The Girl I Undressed Part 1 of 5

by IAmHerEmma

 

 

 

 

Acknowledgements

I want to thank the people who helped me get this story to where it is. Whether it was through encouragement, feedback, or just listening when I needed to talk it out, you’ve all played a part. If it wasn’t for your support and kindness, I don’t think I’d have found the courage to put this out into the world.

I would like to thank Blake Ashford for being one of the first people to beta-read this story months ago. Your encouragement meant a lot, and you’ve continued to be the person I’ve turned to whenever I’ve doubted myself or felt unsure about the writing process in general. I’m really grateful for your support and friendship.

To Natasha Black, when I put out a call for volunteers on Fictionmania, you stepped in and offered to be a beta reader, and I’m so thankful you did. Your feedback and notes were incredibly helpful, and you caught mistakes I had missed entirely, which made a real difference in cleaning up the draft. More than anything, your kindness and your warm response to the story helped me start letting go of the doubts I had been holding on to.

Lastly, I want to mention Almost Lisa. Just when I thought I wouldn’t find anyone else to beta-read, you stepped in, and so much has happened since then. You became my north star, guiding me with advice, encouragement, and a level of involvement that left me genuinely speechless. You were vocal, honest, and full of conviction in helping shape this story. From pointing out when a scene didn’t quite work to showing me where a character felt off, and reminding me to add detail where it mattered, so everything tied together. I genuinely don’t have the words to express how much your care and commitment have meant to me. Through all of this, I feel like I’ve gained a new friend. Thank you for giving so much of yourself to this story. I am deeply, deeply grateful.

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Authors Note

I’ve been away from writing for six years. I’ve always written primarily from my own fantasies, and only occasionally from personal experience. Still, it took me a long time to get through, partly because I kept losing confidence and stepping back. What I initially thought would be a story centered around sex slowly shifted into something else. It became more about the characters, the quiet shifts, and the slow burn. Somewhere along the way, the story started leading me, not the other way around. And yet, after all that, I lost faith in both myself and the story, and left it buried in one of the many forgotten folders on my computer, convinced it wasn’t good enough to share.

I hope that someone out there connects with the characters or finds something that resonates. If that happens, then maybe this story found the place it was meant to be. Thank you again for giving it a shot, and for reading something that ended up meaning far more to me than I expected.

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

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There’s something about Friday evenings that hits different when you’re dating someone you actually like.

The second I walked out of the courthouse, I could feel my shoulders drop two inches. The noise of legal arguments, coffee breath, and clicking heels faded with each step toward home. My heels came off at the door, my blazer got tossed over a chair, and I finally let myself breathe again, not just oxygen, but space. Permission. Ease.

And maybe a glass of Pinot Noir.

I was halfway through uncorking the bottle when James poked his head into the kitchen. His hair was doing that adorably chaotic thing it always did when he’d been running his fingers through it all day. He wore a navy hoodie that had long ago stopped trying to look new, and a pair of joggers slung low on his hips like he lived in soft clothes, which, to be fair, he basically did.

“Smells good. Are you making the fancy pasta again?” he asked, cautiously eyeing the saucepan.

I smirked. “The one with three pots and a food processor? I already have you, James. I’m not auditioning.”

He chuckled and walked over, slipping his arms around my waist from behind. He rested his chin on my shoulder, one of those unconscious moves he did often, the kind that made me feel tethered in the best way.

“No shame in frozen tortellini,” he said, kissing the curve of my neck.

“Tell that to your Italian ancestors.”

“I’m Irish-German.”

I raised my glass, grinning. “To carb crimes and quiet nights.”

He clinked his with mine. “Cheers.”

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

Later, we were curled up on the couch under a throw blanket. A rerun of some space opera murmured along, all glossy ships and orchestral brass. My legs were draped over his lap; his palm sat easily on my thigh like it belonged there, which it did. The room had that Friday quiet I craved: dishes done, city low, nothing urgent hunting us.

He traced the lace at the hem of my shorts without really thinking about it.

“You’re doing that thing you always do,” I said.

His eyes flicked down, caught. “What thing?”

“The ‘I want to ask a question, but I’m afraid the question is going to reveal a whole universe’ thing.”

He made a face. “That’s a long name.”

“I work in law. We label things precisely,” I angled my head. “Go on.”

He shifted a little under me, gaze sliding over to the TV, then back to me. “Okay, so… have you ever worn something just because it made you feel different? Not for other people. Not for Halloween. Just… because it felt right, even if nobody else would get it.”

Something flickered in his eyes, a mix of emotions I couldn’t pin down.

I nodded. “Yeah. On long court days? I’ll sometimes wear silk panties under my suits.”

His eyebrows jumped. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious,” I smiled into my glass. “They remind me I don’t have to be hard to be strong. That I can carry softness under the armor and it still counts.”

Something in his face shifted, I couldn’t quite make it out; maybe curiosity, maybe confusion. The ships on TV slid through stars; in our living room, the air did the same.

“I think I… get that,” he said. “A little.”

“What happened?” I asked because it seemed like there was a story. “That question didn’t come out of nowhere.”

He huffed a small laugh, sheepish. “Okay. I took a break from the beta patch. The AI pathing is doing that thing where the NPCs insist the wall is a door, so I ran to the market to stop myself from rage-refactoring the whole system.”

“Very healthy,” I said solemnly.

“I know. Gold star.” He rubbed his jaw. “I grabbed eggs, spinach, and bread. Stood in line behind a guy in a button-down and chinos. Normal. He dropped his card, bent to grab it…” He glanced at me like he was checking if I’d think he was ridiculous. “And I saw a strip of mauve lace at his waistband. Not boxers. Not ‘it’s kind of silky if you squint.’ Straight-up panties. Like, pretty.”

I didn’t move. “And?”

“And I froze. Not like, ‘ugh, gross.’ More like… the world tilted for a second.” He exhaled. “The cashier looked up, then back to the scanner. If she noticed, she didn’t register it; she just asked, ‘Paper or plastic?’ in that bored, end-of-shift voice. He said, ‘Paper.’ The receipt spit out. A toddler behind me was negotiating for stickers. No one blinked.”

“Maybe he wore them for his girlfriend,” I said, easy. “Or his boyfriend. Or because it was laundry day and the universe handed him mauve.”

He huffed. “Or because he lost a bet.”

“Or,” I said, nudging his knee with mine, “because he likes how they feel. Maybe it’s not just panties. Maybe there’s a matching set. Stockings. A bralette he keeps for days when the world’s too loud. Maybe it’s Tuesday, and silk makes the checkout line less boring.”

He gave me a look. “That’s… a lot of maybes.”

“I bill by the maybe,” I said. “Occupational hazard.”

He tried not to smile and failed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Accurate. Also, curious.” The lace edge of my shorts flirted with his thumb. I let it. “I’m saying there are a dozen reasons, and none of them need a laugh track.”

“So you think he just… enjoys it?”

“I think plenty of people enjoy softness and never tell a soul,” I said. “Some people go further. Full set. Maybe more than once in a while.”

He blew out a breath. “Right. And next you’ll tell me he left the store, got into a cab, and went home to a walk-in closet of secret satin.”

“Or a shoebox under the bed,” I said. “Rituals don’t need square footage.”

He shook his head, half amused, half defensive. “It still sounds ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” I lifted a brow.

He kept his eyes on the TV. “I don’t get it,” he said. “It just doesn’t make sense to me.”

“People do things because they want to feel good,” I said. “Sometimes, because it makes them feel sexy. Sometimes, because soft beats scratchy. Sometimes, because they like the look, even if no one else ever sees it.”

“Sexy?” he said, skeptical.

“Sometimes it’s a fetish,” I said lightly. “Sometimes it’s comfort. Sometimes it’s control, choosing a layer the world doesn’t get to vote on. All of the above. None of the above. People are allowed their reasons.”

He shook his head. “Still feels ridiculous.”

“That’s fine,” I said, teasing. “It doesn’t have to make sense to you… unless you wanted to find out. Who knows, it might even stir something.”

He blinked. “Stir something?”

I smiled. “At minimum, it would look good on you.”

He stared at me, incredulous. “You actually think that?”

“I do,” I said, teasing but steady. “Could be sexy. Maybe even cute.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I can’t tell if you’re messing with me or trying to start something.”

“A little of both,” I said. “Only if you want to.”

He snorted. “Yeah, right! You’re messing with me.”

“Mm.” I kept my tone light, teasing, because I knew exactly where his edges were. “We could start with panties. But if we’re daydreaming, I’m allowed the deluxe package.”

“Fat chance.”

“No pressure,” I said, because there wasn’t. I shifted my legs, and his hand adjusted automatically, the contact unbroken. “Just letting you know the drawer exists. And if you ever wander near it, I won’t sound any alarms, at most I’ll smirk, say ‘cute,’ and pretend not to stare for a whole ten seconds.”

He rolled his eyes, his face flushed; he searched for something to say and came up empty. I chuckled, and we both turned back to the TV. The ships glided. Our Friday settled. Nothing else in the world required us.

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A week slid by the way good weeks do: small routines, shared jokes, a couple of long days that knocked the wind out of me, and one surprise visit to take me out to lunch. I wore silk under gray on Wednesday and thought about telling him, but didn’t, because there was a sweeter answer I wanted him to come to on his own.

Friday found us in almost the same shape: couch, blanket, me in a soft tee and little shorts, him in joggers, and that hoodie that defied laundry into permanent softness. The TV lit up the room. This time, it wasn’t a space opera; it was a sketch show doing a bit where a man, well-styled as a woman, played a confident femme fatale, not the punchline.

I gave him a look. He caught it. “What?”

“Nothing,” I said, but the corner of my mouth gave me away. On-screen, the femme fatale blew smoke and stepped through a doorway like she owned the building.

He watched me watching him. “Say it.”

“It’s not the bit,” I said. “It’s your shoulders. They’re doing that thing where a thought shows up and pretends to be casual.”

He huffed. “You’re impossible.”

“Frequently,” I said, sliding my toes along his calf. His eyes dropped to the lace at my hem again and stayed. “You wore those on purpose,” he said.

“Maybe,” I said. “I figured we might talk.”

“About what?”

“About you,” I said lightly. “About you trying something soft. Not as a sketch. As you.”

He barked a laugh. “Come on.”

“Not a production,” I said. “One small thing. Just to see what it feels like. There’s no test, no audience, and you can take it off in ten seconds if you hate it.”

He stared at the TV for a while. “I don’t know if it’s me.”

“It doesn’t have to be ‘you’ forever,” I said. “It can be you for five minutes. People try things to feel good. Or to feel different for a second. Sometimes that different is sexy. Sometimes it’s just… quiet.”

He looked back at me, trying to read how serious I was. I let him see it. “You think that’d be sexy?”

“It could be,” I said. “It could be cute. It could be nothing, and we laugh and order noodles. But, I’m not joking about the part where it might feel good.”

His mouth tilted, unsure. “And if I did… hypothetically… how would that even work? Do I just… pick one?”

“You let your very qualified girlfriend pick a couple,” I said, teasing. “You remember there’s no wrong answer, only what feels right. You breathe and that’s it.”

He turned our hands so our fingers laced, thumb drawing slow, nervous circles on my knuckle. The air around us changed just a little; the TV went to commercials, and neither of us looked away.

He opened his mouth, closed it. “You’re serious.”

“I am.”

He searched my face like there was a secret door I hadn’t told him about, then laughed once, disbelieving and a little thrilled. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m consistent,” I said. “Last week I got a ‘fat chance.’ This week I’m offering field research.”

He shook his head, still flushed. “You make everything sound simple.”

“It is simple,” I said.

He went quiet, eyes searching mine. “It’s… a little scary,” he said, barely above a breath. “Like if I let myself feel it, I won’t know what to do with it.”

“Nothing you find scares me. You’re safe with me.”

He exhaled, a small surrender, and nodded. “Okay,” he said, with a wry, nervous smile.

I stood and offered my hand with a teasing smile. “Then let’s go to the bedroom and find you something soft.”

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In the bedroom, I flicked on the warm lamp beside the bed and walked over to my lingerie drawer, the one that held all the silky little luxuries I wore more for me than anyone else. I dug around a bit and pulled out a pair of lavender mesh panties, sheer with floral lace on the sides and a soft elastic waistband.

“These should fit,” I said, handing them to him. “They’re stretchy. And they’ll look good on you.”

He took them slowly, as if I were offering him something fragile and rare. His eyes went a little wide, uncertain but curious, a flush rising high on his cheeks; his mouth softened like he’d let something in. His fingers lingered on the lace, stroking it as if to memorize its texture.

“I… don’t know how I’ll look,” he admitted.

“You’ll look like you,” I said. “Just in something softer.”

He smiled nervously, then glanced toward the mirror.

I tilted my head with a little smirk. “Want me to turn around while you change? I promise not to peek… unless you want me to.”

That got a breathy laugh out of him, small, but real.

“Maybe just for a minute,” he said.

I set my hand over his and held him. “No pressure. No audience. If you want to stop, say so.” I turned toward the door and gave him the room.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

I leaned casually against the door, heart quietly pounding behind my ribs.

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

A few minutes later, the door creaked open.

James stood there, one arm crossed self-consciously over his bare stomach, the other resting near the hem of the panties. They fit snugly — not perfectly — but beautifully imperfect. And undeniably feminine.

But what really got me was his face. Vulnerable, unsure, glowing in the softest, strangest way. Like a part of him had just peeked out from under years of dust and finally seen light.

I didn’t move. I let myself look, really look. The rise of his chest. The way his fingers hovered at the waistband like he might cover himself, and couldn’t decide. Heat climbed his throat. His eyes flicked to mine, away, back again, asking without words.

The quiet stretched. I felt him start to fold under it: shoulders tightening, chin tilting down, the slightest tug at the hem as if to hide what he’d just dared to show me.

Color rose high on his cheeks. His mouth parted, then closed; the words wouldn’t come. For a breath, I saw it… the worry I might disapprove.

I stepped toward him, unhurried, softening my face so he’d know it wasn’t disapproval. “May I?”

He nodded, bashful, gaze breaking from mine. I set my palms warm at his hips, steady at first, then gentler, and smoothed the fabric where it had twisted, easing the lace so it lay clean against his skin. He shuddered under my hands, breath catching. The sound that left him was half-surprise, half-relief.

“There,” I murmured. “That’s better.”

Only then did I lift my eyes back to his. “Cute,” I said, and meant it.

His lips parted. “Really?”

I reached for his hand, threading my fingers through his.

“Come see what I see.”

I led him to the mirror. His reflection looked hesitant at first, standing tall, but cautious. Then his eyes flicked down, back up. I could see it, the flicker of something blooming.

He stared at his reflection, suddenly uncomfortable. “This just feels…” He took a half step back, like he might walk away.

“You don’t have to,” I said, standing behind him and wrapping my arms around his waist. “Take your time, I’m here.”

He stood there for another long moment, breathing steadily, soaking in the image like it might vanish if he blinked too fast.

I let the quiet breathe between us. “If you want,” I said softly, “we can try a little more.” I held still, leaving the choice with him, no rush, no script.

He swallowed, eyes lifting to mine, surprised. “You… really want me to try more?”

I let my expression soften and nodded with a small smile. “I want you to do what you want, but only if you’re sure.”

He nodded, but there was a flicker of hesitation in it, not about the desire, but about what it might mean. I didn’t push. I waited, fingers brushing his hip.

I turned him gently toward me, searching his face. “Are you sure?”

“I think so,” he said finally, voice low.

I smiled, not to fill the silence but to honor it. He didn’t need to explain more than that. The wanting was already there; I could feel it in the way his eyes kept drifting toward the open drawer, in the way his body stood a little taller now, even if the nerves were still humming underneath. It lit something in me, warm and protective and a little greedy; a quiet flutter low in my belly.

I walked to the drawer again and picked out a soft blush-pink bralette, light, unstructured, with a stretch lace band. Nothing too bold. Just the next step.

“This one’s gentle,” I said, holding it up. “Like something you wear when you don’t need to be anyone else.”

He took it carefully, turning it over in his hands. “I don’t even know how to put this on.”

“You’re not the only one who’s ever said that,” I said, smiling. “Come here.”

He stepped close, and I slipped it up over his arms and shoulders, adjusting the lace against his chest. His breathing was steady, but I could feel his pulse, fast and warm under my fingertips.

The bralette sat snugly across him, subtle but transforming. His hands hovered at his sides, not sure what to do, until he looked in the mirror again.

“How does it feel?” I asked.

He hesitated. "I... I don't know how it's supposed to feel."

“Warm? Snug? Strange? Soft?” I offered, keeping my voice easy. He watched my face for a beat, then nodded once.

“Soft,” he said, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed the word yet.

I leaned beside him, keeping my voice low and gentle. “You look good in soft things.”

He glanced over at me, uncertain but glowing. “I never thought I’d hear someone say that and not be joking.”

“Well,” I said, brushing his hair back behind his ear, “welcome to a new chapter, sweetie.”

He laughed softly, a real one this time, less nervous. Then he looked back toward the drawer.

“If you want to try a little more, we can,” I said, not rushing. He didn’t answer, just a small, startled breath, eyes flicking in question. “It’s okay,” I said softly. “Do whatever feels comfortable to you.”

I watched his attention settle on the open drawer; a warm, protective pull rose in me, and I let my face soften so he’d know I was with him. “You get to pick what comes next,” I said softly. “I want to see what you’re drawn to.” He nodded and stepped closer to the drawer, fingertips brushing over slips, stockings, camisoles. There was something beautiful in the way he touched each fabric, reverent, like he was discovering a world he’d always felt but never quite seen.

His hand paused over a satin slip in dove gray. “This one?”

I smiled. “Good choice.”

He took it from me and hesitated. “Should I change in the bathroom again?”

I met his eyes, keeping my voice soft. “You can change here if you want. If you’d rather have privacy, that’s okay too, do whatever feels comfortable.”

He slipped out of the bralette slowly, folding it carefully before stepping into the satin. The hem brushed mid-thigh, and as he adjusted the straps over his shoulders, I saw it again, that blooming light in his face. It felt like something was clicking into place.

“Still me?” he asked, turning toward me.

I walked up to him and took both his hands in mine. I brushed my thumb over his knuckles. “A new you,” I murmured.

We stood like that for a moment, then I pulled him gently to sit beside me on the edge of the bed. I didn’t make a move. I didn’t have to. He leaned his head against my shoulder, and I let my arm wrap around him, fingers lightly tracing the satin along his hip.

It was quiet. Safe.

“You’re not weird for trying this,” I said quietly. “You’re brave for letting yourself have it.”

He turned his face into my neck, exhaling. “I don’t even know what I want it to mean yet.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything right now,” I said. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

He was quiet for a while, just breathing with me. Then, “I feel calm. Like I could sleep like this.”

“You can,” I said. “We’ve got nowhere else to be.”

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The next morning…

The smell of coffee always made mornings feel so much better.

I stood in the kitchen, barefoot, hair twisted up messily, sleep shirt barely buttoned over a pair of cotton boyshorts. A skillet hissed quietly behind me, scrambled eggs, a bit of toast, nothing fancy.

The mug in my hands was warm, and I sipped from it slowly as sunlight spilled across the floor in a golden spill of peace. My body felt warm and steady, like a quiet calm settling over water.

And then I heard him.

Soft footsteps. A creak in the hallway floor. I didn’t turn right away. I knew it was him. I waited a moment, hoping he’d kept it on, that he felt safe enough to meet the morning as himself. Then I turned.

There he was at the edge of the kitchen, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to exist in this light, still wearing the slip.

Something tender went through me—relief, pride, love, simple and sure.

The dove gray satin clung gently to him, one strap slightly slipping off his shoulder. His hair was tousled from sleep, his eyes still puffy and blinking.

He rubbed his neck and gave me a lopsided smile. “Morning.”

“Morning,” I said, like him standing there in the satin slip was the most normal thing in the world. Because it was. Because it should be.

“You’re up early,” he said, padding barefoot across the tile. He hesitated just a second before walking fully into the kitchen.

I watched him take a seat at the little breakfast nook by the window. The sunlight caught the sheen of my slip on him as he moved, the familiar fabric hugging his body, and the sight was so quietly tender it made my throat tighten.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” I said, setting down the coffee pot. “You looked peaceful.”

He chuckled softly, still a little groggy. “Not at first. It was a lot… new to me… and my mind wouldn’t settle. The feel of it kept waking me up. Kept me up for a while.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, sheepish. “But I did sleep. Eventually.”

I smiled, relieved. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please. With enough sugar to legally qualify as a dessert.”

I poured a mug, added sugar until I saw him grin, and handed it to him. His fingers brushed mine as he took it, and neither of us pulled away immediately.

“You didn’t change,” I said gently, more a statement than a question.

He looked down at the slip and let out a sheepish laugh. “Yeah… I thought about it. I stood in front of my drawers for about five minutes. But I didn’t want to lose the feeling just yet.”

“So don’t,” I said, relief warming my voice as I turned back to the stove. My heart clenched in that quiet, beautiful way it does when you love someone just a little bit more than you did five seconds ago. “There’s no timer on letting yourself enjoy this feeling.”

I could feel his eyes on me as I plated the eggs and toast.

“About last night…” he said. “It was all new. My body didn’t know what to do with it. For a while, I wasn’t sure I needed any of it… and then… it felt like maybe I did.”

I looked over my shoulder at him, meeting his gaze. “Same,” I said softly. “I didn’t realize how much I wanted it either, until we were there.”

He smiled, not shyly this time, but steady. And I smiled back, then brought over two plates, sliding his across the table.

“Eggs and toast,” I said. “Goes well with satin and a slow morning.”

He reached across the table and found my hand. He didn’t say anything; his fingers tightened around mine, a quiet yes I felt more than heard.

We sat in the morning light, eating, sipping coffee. The world outside kept turning, cars passed, birds chirped, and emails pinged into inboxes we weren’t checking.

But here, in this little pocket of domestic quiet, something had shifted.

Not everything.

Just enough.

Eventually, I glanced at the clock and sighed. “I should get dressed. Big client meeting this morning.”

James groaned playfully. “Already? I thought we agreed to boycott reality for at least another hour.”

“Tempting,” I said, rising to clear our plates. “But the law waits for no one. Not even emotionally awakened men looking devastating in my satin slip.”

He blushed at that, but he didn’t flinch. That was progress.

As I moved through my morning routine — makeup, hair, a slate gray suit with just enough structure to remind people I was the one in the room with teeth — I felt his presence trailing behind me like warmth. He didn’t hover, but I caught him watching me with soft eyes as I buttoned my blouse, like he was seeing me through a different lens now. As if a quiet understanding had just begun between us. It felt new, a little fragile, as if it were not yet fully revealed.

I kissed him before I left, right there in the doorway. His coffee mug was still in his hand, his bare legs tucked under the kitchen stool, the slip still fluttering slightly against his thighs.

“You gonna be okay today?” I asked, brushing my thumb along his jaw.

He nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got some level design notes to finish. And a build test at three. Just… normal stuff.”

“Good. Keep it soft in here,” I said, tapping the center of his chest. “If you’re going to wear my slip all day, please don’t spill anything on it. It’s a bitch to clean.”

He smiled, quiet and grateful. Then he touched the spot I’d tapped, and curled his fingers around my hand for a second, a silent yes.

Then I left, briefcase in hand, heels clicking down the hallway, my lips still tingling from the way he looked at me as the door closed behind me.

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

The day at the office was just like any other day. Cold, sharp, full of caffeine and competition. Just like any other day, I slipped back into the rhythm of emails, calls, and the usual legal theater. But something inside me felt different. I was carrying a new secret. Something soft and personal. I kept smiling, already counting down to when I could go back home to it.

At one point, between meetings, I found myself staring out the window, coffee in hand, thinking about him and wondering if he was still wearing the slip. If he’d tried on anything else. The image made my lips curve before I could stop them.

“Someone’s having a good morning,” one of the paralegals said with a grin as she passed.

I just hummed. “Something like that.”

She moved on, and I returned my gaze to the window, cradling my coffee like it could keep me tethered to the softness I’d left behind at home.

It was strange, not in a bad way, just unexpected. Unexpected how something as simple as watching James in that slip could shift something in me. Not just how I saw him, but how I saw us.

I’d always known he was layered. James was quiet, thoughtful, and disarmingly funny when he let his guard down. But last night, he let me see something else. Something he hadn’t even looked at himself until now. And instead of recoiling from it, he’d leaned in. Let himself want. Let himself feel.

That kind of bravery? That kind of tenderness? It was intoxicating.

And it made me feel… trusted. Needed, maybe. Or maybe just chosen in a way that wasn’t performative or expected. Like he handed me a fragile truth and believed I wouldn’t drop it.

I realized I liked that. More than liked it. I craved it.

The world I moved through — sharp suits, sharp minds, sharp smiles — didn’t have much room for softness. But in the quiet moments, in our home, with him? There was room to breathe. There was room to explore and to play, without fear of being diminished by it.

I took another sip of coffee, letting it warm me from the inside.

There was more here. More, he hadn’t said. More I hadn’t asked. Not because I was afraid. But because I wanted to let him come to it in his own time.

A quiet smile tugged at my lips as I turned back to my desk.

Let the legal filings wait a minute longer.

I had something better to think about.

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

Later that evening...

The lock clicked gently as I pushed the door open.

The scent of home hit first. Like something warm and lived-in. Not dinner, not candles. Just us. The layered residue of coffee, shampoo, laundry soap, and comfort.

I slipped off my heels with a quiet sigh, then set down my bag. The lights were soft, just a few lamps turned on. The kind of glow you get used to when someone works from home and learns to live in the spaces between brightness and calm.

“James?” I called, not loud, just enough. The door clicked shut behind me; my pulse picked up, a warm, low spark waking as I pictured him and what he might be wearing, whether tonight would go further than last night. No answer. I glanced at the entry hook: no keys. Did he go out? I stepped in, listening.

“James?” I tried again, a little louder.

“Office!” he called back.

I stepped into the kitchen first, opened the fridge, and poured the last of the cold brew into a glass. I didn’t rush. I wanted to feel the in-between moment. Coming home. Reentering the bubble we’d created last night and wondering how much of it still lingered in the air.

When I finally wandered into the room he called an office, I found him exactly as I had imagined. He had his headset around his neck, notes open, keyboard half-covered with a snack plate. His hair was a little wild, and he had the look of someone who hadn’t realized that almost an entire day had passed and it was already evening.

But what made me smile, what made something low in my stomach do a slow turn, was the fact that he was still wearing something soft. Not the full slip. Not quite lingerie. But a loose black tank that was definitely mine and a pair of his own lounge shorts, except… underneath, peeking ever so slightly at the hip, was a thin line of lace.

I leaned against the doorframe and sipped my drink.

“You had a productive day, I see,” I said.

He looked up, grinning. “Define productive.”

“Did the game get built?”

“Technically? Yes. There’s a bug that makes all the NPCs walk backward, but that’s tomorrow’s problem.”

I walked toward him, slow and casual, like I wasn’t already cataloging the exact curve of lace I could see. “And the other stuff?”

He tilted his head, playing innocent. “Other stuff?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Mm. You wore my slip to breakfast, remember?”

“Oh, that stuff,” he said, blushing, his grin curling as he reached to push his chair back slightly. “I, uh… might’ve tried on a couple things.”

My smile deepened. “And?”

He looked down at his lap, then back up at me with a boyish shrug. “I think I liked it more when you were there.”

I set my glass down beside his monitor and leaned down until our faces were close. “That’s sweet.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.” I kissed his cheek, slow and warm. “And you’re not done.”

His breath caught slightly. “No?”

“No,” I said, running a hand through his hair. “We’ve barely scratched the surface.”

He blinked, clearly not expecting the words to land as heavy and soft as they did.

I straightened up and let my fingers trail along his shoulder as I walked past. “I’m gonna shower. When I come back out… you should show me what you tried.”

He twisted in his chair to watch me go. “You’re not tired?”

I looked back at him over my shoulder. “I’m not tired, babe. I’m enthralled.”

I disappeared into the hallway, leaving the scent of perfume and a smile in my wake.

The soft click of the bathroom door echoed like punctuation at the end of a whispered sentence.

I didn’t hear James move at first.

I could picture him still sitting there, half-twisted in his chair, the glow of the monitor lighting his profile. Processing. That mixture of nerves and excitement that always settles in right after an invitation. Just like when the moment hasn't happened yet, but it’s already starting to live in your skin.

Water started running. The hiss of the shower, the faint creak of the pipes, the world narrowing to simple domestic sounds. Ordinary. Familiar.

And yet...

It didn’t look different, but I did. My pulse ticked up; warmth ran low and bright. I felt more alive.

You’re not done.

There was something about that thought. The calmness. The certainty.

No, James, you’re most certainly not done.

Maybe it was bold of me. Maybe a little dangerous. But I knew him — knew when to give him space, and when to give him a little nudge. And I had a feeling this was a nudge he wouldn’t forget.

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

I let the water run hot and stood beneath it, letting the steam curl around my skin. I didn’t rush. Part of me wanted to see what he’d do with the moment I gave him.

Would he pick something else? Something prettier? Or something playful?

Would he wait on the bed, folded neatly, the nerves starting to flutter again?

Or maybe, just maybe, he’d be bold.

Fifteen minutes later, I stepped out in nothing but a towel, drying my hair as I padded toward the bedroom.

And what I found waiting for me made me pause in the doorway. It was heart-catching, lips parting, something low and slow blooming in my chest.

James had changed again.

And this time… he'd made a choice.

He stood near the bed when I walked in, the light from the bedside lamp washing over him in soft gold.

And for a second, I just… looked.

He’d pulled on a deep burgundy camisole I barely remembered owning, something soft and loose, edged with black lace along the neckline. On me, it hung just below the hips. On him, it barely covered his front. It clung differently to his frame, stretched a little across his chest, but it still worked. Not perfect. But perfect enough.

And beneath it — long, pale legs, bare until mid-thigh… where I caught the unmistakable shimmer of sheer stockings.

Thigh-highs.

My thigh-highs.

No garters, just the gentle hug of elastic lace around his thighs, holding them in place. They were slightly uneven. One sat higher than the other. But that somehow made it better.

Real. Vulnerable. Care in the trying, not polish.

His fingers were fidgeting with the hem of the cami, eyes flitting toward me and then away again. He looked like he was trying not to apologize for something that didn’t need apologizing.

I didn’t speak right away.

I let the silence do what it needed to. To hold him in place, bathe him in light, let him be seen.

Then I stepped closer, towel still wrapped around me, drops of water clinging to my collarbone.

“You went exploring,” I said softly.

He swallowed. “I… I wasn’t… wasn’t sure if… if it was too much.”

I shook my head slowly, closing the space between us. “No, baby. Not too much. Just more of you.”

His breath hitched slightly at that, and I reached up to touch the strap where it had twisted slightly on his shoulder, adjusting it with a tenderness that bordered on reverent.

“You look good,” I said. “Braver than yesterday.”

He gave a soft, shaky laugh. “My heart’s pounding. You have to tell me… do you think this is… weird?” He tilted his head, searching my face. “I keep waiting to feel like it’s wrong, but… I kind of don’t.”

“You shouldn’t,” I said, keeping my voice low and warm. “Nothing about this is wrong. You’re allowed to feel good, pretty, soft… whatever this is for you. If weird just means new, we’ll learn it together.” I set my palm lightly to his chest, feeling the quick thud under my hand. “Breathe. Let it sit. If you want the next step, I’ll lead. If you want to pause, I’ll hold you. Either way, I want you to feel this with me.”

He looked down at himself, then back up at me. “I don’t know what it is yet.”

“That’s okay,” I said, brushing my fingers along the lace of the camisole where it rested over his chest. His heartbeat thudded quick beneath it, matching my own. “We’re not in a hurry.”

He nodded, eyes still searching mine.

The moment hovered there. Soft, electric, waiting for whatever came next.

And I could feel it: the room shifting. The space between us was filled with questions we hadn’t asked yet. The invitations we hadn’t spoken aloud.

But we would.

Soon.

I reached for his hand and laced my fingers through his, giving it a slight, reassuring squeeze. The lace of the camisole brushed against my knuckles, and the feeling was unexpectedly intimate. Delicate fabric over hands that were broad and masculine, but soft from long days at a keyboard. Feminine on masculine. Tension and tenderness stitched into the seams.

He was watching me closely now, breathing a little slower.

“You know,” I said, running my thumb across the inside of his wrist, “you’re doing something brave with me.”

“What’s that?”

“Let someone see you. Really see you.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Kind of hard to hide, dressed like this.”

“That’s not what I mean,” I said, stepping in a little closer, until the towel around me brushed against the hem of the cami. “You didn’t just put something on. You let something out, and you’re letting me in to see parts of you I didn’t know were there.”

My free hand trailed gently down the side of his thigh, fingers brushing the sheer band of the stocking. He shivered.

“And?” he asked, voice lower now.

“And,” I murmured, “I like what I see.”

His breath caught again, and I felt it. That flicker of heat, low and humming. The kind that made everything feel slow and intentional.

I brought his hand up to my lips and kissed the back of it, before letting it slide down to rest at my waist, against the towel. His fingers curled there, tentative.

“I’m still…” he began, faltering. “I’m still not sure what you want from me like this.”

I tilted my head. “James.”

He looked at me.

“I don’t want anything from you,” I said gently. “I want things with you.”

A pause. Then a small, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “That was cheesy.”

“It was also true,” I said, leaning in to kiss the curve of his jaw, just beneath his ear.

He let out a sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan—something caught between surprise and need.

I let my lips linger just a second longer, then pulled back slightly, eyes meeting his.

“You want to feel a little more?” I asked.

His answer came not in words but in the way his fingers tightened slightly against my hip, leaning forward, not fully closing the distance, but inviting me to.

So I did.

I kissed him slowly, deeply, patiently.

Not the kind of kiss that says take me now, but the kind that says you’re safe, you’re wanted, and I’m right here.

When I pulled back, he looked dazed in the best way. Lips parted, eyes soft, breath uneven.

“You’re not wearing much,” he said, glancing at the towel.

“And you’re wearing something that makes me want to touch every inch of you.”

His cheeks flushed, but he didn’t look away. “It’s still me,” he said, like he needed me to know.

“It is,” I said softly. “Just a different, and more beautiful version of you.”

I smiled, stepping back just enough to untuck the towel from where it was folded between my breasts. I let it fall. Not with dramatics, just a quiet letting-go, and stood in front of him, bare and unapologetic.

His eyes moved slowly, reverently. Not greedy. Just awake.

“Still want to go slow?” I asked.

He nodded, voice thick. “Yeah. But… maybe not that slow.”

I stepped forward again, wrapping my arms around him, feeling the press of satin and skin, the lace of the stockings against my thighs.

“Come to bed,” I whispered.

And together, we crossed the few feet of carpet like it meant everything.

Because tonight, it kind of did.

We moved like a conversation, like asking and answering without needing words.

My hand drifted lower, past the hem of the camisole, brushing along the bare skin of his thigh where the stocking ended. He shivered, eyes fluttering half-closed, lips parted. I let my fingers trace the line of the lace band, then slipped inward, cupping him through the soft fabric.

He was already hard.

So hard.

Straining beneath the satin, thick and twitching with each stroke of my palm. His hips jerked gently, seeking more, but I kept my touch slow. Teasing. Reverent. I wanted to feel every inch of him. The weight, the heat, the way he pulsed for me.

“God,” he whispered. “Ashley…”

“I love how you feel like this,” I murmured, brushing my lips across his cheek, my fingers wrapping around him through the thin material. I stroked him slowly, base to tip, feeling the way the fabric clung and shifted over his cock. He moaned softly, breath warm against my throat.

“Take these off?” he asked, voice raw.

I nodded, and he lifted slightly as I eased the shorts and the satin down over his thighs. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, precum already beading at the tip. I wrapped my hand around him bare this time, slow and firm, my thumb teasing his slit, spreading the wetness.

He gasped and buried his face in my neck.

“You’re gorgeous,” I whispered. “Do you want me?”

“More than anything,” he breathed.

I opened my legs for him, guiding him between them with a gentle pull of my hips. He hesitated only a second, long enough for our eyes to meet. Then I reached down, took him in hand, and angled him toward me.

He slipped his cock inside me with one long, slow push. Stretching me open, filling me inch by inch. We both groaned, the sound shared, like it had been waiting in our lungs all day.

His cock was thick, hot, perfect. Every thrust was a deep, steady motion that rocked through me in slow waves. He moved slowly, but with rhythm. Like he was learning me with every inch, every shift of pressure, every moan that escaped my lips.

Our bodies met again and again, wet and smooth, flesh against flesh, the glide of his thighs brushing my own, the faint rasp of the lace stockings as he rutted into me slowly.

“James,” I gasped, arching up to meet him.

“I’m here,” he panted, forehead pressed to mine, hand gripping my hip like it anchored him. “You feel so fucking good.”

I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him deeper inside me. Our rhythm slow and pulsing, tender and exact. My fingers dug into his back, my mouth moving along his jaw, his neck, catching the sweat that beaded there.

He rocked into me again, and again, and again. Deep, measured strokes that made me gasp into his skin.

I could feel him getting closer, the tremble in his thighs, the sharp intake of breath, the way his thrusts grew heavier, more urgent.

I pulled his face to mine and kissed him as he came. A deep moan filled my mouth as he released his cum inside me, hips jerking once, twice. His cock throbbed, hot and pulsing, and the feel of him pushed me right over with him.

I came in soft waves, breath stuttering, body arching up to meet his, clutching him tight as the pleasure rolled through me. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t frantic. It was intimate.

When it was over, he collapsed onto me, still buried inside, his breath hot against my skin, his body slick with sweat.

I cradled him there, fingers combing through his damp hair, heart still pounding.

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

Saturday Morning...

Sunlight was the first thing I felt. Warm, soft, crawling across the bedsheets like it belonged there.

Then the weight of a body beside mine. Warm. Familiar. Tangled up with me in a way that didn’t feel rushed or accidental.

James.

Still asleep. Hair a mess. One arm flung across my stomach like he’d claimed the territory sometime in the night and decided to stay.

I smiled into the pillow, heart already too full for a Saturday morning.

We’d fallen asleep without dinner. That realization hit gently, like a forgotten promise, and I let it make me grin. A good kind of forgetting. The kind that happens when you’re busy creating something new with someone, and dinner just doesn’t make the cut.

I reached for my phone, checked the time, and groaned. Still early, but not that early.

I stretched carefully, kissed his temple, and slipped out of bed.

The apartment was quiet. The kind of quiet that felt earned. No buzz of emails. No meeting alerts. Just a soft, lived-in silence and the slow creak of floorboards under bare feet.

I padded to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, the scent slowly unfurling into the air like a welcome-back hug.

By the time the pan was hissing with eggs and toast, I heard the shuffle of movement behind me.

He stood in the doorway, bleary-eyed, hair askew, still wearing the camisole and one stocking. The other was either somewhere in the bed or lost to history.

I smiled without turning around. “Well, good morning, beautiful.”

He rubbed at his eyes and smirked. “You’re really leaning into that nickname, huh?”

I shrugged. “You wore my lingerie and gave me the best orgasm I’ve had all year. I'm feeling generous.”

He groaned and buried his face in his hands, chuckling. “Jesus.”

I finally turned to face him, crossing the space with the easy familiarity of shared skin and no secrets. I touched his cheek, gently coaxing his hands down.

“You okay?” I asked.

He nodded, a little shy again in the daylight. “It feels like I’m dreaming,” he murmured. “Part of me keeps waiting to wake up.”

I let a small smile warm my voice. “Why would you want to wake up from a good dream?”

He didn’t answer. He just slid his hand over mine and held on.

I kissed him lightly, grounding. “No rush.”

The breakfast plates clinked softly against the counter as we sat down. He then went over to the couch and threw on a hoodie over the camisole, which made the contrast even sweeter. Like another part of him was still figuring out how to live together.

We talked about nothing for a while. Work. Weekend errands. A funny thing that happened in one of his game channels. The kind of easy, fluid rhythm couples get into when there's no clock ticking behind their conversation.

But eventually, the subject drifted, like it was meant to.

“So…” I said around a bite of toast. “That thing we forgot last night?”

“Dinner?”

“Do we want to talk about what happened last night?”

His eyes flicked up to mine.

“I think something changed last night. Didn’t it?”

He swallowed. “Yeah. It did.”

I set my fork down. “So, about that. If dressing up in lingerie is something you’re curious to keep exploring…”

“I… if you’re okay with that,” he said quickly. Then added, “If you want me to… yes.”

“Then we need to get you some things that actually fit.”

His brows drew together. “Wait… you mean, like… my own…?”

“Mmhmm.” I sipped my coffee. “You can’t keep stealing my slips. You’ll stretch them out.”

He looked down at his lap, then up at me. “You’re serious?”

“Very. And I want this to feel good for you. Real. Comfortable. Yours.”

There was a pause. Not long, like he’d heard the words but was still working through what they meant. His fingers tensed slightly around his coffee mug, knuckles going pale.

“How would we even… do that?” he asked, thumb finding the edge of the burgundy cami beneath his hoodie, picking the lace while his eyes flicked up to mine, then quickly away. “I mean...” He tugged the hem once and swallowed hard. The rest of the sentence went missing as his knee started bouncing under the table.

I stayed calm, watching him.

“We’d go together,” I said gently.

His head jerked up. “Together?”

“Of course,” I said, smiling softly.

That stopped him. Really stopped him. He stared at me like he was trying to match the offer with the reality of who I was. Not because he doubted me, but because no one had ever said something like that to him and meant it.

“I… I don’t know if I can do that,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Go out. Try things on. Let people see me.”

His hand had pulled away slightly, retreating toward himself. He wasn’t rejecting me, just instinctively folding inward.

I didn’t chase it.

Instead, I let the silence stretch just long enough to soften his edges, then said calmly, “James… that’s not how it would work.”

He looked up, wary. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re right. You walking into a lingerie store and asking to try on panties or slips probably isn’t going to fly. Not everyone will understand, and many shops aren’t set up for it. At least not openly.”

A flicker of shame crossed his face, but I reached across the counter and touched his hand, grounding him.

“But that’s why you’re not doing it alone.” I gave his fingers a gentle squeeze. “We’d plan it. Together. I’d take your measurements here at home, and then we’d go shopping like two friends on a weekend spree.”

His eyebrows rose slightly. “Measurements?”

I nodded. “Chest, hips, waist, inseam. You’d be surprised how many things we can find if we know what size we’re looking for.”

He looked a little stunned, like this wasn’t something he’d ever thought could be broken down into actual steps.

“And what… we just go buy a bunch of lingerie and hope no one looks at us weird?”

I smirked. “Let them look. We’ll act like it’s for me if it helps. I’ve bought sexier things for worse reasons.”

That made him huff a soft laugh, even as his nerves visibly lingered.

“And maybe,” I continued lightly, reaching for my coffee again, “we don’t just stop at lingerie.”

He blinked. “We don’t?”

I took a slow sip, then tilted my head. “I mean, if you’re going to explore this, we should give you the chance to try on more than just the underneath stuff. Clothes. Maybe even… makeup.”

I said it gently. Casually. Like it wasn’t a bomb at all.

And then I waited.

Watched him process.

He didn’t exactly flinch, but I could see the way his shoulders drew up slightly. Not recoiling. Just… bracing.

“Makeup?” he repeated, testing the word in his mouth like it was a foreign language.

“Maybe,” I said. “Only if you want. Just a little to start. Lip balm. Eyeliner. We could play around. See what makes you feel good.”

His gaze dropped to the table. Thoughtful. Serious.

“I don’t even know what that version of me is,” he said.

“You don’t have to know,” I said gently. “You just have to be willing to meet him. Or her. Or whoever’s in there waiting.”

His breath caught a little, and I watched something shift behind his eyes. A flicker of fear, maybe. But also… curiosity. A very quiet kind of hope.

He drew a breath, eyes lowering to our joined hands. “Do I have to tell you now? Can we wait? This is a lot to process.”

I squeezed his fingers, voice gentle. “We can wait. Take your time.” I let a small, steady smile anchor us. “But I’m not going to let this drop. I’m going to ask you again.”

His fingers wrapped more tightly around mine now.

“Okay,” he whispered.

And this time, he meant it.

I stood and stretched, grabbing the last bite of toast from my plate as I passed behind him.

“Alright,” I said over my shoulder, “come with me.”

He turned slightly. “Where?”

“The bedroom,” I said, already heading that way. “We’ve got a mission.”

James hesitated, coffee still in hand. “Should I be nervous?”

“Only if you’re ticklish.”

Back in the bedroom, I rummaged through my dresser until I found the small, flexible measuring tape I used whenever I had to get fitted for tailoring. It was soft and worn, barely holding its markings. But it had history, and I liked the idea of using something personal for something this personal.

James hovered near the edge of the bed, uncertain.

I crooked a finger at him. “Come on, off with the hoodie.”

He peeled it off slowly, revealing the camisole underneath. It looked a little wrinkled now, one strap halfway down his arm.

“You look like a sleepover fantasy,” I teased.

He flushed. “That’s not fair. You know I’m defenseless when I’m sleepover-coded.”

I grinned, stepping up to him with the tape in hand. “Then this is going to be so fun.”

He raised his arms as I moved in front of him.

“Stand straight,” I said, slipping the tape around his chest. “Relax. Breathe normally.”

“You’re very bossy when you’re measuring people.”

“It’s part of my lawyer DNA,” I said, tightening the tape just enough under his pecs. “Thirty-seven inches across the chest. Noted.”

“Not sure how that compares to anything.”

“We’ll cross-reference charts later. This is just the recon mission.”

I slid the tape down to his waist next, moving in close to wrap it around him, my cheek brushing the lace of the camisole.

He swallowed audibly.

“Thirty-one,” I said, writing it in my notes app. “Damn, you’re proportioned better than I am.”

He snorted. “I doubt that.”

“No, seriously. These are good numbers. Great for skirts. Or maybe a pencil dress if we go bold.”

“A pencil dress?” he repeated, wide-eyed.

I leaned in slightly, amused. “I didn’t say we’d start there. It’s just a fun possibility.”

“Sure. Fun,” he muttered, looking half-stunned, half-delighted.

Next came the hips. I crouched slightly to get the tape around the widest part of him, fingers brushing just beneath the hem of the camisole. He tensed, then exhaled.

“Relax,” I murmured. “This part tickles everyone.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, voice tight.

“Thirty-eight,” I announced, then looked up with a smirk. “Great ratio. You’ve got a subtle hourglass thing going. I’d kill for these numbers.”

“I can’t tell if you’re flirting with me or evaluating me for resale.”

“Why not both?”

He laughed, warm this time, easy. The tension in his shoulders was starting to melt.

“Okay,” I said, standing and stretching out the tape. “Last one. Inseam.”

He blinked. “Inseam?”

“Trust me,” I said, stepping in again. “We want tights and stockings that fit, not ones that crawl halfway down your thighs by lunch.”

He made a face but obediently stood still while I knelt to slide the tape down the inside of his leg. My hand grazed his skin lightly, and even though I kept it clinical, I could feel his breath stutter.

“Thirty-two,” I said. “You’ve got legs for days.”

“I… I don’t know what to do with that information.”

“Learn to work it,” I said, giving his butt a playful tap. “That’s what.”

When I straightened again, he was watching me, flushed.

“This is… okay? With you?”

“Every step,” I said. “But only if you want to take them.”

He nodded, slowly. “I... think I do.”

“Good,” I said with a warm smile. “Then tomorrow? We’ll go shopping. I’ll handle everything. You just come along for the ride.”

He hesitated again, the nerves bubbling back up. “What does that even look like? Me just… walking around picking out panties?”

“No,” I said gently. “That’s not how we’ll do it. I’ll lead. We’ll keep it discreet. I’ll ask questions, browse the racks, and handle the weird glances. You’ll stay close and pretend you’re just helping me shop. No trying anything on. We buy it, bring it home, and do all the fun stuff in private.”

His shoulders eased just slightly. “That feels… safer.”

“It is,” I said. “No pressure, no spotlight. Just curiosity and comfort. And if it ever feels like too much, we walk out, grab coffee, and call it a day.”

His eyes met mine, full of quiet gratitude. “You really thought this through.”

"Nothing to think about. I've shopped with girlfriends, you know. It's how we do it."

That soft, grateful laugh came again. Smaller this time, but real.

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

We left the apartment just after eleven.

James wore jeans, a soft black sweater, and his usual sneakers. But underneath, I made him wear a pair of lace panties. They were pale blue, with a little bow on the waistband, and I’d seen the way his hands had trembled slightly when he put them on that morning.

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t visible.

But for him, it was something.

We didn’t go to the mall. Too crowded. Too many watchful eyes and bored retail clerks who might smirk the wrong way. Instead, I took him to a little boutique across town. The kind of place I’d found a year ago when looking for something special for myself. Quiet, tastefully lit, woman-owned, and blissfully low on judgment.

He hesitated at the door.

“You okay?” I asked gently, brushing his hand.

He nodded, but didn’t move.

I leaned in. “No one’s going to think you’re shopping for yourself, James. And even if they did, you’re with me. You’re my excuse.”

That made his lips twitch. “That sounds like reverse-gaslighting.”

“Good,” I said, opening the door. “I’m excellent at it.”

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

The bell above the door gave a delicate chime as we stepped inside. The woman behind the counter, Tabitha, who helped me during my last visit, gave us a warm smile.

“Morning!” she said, friendly and bright. “Back again, and you brought your hubby along this time! Perfect. He can help you pick something pretty for you.”

“Lucky me,” I said, easy, tipping her a quick smile. “We’ll take a look around."

James stayed a half-step behind me, eyes darting across the racks displaying lace bras, satin camisoles, slips, panties, delicate bralettes with tiny straps and embroidered edges. He looked like someone had just walked him into a museum of fantasies he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch.

I didn’t rush.

Instead, I picked up a few things like I would on any other visit. I held them up, ran my fingers along the fabric, turned to him now and then with casual questions.

“This shade would look incredible on me, don’t you think?”

He blinked, didn’t answer. I tipped the hanger toward him. “I said, don’t you think this shade would look good on me?”

He swallowed, then nodded. “Uh… yeah. Totally.”

I held up another. “Too much?”

He shrugged. “I… don’t know how to judge lingerie.”

“You will,” I said, and gave him a quick wink. “In time.”

After a few minutes, I held up a pair of soft but simple black satin panties that were high-cut with minimal lace.

“What do you think of these?” I asked.

He hesitated. “For you?”

“For you,” I said, with another quick wink. “And, yeah, for me, too.”

His eyes widened slightly, and for a second I thought he’d pull back. But instead, he stepped a little closer.

“They’re… nice,” he said.

I nodded. “Exactly what I thought. Let’s start subtle.”

He was quiet as I carried them toward the register, but I felt his hand brush mine again nervously. I took it quietly without making a show of it.

We left the boutique with a small bag of carefully selected pieces, all of which were sized to fit him this time. I didn’t say anything as we walked back to the car, didn’t press or analyze.

I glanced over. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

He shook his head. “Still terrifying. Just… less.”

I smiled. “Progress.”

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

The apartment felt warmer when we came back, in a way that settled between us like an invisible exhale. James slipped off his shoes by the door and followed me inside, quiet but present, his fingers still curled lightly around the boutique bag like it might dissolve if he let it go.

I glanced over my shoulder and gave him a soft smile. “Want to see what we got?”

He nodded, cheeks a little pink.

I led him to the bedroom and sat cross-legged on the bed, patting the spot beside me. He joined, slowly, setting the bag between us like it was sacred, but dangerous at the same time.

I took the lead, pulling out each piece. I let the soft fabrics gently slip between my fingers as I lay them out across the duvet.

First, the black satin panties. Then a pair in blush pink, slightly sheerer, with a little scalloped lace trim. A barely structured bralette, with a delicate mesh overlay. And finally, a light, breathable camisole in soft lilac.

He stared at them like they were magic.

“I picked cuts that will feel good against your skin,” I said. “Nothing too flashy. No push-up bras or anything complicated. Just… softness.”

He reached out, brushing the lace of the pink pair with his fingertips. “They’re pretty.”

“You’ll be pretty in them.”

He looked up at me, face warm and nervous. “We don’t have to… I mean, put them away for now, do we?”

“Of course not,” I said, soft but sure. “We didn’t buy them to hide away. They’re meant to be worn when you want to. No rush.”

He glanced at the lingerie and took a breath. “Could I… try them on?”

“If you want to,” I said, steady, a small smile. “I’d love to see you in them.”

He changed in the bathroom, small steps, one layer at a time. I didn’t hover. Just let him take the time he needed. When he stepped back into the room, it was slow. He looked shy as his hands twitched at his sides.

He’d chosen the black satin pair and the lilac cami.

It wasn’t a transformation. But it was something. The delicate drape of femininity over a body still learning how to accept it.

“You look…” I paused, letting my eyes run over him. “Honest.”

His mouth parted slightly. “Is that a compliment?”

“One of the highest.”

He chuckled, color blooming in his cheeks.

I stood and walked over, adjusting the camisole strap that had fallen off his shoulder. My hand lingered just a second too long, brushing over his collarbone.

“I love this on you,” I said.

He swallowed. “It feels… good. Is that weird?”

“Not even close.”

He stood near the bed, still in the camisole and satin panties, uncertain again now that the “trying on” part was over.

I gave him a little smile and said, “Why don’t we have a quiet night? Movie, something low-stakes and stupid. Just us.”

He reached for the hem of the cami, fingers curling under the soft fabric. “Should I, uh… change?”

I stepped closer, stopping him with a gentle touch to his wrist.

“Keep it on.”

His eyes flicked to mine. “Yeah?”

“It suits you. And you look so damn comfortable in it. Let’s not ruin a good thing.”

He exhaled a quiet laugh, then nodded. “Okay.”

“Go pick something good for us to watch,” I said, steering him toward the door. “Something with explosions or emotions. I’m feeling flexible.”

He grinned and padded off into the hall.

Once he was gone, I turned back to the open dresser.

I reached for my usual sleep shorts. My worn cotton tee. But I hesitated.

A thought had brushed through me the other day at the office. It had been quick and quiet, but sticky in the back of my mind. It had come somewhere between drafting a motion and sipping stale coffee, as I replayed the image of James standing in my slip, eyes wide and honest and braver than he knew.

What would it feel like… if I met him halfway?

Something shifted in me at the idea.

I crossed to his side of the dresser and opened the second drawer. The one where he kept his boxer briefs. Soft cotton, neutral colors.

I pulled out a pair in gray and stepped out of my panties.

They felt strange pulling up. Snug, a little room where I had none, but not bad. Solid. Familiar in a borrowed kind of way. Then I found one of his old white tank tops that clung a little too tight on him, and slipped it over my head.

The reflection in the mirror made me pause.

It wasn’t exactly masculine. But it wasn’t me in the usual way either. It was something… different. And I liked it.

I ran a hand over my hips, then across my chest. The tank hung just enough to hint, not enough to show.

It felt curious. I felt curious.

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

James was queuing something on the streaming menu when I walked in.

He turned to ask a question, but the words never made it out.

His eyes moved from my face to the tank to the waistband of the boxers, and he blinked.

“I, uh…” He sat up straighter. “Wow.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Wow, good or wow confusing?”

“Unexpected,” he said immediately, then blushed. “But... really hot.”

I smiled and crossed the room to sit beside him, curling my legs up beneath me.

“Good,” I said, leaning in for a quick kiss. “Then we’re even.”

He stared at me for another second, then slowly smiled back with a look that said something was shifting, again, and he wasn’t afraid of it this time.

The movie played — some overproduced action flick neither of us cared about. But it gave us something to stare at while the room filled with a new kind of silence. A heavy one. Buzzing.

James sat beside me, legs slightly apart, his knees angled out just enough to make space for comfort, and for me. The camisole hugged his chest loosely, and his thighs were bare and soft under the hem, stretched slightly over the black satin.

I couldn't stop looking at him. Not just the way he looked, but the way he was being. Relaxed. Feminine. Open. And still completely James.

At some point, I leaned my head onto his shoulder, pretending to be interested in a car chase scene I wasn’t watching. He didn’t flinch. His arm lifted naturally to rest behind me.

My fingers grazed his thigh.

Just a soft idle touch, like I was shifting my weight, but I felt him twitch under it. Not in surprise. In reaction.

My hand stayed there. Moved a little. Traced slow, lazy patterns along the inside of his thigh, just above the hem of the panties.

I felt his cock harden.

It was subtle at first. It felt like a gentle press rising beneath the satin, growing quickly, insistent against the stretch of fabric. His breath hitched, and his body went still.

I smiled into his shoulder.

“Mmm,” I murmured, fingers inching closer. “You like the way I look in your clothes?”

He nodded, barely breathing.

“You’re hard as a rock,” I whispered, and then slipped my hand into his panties.

His cock was already stiff and flushed hot against my palm. I wrapped my fingers around him and began to stroke him. Slow and smooth, just the way I knew he liked it, the way he’d melted for me the night before. He let out a low moan, hips lifting slightly, pressing into my touch.

His head fell back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. I kept going, patiently, my thumb circling the tip as I worked his shaft with long, teasing pulls.

“You look so fucking pretty like this,” I whispered. “Hard under satin. Dripping in my hand.”

He gasped, body trembling as I picked up the pace just a little. The fabric of the cami clung to his chest now, shifting with each panting breath.

I leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Let it go, baby. Cum for me.”

He came hard, cock pulsing in my hand as he blew his load over himself. Thick, hot ropes painting the inside of his panties, streaking up the hem of the camisole. His whole body shuddered under me, hands gripping the edge of the couch, face contorted with helpless pleasure.

I watched him with a slow, hungry smile and bit my lip.

And then something inside me shifted.

A spark. A charge of energy I had never felt before. It rose bold in my chest, heat rolling low through my stomach, spreading outward like a claim.

“My turn,” I said, voice low and edged with intent.

He blinked, still dazed. “Wait..”

But I was already standing, already hooking my thumbs under the waistband of the boxer briefs and dragging them down my thighs. I kicked them aside, the tank top falling loosely above my hips, and stepped forward between his spread knees.

I could see the anticipation and hunger in his eyes.

I climbed onto the couch, one knee on either side of him, and lowered myself onto his face.

“Lick me,” I said, low and soft, edged with command. “Now.”

And he did.

His mouth found me instantly, tongue sliding between my folds, warm and eager. I ground against him slowly, holding his head in place, hips rolling with each flick and suck. He moaned into me, hands gripping my thighs like he needed to anchor himself to the moment.

I looked down and saw the camisole clinging to his chest, the mess still cooling against his stomach, and it made me ride him harder. Grinding, panting, owning the rhythm.

“Fuck… James,” I gasped, head tipping back. “Keep… going… Just like that! Yes!”

His tongue moved deeper, hungrier, and my orgasm built fast — no resistance, no pause, just fire flooding me from the inside out.

I cried out, clutching his hair, thighs trembling around his face as I came against his mouth.

I stayed there for a long moment, hips twitching softly, my breath slowing.

And then I slid down onto his lap again, body folding over his.

We were sticky. Bare. Messy.

And neither of us said a word.

We didn’t have to.

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

I didn’t move for a long time.

His arms circled my waist, holding me like I might float off if he let go. My head rested against his shoulder, lips pressed into the curve of his neck, and we just breathed. It felt like we had just shared something that didn’t quite have a name yet.

His skin was warm beneath me. Still slick in places. The camisole clung to his stomach, damp with his own cum. My thighs were trembling slightly where they straddled him, the slow, ebbing throb of my orgasm still humming under my skin.

James was the first to speak, his voice raw but light.

“So… I guess movie night was a success.”

I snorted against his collarbone. “You think?”

He chuckled, still catching his breath. “I’ve never… had anyone do that before.”

“Sit on your face?”

He laughed harder. “That. And, like… everything else.”

I pulled back just enough to look at him — really look at him. His hair was a mess. His lips were slick. His camisole was stained. And he was glowing.

“I’ve never done that before either,” I admitted.

His brows lifted. “No?”

I shook my head. “Something about seeing you like that… I don’t know. It flipped a switch. Felt like I needed to take rather than just give.”

His expression softened into something vulnerable. “You were kinda… in control.”

I brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “Did it feel good? Me like that?”

His cheeks flushed. “It felt intense. It felt amazing.”

I leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You’re amazing.”

He held me tighter at that, then whispered, “This is all new for me… but I liked it. I liked… making you feel good.”

I felt that line sink into my chest like a slow, sweet arrow.

“Me too,” I said, my mouth at his temple. “I love that you liked doing it for me.”

We sat in silence for a while longer, entwined together in our sweat and stickiness, our intentions as tangled as our bodies. Eventually, I slid off his lap and stretched, bones popping, muscles aching in that delicious, satisfied way.

“I need a shower,” I said, brushing a hand over my stomach. “We both do.”

James looked down at the state of his cami and made a face. “I look like a scene from an indie film that got banned in three countries.”

I burst out laughing. “You wish. Looking like that, I think it would be more than three countries.”

“Think it’ll wash out?”

“Probably. And if not…” I winked. “We’ll buy more.”

He stood slowly, and I watched him for a second, messy and radiant. I didn’t have a word for it yet, just that he looked a little freer.

“You coming?” I asked, already halfway to the bathroom.

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

To be continued…

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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 [at] proton.me or on Discord iamheremma .

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.

 

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

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.

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

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.”

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

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.

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

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.”

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

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.”

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

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.

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

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

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

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 [at] proton.me or on Discord iamheremma .