didn’t flinch, either.

I leaned in, my reflection hovering next to his in the mirror. “It looks so natural on you.”

He swallowed. “I look… different.”

“Different can be good.”

The shopkeeper stepped aside. “Take your time,” she said. “If you want to try another, we can. If you want to sit a while, that’s fine too.”

James nodded slowly. “This one feels…”

“You don’t have to like it all at once,” I said gently. “Just enough to keep going.”

He looked up at me, finally, and I saw it. The quiet flicker of something new. Not certainty. Not confidence. But curiosity.

That was more than enough.

He stared at himself a little longer, the espresso wig still in place, hands loosely resting in his lap now. The panic had eased from his face, replaced by something softer. Still unsure, but less tense.

The shopkeeper stood beside me, arms crossed thoughtfully. “That one suits him,” she said quietly, “but…”

I glanced at her. “But?”

She smiled, then moved toward a shelf just to the side, towards a smaller rack with a few mannequin heads tucked beneath a row of soft lighting. She reached for one at the end and lifted it carefully: shoulder-length, gently layered, in a warm ash-brown with cooler blonde undertones. Soft face-framing waves. A little messy. Effortless.

She brought it over. “This one’s new. Just came in last week. It’s… subtle. Doesn’t scream anything. But sometimes, the quiet ones are the ones that stick.”

James glanced at it warily. “I don’t know…”

“It’s okay,” I said gently, resting a hand on his arm. “No pressure. But maybe let her try, just once more?”

He looked at me, then the wig. Then nodded.

The shopkeeper stepped behind him again with that same calm grace. Off came the espresso piece, folded neatly and placed aside. Then she positioned the new wig, adjusting it with slow fingers. She tucked a strand here, loosening one there, brushing the ends gently with a fine-toothed comb.

Then she stepped back again.

And everything went still.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t glamorous. But it was… right.

The color softened his whole face, the warm-cool blend flattering his skin without drowning it. The shape framed his jaw with ease, falling just barely past the collarbones in lazy waves. And his eyes looked different. Open. Honest. A little startled, even.

“Oh,” he whispered again.

This time, it wasn’t the same “oh” as before. It wasn’t confusion. It wasn’t uncertainty.

It was recognition.

“Wow,” I breathed. “James…”

He met my eyes in the mirror.

“I look… like someone I know,” he said slowly.

My throat tightened a little. “Then let’s meet this someone.”

The shopkeeper smiled from behind us. “That one’s coming home with you,” she said. “Guaranteed.”

James didn’t argue.

He just kept staring like he was starting to see something no one else had ever quite shown him.

And I stood beside him, heart quietly full, knowing that this was the kind of beginning you don’t rush.

We brought the wig up to the counter, the shopkeeper carrying it in a soft-lined box with both hands.

James stood close beside me, quiet, still, like he was half-holding his breath.

As she began ringing us up, I looked at her. “Thank you,” I said, my voice low. “For being so kind. And non-judgmental. That’s... not easy to find in this world.”

She glanced up, met my eyes, and smiled. “Well,” she said, “it’s good to see someone like you standing beside someone like him.”

My heart squeezed. Not because I needed the praise. But because I knew how few people ever said that out loud.

She kept going, her eyes kind but steady. “Most people see this kind of thing, and they turn away. Or they whisper. Or worse. But it’s good to see someone holding space for something different, and doing it without flinching.”

I swallowed past the lump forming in my throat.

Then she turned to James.

“And you,” she said, softer now. “You’re brave.”

He froze beside me.

“You probably don’t feel like it. You probably think you’re confused. Or scared. Or just trying not to fall apart.” She paused, then added, “But it takes courage to even imagine another version of yourself, one that doesn’t follow the rules you were taught. Most people never get that far.”

James didn’t speak. Didn’t even look up. His fingers tensed slightly around the edge of the box.

The woman didn’t push.

Then, suddenly, he looked up. Without saying a word, he reached across the counter and took her hand.

Not a handshake. Not performative. Just... held it, quiet and small, for two seconds.

Her hand closed around his without hesitation. A soft squeeze. Then she let go.

The walk back to the car was quiet.

James stayed close to my side, the box cradled carefully in his arms, like he wasn’t quite sure what it meant yet, just that it meant something.

He didn’t speak on the drive home, either.

I kept my eyes on the road, glancing sideways every so often. His head was angled toward the window, but I could tell he wasn’t seeing anything out there. He was somewhere else, deep inside whatever had just opened up in that little back room.

And I didn’t interrupt it.

Because I knew what that kind of silence was. It wasn’t withdrawal. It was processing and unraveling old wires, letting a new self breathe underneath the surface.

Whatever this was turning into… it was real, and growing.

And I was here for it.

All of it.

==================================================================

The Next Friday Morning...

Work had been a blur all week. Paperwork came and went. Deadlines approached and receded. Court prep sat open on my screen like a slow-loading memory. But none of it landed. None of it stuck.

Because my head had been spinning ever since Sunday.

The red dress was still in the closet. The perfect ash-blonde wig that made something click inside James’s expression hadn’t moved from the box. And James himself? It was like someone had quietly hit the dimmer switch inside him and pulled the plug, just a little.

That night after we got back, I didn’t push. I thought maybe he just needed space. Perhaps he needed time to process, to adjust, to feel the ground under him again.

But instead of settling, he’d… retreated.

Monday became Tuesday. Tuesday melted into Wednesday. Each night I waited, patiently, for something. Some hint of where his head was at. But it never came.

And I hated how much it got to me.

It crawled into my thoughts between conference calls. It echoed through my chest during closing arguments. It showed up in the mirror while I was brushing my teeth, whispering What did I do wrong?

By Friday morning, I felt like a balloon about to burst.

I didn’t want to push him. I didn’t want to guilt him. But I also couldn’t live in this weird pause — this limbo between honesty and silence. I needed to know what was going on inside him.

I needed to ask. Gently. But soon.

==================================================================

That Friday Evening...

When I got home, I found James at his desk, headset on, hunched over his laptop as if he was trying to will the code into existence. His fingers were flying. His screen had more open windows than I could count.

He looked up briefly as I walked in, his eyes tired. “Hey,” he murmured, barely audible. “Can’t talk. Finalizing the update. Crunch mode.”

I nodded and smiled, small, tight. “Okay.”

We didn’t eat dinner together. I made myself something simple, alone. The kitchen was quiet. Too quiet. I didn’t even turn the music on. I just stood there at the counter, chewing slowly, feeling the ache of something I couldn’t name pressing on my chest.

He worked late.

I checked on him around eleven. He was still going. I kissed the top of his head, but he barely reacted.

By midnight, I gave up and went to bed.

==================================================================

Saturday, Pre-Dawn

I don’t know what woke me, instinct, or just the sound of the bedroom door clicking shut. The mattress shifted under his weight as James slid into bed beside me, exhaling one long, bone-deep sigh like he’d only just realized how exhausted he was.

I turned slightly, not opening my eyes. I could smell the hours on him along with the stale coffee, screen light, and stress.

His hand brushed my hip, briefly. A small touch. Apology? Habit? I wasn’t sure.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did I.

This wasn’t the moment. He was too drained, too done. I let the silence settle and drifted back to sleep.

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Saturday, After Sunrise

By the time James stirred, I was already showered, dressed, and halfway through my second cup of coffee. On the way to the kitchen, I’d drifted past the wig box and laid my palm on the lid for just a second, warm skin on cool cardboard, wistful and true. The sun was warm across the kitchen tiles. The eggs had gone cold on my plate.

He padded into the kitchen in pajama pants and an old hoodie, blinking like a cat dragged out of a nap. Hair tousled. Face creased.

“Hey,” he mumbled. “You’re up early.”

I looked up from my mug. “It’s almost eleven.”

“Oh.” He rubbed his face, blinking harder. “Right.”

I watched him open the fridge. He looked normal. But all I could see was the week that stretched behind us: the quiet, the distance, the unanswered questions coiled tight in my chest like a knot.

I set my mug down and took a breath.

“We need to talk.”

He paused, milk carton in hand. Didn’t move. Didn’t look at me.

“…Okay,” he said finally.

And I knew, this was the moment.

He poured the milk slowly, like dragging time out might change something. But it didn’t.

I waited until he sat across from me at the table, a bowl of cereal in front of him, the quiet hum of the fridge between us.

I folded my hands. Looked him straight in the eye.

“It’s been almost a week, James.”

His spoon paused just above the bowl.

“I know,” he said, not quite looking at me.

“And you’ve barely said a word about it.”

He set the spoon down. Not loud, not sharp. Just final.

“Because I don’t know what to say,” he muttered.

“That you’re scared? That it freaked you out? That you regret it? That you don’t?” I exhaled. “Literally anything would’ve helped.”

He rubbed the back of his neck and leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. “I didn’t regret it,” he said after a long pause. “I just… didn’t know what to do with it.”

I felt that in my chest. The soft ache of it. “You shut down.”

He let out a small, guilty sigh. “I know.”

“I felt it. Every night.”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like I was rejecting it… rejecting you.”

I kept my voice low, but it wasn’t perfectly steady; I blinked hard against the sting. “You didn’t have to say it out loud. The silence said enough.”

He closed his eyes like he was bracing for something. “I guess I thought if I touched it, the questions would come flooding to me. Questions I don’t know the answers to.”

“But it is real, James.”

“I know,” he said quickly, eyes opening again. “I know it is. That’s what scared me.”

He finally looked at me now, directly. And in his eyes, I saw it: not just fear, but grief. Confusion. A strange kind of mourning for something unspoken.

“I looked in that mirror at the wig shop,” he said quietly, “and I saw something I liked. And I hated that I liked it.”

My throat tightened. “Why?”

“Because it changes things. About me. About us. About how I’ve always seen myself. And I didn’t know if… if you’d still see me. After that.”

I leaned forward, heart pounding. “I never stopped. Not for one second.”

He blinked hard. “But I stopped seeing myself, the version of me that I know. That’s what messed with me. That whole week, I felt like I was floating out of my own skin. And it scared the hell out of me.”

I reached across the table, placed my hand over his. “Then let’s find out who that version of you is. Together.”

He looked down at our hands. “I’m scared I won’t like the answer. And I’m even more scared I will.”

“Then I’ll like it enough for both of us. Until you’re ready.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Soft. Like the quiet after a storm. Still damp, still heavy, but clearing.

He let out a breath he’d been holding for days. “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. I don’t want to let go of what I felt, of what we felt. Let go of…”

“Then don’t.”

He looked up again, this time not as someone ashamed, but as someone tired of hiding. “Can we… maybe just take it slow?”

“Always,” I said, squeezing his fingers gently. “But not silent. Not again. If it’s hard, say it. If it’s weird, say that too.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

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The Following Friday...

Another whole week had passed since our conversation at the breakfast table. A week of almosts and maybes and pretending.

The usual routine had continued with work, groceries, jokes, but it felt thin; the open, honest conversation I’d expected still hadn’t arrived, and the days passed in small, patient gestures instead of the clearer reckoning I’d imagined.

And as every second had passed, a quiet ache had begun to settle in. Doubt and a quiet loneliness had pressed in. Hope was there too, silent and steady.

I didn’t let it show, not at work, not with friends, not even alone at night in the mirror. I held the line; kept it neat. But under the calm sat ache and doubt, a small loneliness beside a steady hope.

I had started sleeping lighter and waking earlier. I told myself it would pass. I told myself I had to wait for him now.

So I did.

I was standing at the sink rinsing out two mugs when I felt his eyes on me.

It wasn’t unusual. James had a way of watching me sometimes, like I was a book he hadn’t quite finished reading. But this felt… different.

Not flirtatious. Not passive.

Something lingered behind it.

I glanced back over my shoulder. “What?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just kept looking at me. Head slightly tilted. Eyes quiet. Studying.

“What?” I asked again, trying for a soft smile.

He took a breath. His fingers curled loosely around the edge of the counter.

And then:

“I’m ready.”

Just two words.

They landed with more force than I could have imagined.

My hands froze under the faucet. The water kept running. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I should turn it off, but I couldn’t move.

I turned to him fully, towel in hand. “Ready?”

He nodded.

Still quiet. Still serious. But this time, no retreat in his eyes.

“I don’t know what that means,” I said gently, trying not to let the hope show too obviously in my voice. “Ready for what?”

He looked down at his hands. Then back at me. “To try again. See where it goes.”

And suddenly, it was like I could breathe again.

Not fully. Not completely. But just enough.

I crossed the room slowly, meeting him where he stood.

“You sure?” I asked, searching his face.

He nodded again. “I don’t want to stay stuck. I want to see more of this different me in the mirror. Even if it scares the hell out of me.”

I reached up and touched his cheek. He leaned into it.

“I'm not afraid,” I whispered. “But I’m here, and I believe in us.”

He smiled, just barely, and exhaled through his nose. “I believe in us too.”

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Saturday…

James said he was ready, but after that… nothing. We watched TV. Made dinner and brushed our teeth side by side like always. I didn’t push. I didn’t pry. I smiled when he smiled and let the silence stretch between us without breaking it.

But the truth?

I barely slept.

Not because I was anxious in the way I used to be, but because I didn’t know what this “ready” would look like. And a part of me didn’t want to scare it off before it bloomed.

So when I woke up this morning and started slipping into my usual work clothes, I didn’t expect anything different.

I was brushing my hair, halfway through planning my morning coffee run, when James padded into the bedroom, barefoot and rumpled from sleep. He looked at me, blinking slowly.

“Do you have to go in today?” he asked, his voice still low from sleep.

I paused.

“I’ve got a few things,” I said. “Just for a couple of hours. Why?”

He looked up. Met my eyes.

“I want to try,” he said simply. “Today. Not just talk. I want to put it all on. I want to see.”

For a second, I just stood there, not because I didn’t believe him, but because something in me cracked open all over again. That mix of love and awe and fuck, yes, all at once.

I stepped closer. Touched his arm.

“Okay,” I said softly. “I’ll stay.”

I texted my assistant. Gave a vague excuse. Something about documents and rescheduling: it didn’t matter.

None of it mattered compared to this.

=====================================================================

The sun was higher by the time we started. I made us coffee. Toasted a couple of slices of bread neither of us finished.

We watched each other over the rims of our mugs for a quiet moment, nerves flickering in him, anticipation humming in me. He tried a bite of toast, chewed, then set it down again. I took another sip, the mug warm in my hands. "Good?" I asked, light. He nodded, though his knee kept a small anxious rhythm. I brushed a crumb from his lip and let my fingers linger, just long enough to feel him steady. I set my mug down and held out a hand.

"Come with me," I said.

His fingers threaded through mine. In the bedroom, I pressed a palm to his hip, gently guiding him.

I leaned in and kissed him softly. ‘Ready?’ I asked, barely above a whisper.

He nodded.

I smiled and crossed to the cupboard where we’d tucked the things we’d picked out together. I slid a box free and lifted out a soft blush lace bralette, with matching panties.

A quick, low thrill pulsed under my skin; I kept my voice even. ‘Put these on,’ I said.

He did as I asked, breath catching as he moved. I helped, turning the bralette in his hands, guiding his arms through the straps, smoothing the band flat along his back; then my thumbs at his hips, easing the panties up, coaxing them over him in a slow, patient pull until they settled just right.

I gently pushed him to the edge of the bed. His legs bounced slightly while I brought out the makeup bag.

“Easy,” I said, kneeling in front of him. “No YouTube tutorials. Just a soft touch.”

His eyes followed my every move like I was painting something sacred. And maybe I was.

Concealer first. A touch of powder. A gentle blush across his cheeks.

“Don’t move,” I whispered, brushing a bit of shimmer over his eyelids. “This part’s for me.”

He smiled nervously but didn’t flinch.

A soft nude gloss, nothing loud. Just enough to kiss light off his lips.

He looked… cute.

Softer. Delicate. Feminine in a way that made something in me stir, not just emotionally, but physically.

My eyes lingered on the subtle shimmer on his lids, the way the blush warmed his cheeks, the gentle curve the panties gave his hips.

I wasn’t changing who James was, just revealing what was already there. Like he was just letting go of something. And in the space that opened up, there was this unexpected beauty, unfamiliar, but utterly, utterly magnetic.

I felt it hit me low and warm. The flutter. The pull.

Because it wasn’t just about how he looked. It was so much more. It was the way he looked at me, with nervous eyes and a quiet kind of hope, like he was asking if this version of him could still be loved.

And all I could think was:

God, yes.

Yes to the softness.

Yes to the femininity.

Yes, to the fragile confidence barely holding itself together.

He looked good, yes, but so much more... beautiful. Not despite the makeup or the clothes, but because of them.

And I wanted him.

Maybe more than I ever had.

I stepped back, eyes running over him again, the soft blush on his cheeks, the gloss on his mouth, the faint shimmer at his lids. I put my hands on his, holding them tight, then gently pulled him up. I crossed to the bags from our last trip and rummaged until my fingers found a sundress: light cotton in cornflower blue, a scoop neck with slim straps, and a skirt that would sway when he moved.

"You'd look lovely in this," I said.

He smiled and nodded. I held the dress open for him. He stepped in, and I drew it up, settling the straps on his shoulders and smoothing the skirt so it fell clean along his hips.

But something was missing.

“Stay there,” I said softly.

I walked to the closet and pulled out the cropped dusty rose sweater we’d picked out together. Light knit. A little playful. Feminine. He’d liked it that day, even if he didn’t say it.

“Put this on,” I said, handing it to him.

He hesitated, then slowly slid his arms through the sleeves. It hugged him just right, the hem hitting his waist, the fabric hugging gently around his chest.

Then I went to the dresser and lifted the box with the wig. Still resting in tissue paper, untouched since the shop.

His eyes widened slightly.

I smiled. “Only if you want to.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t stop me either.

I stepped behind him, gathered his hair, smoothed a cap over it, then eased the wig into place. Ash-blonde strands fell over his forehead, soft and straight, brushing the tops of his shoulders. I fussed with it lightly, smoothing it into place, tucking a piece behind one ear.

Then I took his hand.

“Come on.”

We walked to the mirror together.

And when he saw his reflection, he froze.

And so did I.

Because he didn’t just look pretty.

In that light, I saw the newer version of James. I saw her.

Not a costume. Not a disguise. Just… a version of him that had been waiting.

“I look…” he started. Then stopped.

“Pretty,” I said, stepping beside him.

He shook his head slightly. “No. I look like I’m pretending.”

I met his eyes in the mirror. “You look great. And real. I’ve seen plenty of women considered attractive, but you are prettier than a lot of them. And I’m not the kind of woman who says things she doesn’t mean.”

He swallowed. His lips parted. “I don’t even look like me anymore.”

“Then maybe that’s okay,” I said softly. “Maybe today… You’re someone else.”

He turned toward me, still halfway stunned. “…Like who?”

I shrugged, still watching his expression. “That’s up to you.”

After a brief moment of silence, he let out a breath, his shoulders easing. “My mom told me when she was pregnant with me, they thought they were having a girl,” he said, quiet but steady. His fingers toyed with the sweater's hem. “They even had a name picked.”

“Oh,” I said, and met his eyes, something low and warm easing through me.

He nodded.

“What was the name?” I asked softly.

“Emma.”

The name hovered there in the air, delicate and tentative.

I blinked. Then smiled.

“Well,” I said, holding out my hand like we were meeting for the first time. “Hello, Emma.”

He stared at my hand, then took it. His grip was soft. Uncertain.

“…Hi,” he said quietly. “Ashley.”

And just like that, we stood there in front of the mirror holding hands.

James and Ashley, for a moment, were no longer the only names in the room.

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Dedicated from me to you, the readers, and to everyone who has ever doubted who they are and the beauty that lies within them.

And… From Ashley to Emma.

Scars To Your Beautiful by Alessia Cara

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To all the readers, thank you for picking up this story and giving it your time. If you have reached here, I can only hope that you enjoyed reading it and will look forward to the upcoming parts. Please do leave your reviews, comments and feedback. It only encourages me to keep at it and trying harder. You can also contact me via email at iamheremma@proton.me or on Discord iamheremma .