Becoming Eva - Pt. 01

Becoming Eva - Part 1

Prologue: The Doorway

The chapel was hushed. A perfect stillness, like the world itself was holding its breath.

I stood just behind the heavy wooden doors, fingers curled around my bouquet, heart a slow, soaring drumbeat in my chest. Rose petals were scattered down the aisle like tiny promises. A quartet played softly from the corner, something classical and aching and slow.

My veil drifted slightly in the breeze of the air vents.

And my father, standing beside me in his navy suit, reached over and placed his hand on mine.

"You ready?" he asked, his voice gentle. Real.

I looked down at myself.

The dress was everything I'd dreamed, everything I'd never let myself want for most of my life. Ivory satin, fitted through the bodice, hugging my waist before spilling into a full, floating skirt that trailed like a whisper behind me. Tiny seed pearls were stitched along the neckline, catching the light with every breath. My veil was cathedral length, edged in lace. The faint scent of gardenias clung to the fabric.

Beneath it all, ivory lace garter, sheer white stockings, matching corset. Everything traditional. Everything beautiful. Everything mine.

My nails, short, oval, perfectly painted in a soft blush-pink. My lips matched. My hair was swept into an elegant chignon, anchored by my mother's comb. She sat in the front pew now, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, pretending not to cry.

And at the altar, tall, dark suit, no tie, hands folded nervously in front of him, stood my fiancé.

Malik.

The man who never once looked away when I showed him who I was. Who had touched me like I was real before I even believed it myself.

I closed my eyes. Took a breath.

And I remembered. I remembered everything: the trembling first steps, the shame, the late nights, the double life, the weekends in secrecy, the tears, the laughter, the first time someone called me "she" and meant it.

The long road from Evan to Eva.

So when my father asked again, more softly this time, "Are you ready?"

I didn't just nod. I smiled.

"Yes," I said. "I've never been more ready."

And the doors opened.

Chapter 1: The Secret Wardrobe

I don't remember exactly when it started. Not the first time I put something on. Nylons, panties, a dress stolen from a cousin's sleepover bag. That came early. Puberty, maybe before. But the need for it, the weight of it pressing at the back of my mind, growing stronger each year like roots crawling under drywall, that came later.

I've learned to ignore it. Mostly. School helps. I'm in the architecture program at UT Austin. Long hours, tight deadlines, enough caffeine to melt concrete. The precision of it comforts me. Geometry doesn't care how you feel. Straight lines don't ask what you're hiding.

But then come the nights.

It was almost midnight when I finally closed my laptop. My apartment was quiet, lit only by the standing lamp I never replaced the shade for. My studio model, half-finished, white foam core like a collapsed rib cage, sat on the table, mocking me with its incompleteness.

I should've gone to bed.

Instead, I opened the drawer beneath the bed. Not the top one, that one held my socks, boxers, the things people like me are supposed to wear. No. I opened the bottom drawer. The one with the false panel I'd made myself.

Inside were layers of secrets. Folded nylons in delicate beige and blush. Two satin garter belts, one ivory and one black. Four pairs of panties: red lace, white nylon, pale pink with a scalloped lace waistband, and a hot pink pair trimmed in ruffles. Each one pressed into a neat square like some perverse origami.

And nestled in tissue paper like a holy relic: my favorite. A garter belt the color of antique rose, edged in ivory scalloped lace with tiny bows at the clasps. I'd found it online and had it shipped under a fake name to a friend's mailbox. No one ever asked.

My hand trembled as I touched it.

I wasn't hard, not yet, but I was warm all over. Nervous. Shameful. Excited. Like opening a door I'd promised to leave shut.

I stripped slowly. Not out of sensuality, out of hesitation. Jeans. Shirt. Undershirt. Each layer felt heavier than the last. I peeled them off like I was shedding skin.

I shaved earlier that week. I'd told myself it was for swimming at the gym. But we both knew that wasn't true.

I ran my hand down my thigh. Smooth. Sensitive. The skin came alive under my fingertips.

First, I picked up the garter belt. Plain, elegant white satin with a bow at the cener, and little psheer pink bows on each of the six garter straps. I clipped it at the waist, adjusted the length of the straps. Then, carefully, the stockings, vintage-style RHTs in beige, whisperingly sheer except for the reinforced toes and heels.. I rolled each one up slowly, savoring the feel of nylon sliding over freshly shaved skin. When I clipped them into place, I nearly gasped.

I knew, of course, that wearing a garter belt and stockings (or nylons of any kind) were hopelessly old-fashioned. But I loved the fact that these were garments unmistakenly, emphatically female.

Then the panties. Soft nylon, whisper-thin, pale pink with white lace edges. I stepped into them gently. I always did. Like I might tear them if I moved too quickly. They hugged my hips, sat low against my abdomen. I pressed my hand over the front and closed my eyes.

The tension that lived behind my sternum all day eased slightly. Just a little.

The sensation of the delicate, sheer nylon on my skin. That perfect, subtle tension between nylon and strap. A reminder with every shift of the leg that I was dressed. Transformed. Still me, but not the version anyone knew.

I stood in front of the mirror and let my eyes travel up from my toes.

Stockings. Garter belt. Panties.

Still male. Still flat-chested, unpainted, unadorned. But in that moment, I felt... softer. Sharper. More real.

I was a contradiction in satin.

I sat on the floor, knees drawn up, arms around them. I wrapped myself in a throw blanket and lit the candle I kept hidden in a coffee tin, sandalwood and lavender.

The tension inside me pulsed. I wasn't hard, but I could feel the stirrings. The eroticism wasn't in the clothing anymore. Not exactly. It had evolved. It was in what the clothing unlocked. In the release of pretending. In the surrender.

But even as the stillness washed over me, so did the guilt.

What kind of man wants this? What kind of man shaves his legs in secret and files his nails when no one's looking? What kind of man owns a garter belt? I pressed my fingers into my temples, as if I could rub the questions away.

I'd hooked up with girls before. I wasn't clueless. A few flings, one semi-serious girlfriend freshman year. They always ended the same. I tried to feel what I was supposed to feel, tried to perform what I'd learned. But there was always a part of me missing. Or maybe buried.

But sometimes, late at night, high and alone, I'd let the other thoughts in. What it might feel like to be kissed by a man. To be taken. To kneel.

I always shut them down quickly. Told myself it was a phase. A glitch in the code. I was straight. I liked women. I wanted to like women.

But the more I dressed, the more that want blurred. I didn't want to be a woman. But I didn't want to be a man the way my father or my brothers were. I wanted to live somewhere else. Somewhere between. Or beyond. I just didn't know how.

By 2 a. m., the candle was low. I'd slipped on a loose t-shirt over the lingerie and curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around my knees. I sipped water slowly. Tried not to think about tomorrow. Or Monday. Or what any of this meant.

The lace tickled softly at my thighs. The straps pulled gently when I shifted. I felt beautiful. I felt ashamed. And more than anything...

I felt alone.

Chapter 2: Malik

It started with a sound: low and metallic, punctuated by a grunt of effort.

On a cold October afternoon, I was dragging my studio portfolio up the third-floor staircase, still bleary-eyed from an all-nighter, when I heard the scuffle above me. At first, I assumed it was someone moving furniture. Then I saw the boots.

Big, black, worn. Planted wide on the landing above. The kind of boots you don't just wear, you earn.

Then the rest of him came into view. Thick forearms bracing against the wall, shoulders tense under a black thermal shirt, a cast iron stove wedged at a forty-five-degree angle in the stairwell between us.

A stove.

He turned his head, just slightly. Brown skin gleamed with sweat, close-cropped hair damp at the edges. His expression was calm, composed, as though muscling antique appliances up three flights of stairs was just a mild inconvenience.

"You good?" I called, trying not to sound winded from my own climb. He looked at me, smiled. Dry, amused.

"You any good at geometry?" he asked.

I blinked. "Architecture major."

"Perfect," he said. "Cosine on to this moving job with me." I dropped my bag and stepped forward.

We got it up the stairs, eventually. His hands were sure, calloused but graceful, like he was used to moving things heavier than they looked. He barely broke a sweat by the time we muscled it into the hallway.

I tried not to stare, but it was hard not to. He was broad and still, like a stone statue that had decided to stretch. Clean-shaven. Calm. He had that same quiet energy that makes jazz basslines so sexy, the kind that doesn't have to shout to hold the whole thing together.

"I'm Malik," he said, once we'd set the stove down. He extended his hand, not in the throwaway way people usually do, but deliberately, like the handshake actually mattered.

"Evan," I replied, taking it. His grip was firm. Dry. Warm.

"Appreciate the help."

"No problem."

He nodded toward the apartment across from mine. "Looks like we're neighbors." He moved in that weekend. No fanfare. Just a couple of duffel bags, a record player, a toolbox, and a plant. Over the next week, I caught glimpses of him. In the laundry room, folding undershirts into perfect thirds. On the balcony, flipping through dog-eared paperbacks. Once, in the hall, I heard Miles Davis bleeding through his open door and slowed to listen. He saw me that time, gave a nod. A quiet invitation.

I'd never felt this way around another man before. Not consciously. It wasn't just the way he looked, it was the way he moved. The way he occupied space. Not performative. Not loud. Just present.

I caught myself checking my reflection before going to check the mail. Running my hand through my hair. Making sure my jaw was clean-shaven. Tucking in my shirt a little more carefully. I told myself it was nothing. Just neighborly politeness. That's all.

But something in me... stirred. A tension in my stomach. A tightness behind the ribs.

That's when I started dressing again. More frequently. I hadn't fully made the connection yet. At least, I didn't admit to myself that I had. But the need was more insistent now. A pressure. Like the part of me that wanted softness couldn't breathe unless I let her out.

One Thursday night, I passed Malik on the stairs. He was carrying groceries: burlap bags, a few bunches of herbs sticking out the top. He wore jeans and a grey henley, sleeves pushed to the elbows, a bracelet of dark beads on one wrist.

"Long day?" he asked, eyeing the foam-core I carried under my arm.

"Studio review. Six hours of controlled judgment and passive-aggressive critiques."

He chuckled. "Sounds like fine dining with my family."

I smiled. "You cook?"

"Every day."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

Then: "You like jazz?"

I paused. "Yeah." It was a lie. But not a big one. I wanted to like jazz.

"You should come by sometime," he said. "I'm making gumbo tomorrow night. Got a Miles Davis record that pairs well with andouille."

I laughed. "You're inviting me over for a jazz pairing dinner?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that a no?"

"No," I said. "I mean, yes. I mean... I'll come. Yes."

He smiled like he already knew the answer.

"Cool," he said. "Seven-thirty. Bring your appetite."

Back inside my apartment, I shut the door behind me and leaned against it. My hands were shaking. Not fear. Not exactly. But something close. Excitement, maybe. Or longing. Or the slow, unbearable realization that the part of me I'd worked so hard to hide was not only awake, but hungry. And it was because of Malik.

Chapter 3: Close Quarters

The next morning, I couldn't focus. Every time I tried to sketch, my lines curved where they should've stayed straight. My modeling software glitched. My coffee tasted like soap. I kept replaying the conversation from the night before in my head: his voice, warm and low, the slight narrowing of his eyes when I said yes. The feeling I'd had walking back to my apartment: electric, hollow, like I was already missing something I hadn't yet received.

And beneath it all, the sharp tug of want. Not quite sexual, but not entirely not sexual, either. I tried to tell myself it was curiosity. A friend crush. An intellectual intrigue. But that didn't explain why I'd shaved again that morning. Or why I'd spent twenty minutes standing in front of my dresser, hand hovering over a pair of pale lavender panties trimmed in white lace, my heart hammering in my chest. I shouldn't wear them.

But I did.

I'd never worn lingerie around someone else before. At least, not intentionally. Never outside the walls of my apartment. But something about the idea of wearing it underneath, hidden, secret, mine, made my throat tighten and my legs weak. Like an invisible thread tying me back to myself. The panties sat low and snug, hugging my hips just right. I added the matching garter belt, a simple white one, two satin bows at the waist. And after slipping the garter starps beneath the panties, the stockings: sheer beige with reinforced toes and heel that refined the shape of my legs like punctuation. Each clip of the garters sent a small jolt through me. A soft declaration that my body was no longer neutral.

I chose dark jeans that tapered without clinging. A light gray button-down, sleeves rolled, collar open just enough to show a little clavicle. Unremarkable. Masculine, but not too masculine. As I buttoned the shirt, I caught my reflection in the mirror. The juxtaposition was disorienting. A well-groomed man in the world's eyes. But beneath the denim and cotton: satin, lace, nylon.

Feminine. I didn't feel like a man pretending. I felt like someone waiting to be seen.

At 7:26, I stood outside Malik's apartment, staring at the door.

I could hear jazz inside: mellow horns and piano, a slow rhythm like breathing. The scent of garlic and smoked meat filtered through the hall.

I knocked. Twice. Softly. The door opened, and he was there, barefoot, in a navy t-shirt and linen pants, a kitchen towel over one shoulder.

"Right on time," he said, stepping aside.

I walked in slowly. His place was warm, full of amber light and steam curling from the stove. Records lined one wall. The other held books, stacked and leaning like old friends.

"Smells incredible," I said.

He smiled. "Hope you're hungry."

I was. But not for food.

Dinner was casual, intimate. We ate side by side on the couch, bowls balanced in our laps. The gumbo was rich and spicy, the kind of dish you could taste in your chest. Malik talked about his time in the Army. How he'd cooked for a base in Louisiana, taught himself Creole recipes from an old sergeant's handwritten book. And how he worked in carpentry now, even restoring cabinetry for historical buildings.

I listened. Nodded. Laughed when he teased me about how slowly I ate.

But beneath it all, my nerves buzzed.

The lace waistband itched just slightly above my jeans. The stockings rubbed softly together when I crossed my legs. My thighs tingled, hyperaware of every shift in weight, every inch of fabric. The secret beneath my clothes burned against my skin.

And beside me, Malik was so close.

His thigh brushed mine once, lightly. It took everything in me not to gasp.

After dinner, we sipped wine and let the music fill the spaces between words. I watched the way he held his glass, deliberate, relaxed. The way his fingers curled, the way his lips pressed to the rim.

I wanted to be close to that. To be known by someone like that. The thought scared me.

Maybe he knew. Maybe he didn't. Maybe that was the worst part: wanting him to know. Wanting to show him.

But what would he say, if he knew what I wore beneath my clothes? If he knew how much I wanted to be soft, wanted to be told I looked beautiful? Would he laugh? Would he pity me?

Would he kiss me? My mouth went dry. I crossed my legs tighter, squeezing the tension between my thighs.

"Something on your mind?" he asked gently.

I turned, startled. "What?"

"You've been quiet."

I shook my head. "Just tired." He didn't press. He only smiled and stood, gathering the bowls.

"You ever listen to Coltrane?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Not really."

"I'll fix that."

We listened to Side A in silence.

I sat curled into the arm of the couch, blanket over my lap. Malik stretched out nearby, one ankle crossed over the other. He didn't touch me. Didn't push.

But his presence filled the space between us like steam in a bath.

When I finally stood to leave, he walked me to the door. No hug. No kiss. Just a steady, unreadable look.

"Thanks for dinner," I said, unsure what I meant.

"Come by again," he said. "You're good company."

I smiled, heart aching.

As I stepped into the hallway, the cool air hit my skin through the denim, and I felt the nylon beneath. Still in place, still hugging me close.

Still mine.

I walked back to my apartment, not knowing whether to feel ashamed or proud.

But I knew one thing.

I wanted more.

Chapter 4: Caught in the Middle

The next morning, I woke up with the taste of wine on my tongue and a strange ache in my chest. Not regret, something softer. Like missing someone who hadn't left yet.

The house was quiet. The air stale with forgotten drafts and crumpled blankets. I hadn't bothered undressing before falling into bed. I'd slept in my lingerie: panties, stockings, garter belt, underneath a nylon nightie, warm and snug against my skin.

The night with Malik had left me rattled in the best and worst ways. He hadn't touched me, hadn't said anything out of place, and yet... something had changed. Or maybe it was just me.

My body felt charged. My mind, a mess. I wanted, desperately, to feel that way again.

But I couldn't go back to his apartment and confess I'd been wearing women's lingerie the entire time. I couldn't tell him that I'd spent half the dinner fantasizing about what it might feel like if he slid his hand up my thigh, discovered the garters, smiled... and approved.

No. That was fantasy. A dangerous one. But the desire clung to me like perfume.

By noon, I couldn't take the tension anymore. I needed to dress. Not just the panties under jeans. Not the halfway measure I'd taken to feel close to Eva in public. I needed more. Needed to feel her again. Needed to see her in the mirror.

I started with a shower, letting the water run hot and punishing over my skin. I shaved again: legs, underarms, chest. My skin felt raw by the end, but exquisitely smooth. Hyper-aware.

I dried off slowly, towel wrapped around my waist. My heart beat like a drum in a parade.

From beneath my bed, I pulled out the drawer.

Today, I chose the pale pink panties again, the same ones I'd worn beneath my jeans the night before. They felt like a promise kept. Then the garter belt: white satin with tiny rosettes along the waistline, each strap trimmed in miniature lace. I fastened it tight and clipped in the beige RHT nylons with practiced hands. The sound of the clasp snapping into place sent a jolt down my spine.

The mirror greeted me with a familiar mixture of awe and self-disgust.

I was beautiful. I was sick. I was free.

I slipped into a soft white camisole next, the hem brushing the garter straps with every breath. It wasn't much, barely lingerie, but it was enough. Just enough to feel like Eva, to become her.

I pressed my palms over my chest, where breasts should have been. I imagined weight. I imagined curves. I imagined hands, his hands, holding my waist, my thighs, his breath at my ear.

My knees went weak.

A knock at the door sent panic slamming into my chest. I froze.

Not just any knock, Malik's knock. Two firm taps, followed by one lighter, a beat late.

I hadn't expected him. I was still half-dressed.

I scrambled for sweatpants, nearly tripping as I pulled them up over the garter straps. I hissed as the fabric dragged against nylon. When I moved, the garter clasps pressed visibly beneath the fabric. I grabbed a thick hoodie and threw it on, hoping the volume would obscure the outline of everything underneath.

I wiped my face, hands shaking. No makeup, thank God.

I opened the door slowly, forcing a smile.

He stood there with a bag in one hand and my borrowed French press in the other.

"I figured you might need this back," he said.

My throat was dry. "Thanks."

"Didn't mean to catch you at a bad time."

"No, it's fine, I was just... working."

He stepped inside, holding the door open without asking. "Mind if I drop this in the kitchen?"

"Sure," I said, voice too high. "Go ahead."

As I turned to lead him in, I bent to pick up the jeans I'd tossed earlier, forgotten on the floor.

And that's when it happened. As I bent over, I felt the waistband of the panties and the garter belt pull slightly above the loose waistband of my sweats. I didn't have to see it to know. The lace. The color. A thin flash of femininity peeking out where it wasn't supposed to.

I straightened too quickly.

Malik was standing in the kitchen doorway.

He had seen. And then I realized that in my haste, I had forgotten to put on shoes.

The reinforced toes and heels on my smooth, feminine-looking feet was impossible to miss.

I felt the heat rise from my neck to my ears. I didn't dare meet his eyes.

"Look, just... don't," I stammered. "It's not what you think."

"What do I think?" he asked gently. I turned away. My heart was thundering.

"You saw," I whispered. "The lace."

"I did."

I swallowed. "I don't do this for anyone else. It's just for me."

"I believe you."

"It's not..." I tried again. "I'm not gay. Or... trans. I don't even know what I am. I just... I feel better like this. When I wear these things. It's the only time I don't feel like I'm pretending." He was silent for a beat.

"Thank you for telling me." I turned, finally, forcing myself to look at him. His face was calm. No disgust. No laughter. Just that same steady way of seeing that he'd had since day one.

"You're not disgusted?"

He shook his head. "Why would I be?"

"I... I thought you'd think I was broken." He stepped closer. Not too close. Just enough that I could feel the warmth of him.

"I don't think that," he said. "I think you're figuring yourself out. And that's brave."

I blinked.

No one had ever used that word for me before.

Brave.

I felt my throat catch.

"You don't have to hide around me," he said.

And then, quietly, like it wasn't a question: "Is there a name you prefer?" I nearly choked on the lump in my throat. No one had ever asked me that, either.

"Eva," I whispered.

He smiled. "Nice to meet you, Eva." He left not long after that, understanding that I needed space. He smiled and said he'd see me again soon.

And I stood in the middle of my apartment, heart still pounding, the lace still pressed against my skin beneath the jeans, the camisole soft against my chest.

He knew.

And he hadn 't run away.