Becoming Eva - Pt. 02

Becoming Eva - Part 2

Chapter 5: The Invitation

There's no single moment when a truth about yourself becomes undeniable. It doesn't ring out like a bell or come written in flames. It arrives in pieces. In flashes. In things glimpsed and not taken back.

For me, it was a strip of lace, barely an inch wide, peeking out from the waistband of my sweats, and a bit of sheer beige nylon on my feet, and the way Malik's eyes caught it. The way he didn't flinch.

I couldn't forget that moment. I didn't want to. But God, I was afraid of what it meant.

I didn't leave the apartment all weekend. I told myself I was tired. That I needed to catch up on studio work, laundry, sleep. But the truth is, I kept replaying the look in his eyes.

Not surprise. Not revulsion. Recognition. Almost like he'd already known. Like some part of him had been waiting for me to show it. And when I had, even by accident, he hadn't turned away.

He'd said my name.

Eva.

It echoed in my head constantly now, like a secret prayer I wasn't sure I was allowed to say out loud. On Sunday afternoon, I stood in front of the mirror wearing only panties and shame.

I'd chosen the white nylon ones with the scalloped pink lace trim. The leg openings curved just right across my thighs. The way they hugged me, delicate, close, a little snug from the last wash, made my heart flutter and my stomach twist.

My legs were shaved, smooth. I ran my hand slowly from knee to hip and closed my eyes. My skin felt electric. Like I wasn't touching me, but something softer. Something stolen and sacred.

The garter belt I chose was one I hadn't worn in weeks: antique rose satin with ivory lace accents and golden clasps. The straps brushed lightly against my skin, cool and faintly stiff from careful hand-washing.

When I clipped in the beige nylons, my breath hitched. The nylon rasped softly against my thighs, whispering over skin still flushed from the hot shower. I stood slowly, straightening and snugging the fabric up my legs with trembling fingers, feeling the familiar tug of the garter straps pull the fabric taut. Each step, each shift of weight, would remind me of them.

Of her.

Of Eva.

I didn't put on outer clothes right away. Instead, I sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed delicately at the ankle, trying to slow my breathing. I couldn't stop imagining Malik's voice: how gently he'd said my name. How sure he'd sounded. Would he say it again if I stood in front of him dressed like this? Would he still look at me the same way? Or would he see something broken? Would he see a boy pretending? Would he see someone begging to be erased? Or would he see a girl trying to live?

I wore a robe for the rest of the day, the silk clinging to me lightly, slipping occasionally to reveal a garter strap, a bit of lace. I wanted to pretend I wasn't waiting for anything.

But by dusk, when the knock came, I nearly leapt out of my skin. Two knocks. That same rhythm. Always the same.

Malik.

I pulled the robe tighter and answered, head down. He stood there with a brown paper bag in one hand, bottle of wine in the other.

"You eating tonight?" he asked.

I blinked. "Not yet."

"Let me fix that," he said, stepping inside like he belonged there. He looked around--noticed the candle burning on the windowsill, the soft music humming from my laptop speakers.

His eyes landed on me again. He didn't look away.

"You look... peaceful," he said.

"I'm not," I replied. "But I'm trying."

"Good," he said. "Try with me."

He cooked pasta. Simple, perfect. Garlic, oil, lemon, parsley. The apartment filled with warmth. We ate on the floor again, plates balanced on our knees. He didn't mention the robe, the garters, the nylons. Or the lace.

But he sat closer than he had last time. His knee pressed against mine once and didn't move.

After dinner, I made tea. He leaned back against the couch and looked at me. Not at my face, but at me, like I was something he was still learning to name.

I sat beside him. Close. Our shoulders brushed. His hand was on the cushion between us, his fingers open, relaxed. I placed mine beside it. Not touching, but not far. He didn't move.

After a long moment, he asked: "Do you like how it feels?" I didn't pretend to misunderstand.

"I do."

"Why?" I stared at the window, the way the candlelight shimmered on the glass.

"Because it's me," I said. "And when I wear it, I stop lying." He nodded, once.

"Do you want to wear more?" he asked.

"More?" He turned toward me.

"Dresses. Makeup. Wigs. The whole thing." I froze.

My voice was barely a whisper. "Yes." His hand shifted, his fingers brushing the edge of mine.

"Then you should."

"I don't know how."

"I'll help you," he said.

I looked at him, eyes wide. "You'd help me become her?" He smiled, slow and soft.

"I already see her," he said. "But yeah. Let's help her grow." When he left that night, we didn't hug. We didn't kiss. But before he walked out, he paused in the doorway.

"Next time," he said, "maybe wear something you want me to see."

I swallowed. "Okay." He leaned close.

"And Eva?"

"Yes?"

"You're already beautiful."

Chapter 6: Painted Red

The nail polish came in a square little bottle with a gold cap, like perfume for your toes.

I'd bought it three weeks ago and buried it under the bathroom sink, next to a box of tampons I'd once used to justify the purchase, playing the clichéd long-suffering boyfriend role. Another of the many roles I played. Until now.

The polish was a rich, candy-apple red, too bright to be subtle, too classic to be anything but feminine. I'd stared at it for days, then weeks. I told myself it was a joke. An experiment. A someday thing.

Tonight, it was not a joke. Malik had asked me to dinner and a movie, and something in his tone made it unambiguous. Tonight was a date. A real date.

No more hiding behind the word neighbor, or friend. No more pretending I wasn't slipping deeper into this thing - this transformation I couldn't stop wanting.

I was going on a date. With a man. With Malik.

I sat on the edge of the tub with a towel under my feet, legs freshly shaved, skin still tingling from the shower. The bathroom smelled like jasmine and steam and nerves. My hands trembled as I unscrewed the cap. The brush came out glistening, slick and red and irreversible. I dipped it again, carefully wiped the excess, and started on the pinky toe of my left foot. The polish went on smooth.

Wet. Cool. Indecent.

As I worked from toe to toe, a strange wave of emotion crept over me. It wasn't shame. Not quite. It was... reverence. And fear. This wasn't like lingerie tucked under jeans. This wasn't invisible.

This was something only women did. Girls at sleepovers. Housewives watching midday talk shows. Sophisticated women in salon chairs, sliding into stilettos.

Not men. Not me.

With every stroke, I crossed another line I couldn't uncross.

And with every line I crossed, something ugly in me recoiled. Some voice, my father's, maybe... whispered "pansy," "sissy," "freak."

But over it all was a deeper, quieter feeling. Euphoria. Not loud or showy. Just... still.

Like I was coming home.

I let the polish dry while I worked on my fingernails: clear gloss only. Not quite invisible, not quite declaration. My hands looked clean. Cared for. Soft.

Feminine.

Dressing was slow. Intentional. First the panties: white nylon, cool and light, with tiny rosebuds embroidered at the hip. Then the garter belt: pastel pink, three-quarter satin, snug at the waist. I sat to roll the stockings on, one leg at a time. The nylon whispered over my skin, catching slightly at the knees, then smoothing upward. Slipped under my panties, the garter clips fastened, and the straps tugged just enough to remind me that I was wrapped in contradiction.

Next came the camisole: cream-colored, trimmed in lace, worn snug under my chest. It hugged me like a whisper. It belonged on me. I knew it.

Over all of it, I slipped on my "date clothes": slim charcoal jeans, a navy button-down, sleeves rolled neatly to the forearms. Masculine. Neutral. Safe.

But I skipped socks.

My nyloned ankles, just barely visible above my shoes, were the one rebellion I allowed myself. A whisper of truth for anyone who cared to look.

I sprayed a single spritz of perfume, soft and floral, behind each ear. My heart pounded.

Malik was waiting for me in the courtyard. He leaned against the railing in a crisp linen shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open. When he saw me, he smiled. Not wolfishly, not eagerly, just... warmly. Like I was something pleasant. Something right.

"You look good," he said.

"So do you." He stepped forward and offered his arm. "Shall we?" I hesitated, but only for a second. Then I looped my hand through his elbow, heart fluttering.

We were a couple. And tonight, I would let myself be his.

He opened every door. Pulled out every chair. Held out his hand every time we crossed the curb. And I let him. At first, it felt performative. Awkward. Like I was a little girl playing dress-up in a world that wouldn't have me. But then, somewhere between wine and the second course, I realized I liked it.

The soft deference. The feeling of being looked after. Valued.

I didn't want to dominate the conversation. I wanted to listen. I wanted to smile and nod and tilt my head, and watch his eyes warm when I laughed. He touched my hand once across the table, thumb grazing my knuckles, then along my smooth nails. My breath caught. Not from shock. From relief.

After dinner, we strolled through the upscale mall where the theater was. The marble floors gleamed beneath the soft overhead lights, and the fountains bubbled in quiet symmetry.

We passed a piercing kiosk: glass case, bright light, mirrored display.

He stopped. I followed his gaze.

"Ever thought about earrings?" he asked.

I laughed nervously. "Not really."

"I think you'd look good with studs."

I shook my head, instantly embarrassed. "People would notice."

"They already do," he said gently. "And they like what they see." I looked at the mirror behind the case. I saw a man. But I also saw something softer behind the eyes. A shimmer. A possibility.

"I don't know if I can," I said. "They take a couple of weeks to heal, right? I'd have to wear them... all the time." He leaned close.

"I'd like to see you wear them."

That was it. That's what undid me.

The piercer was a kind girl in scrubs who didn't flinch at the sight of a nervous college boy. I chose simple gold studs: small, round, understated.

I gripped Malik's hand. When the first click sounded, I gasped. The second made my eyes sting.

Not from pain. From what it meant.

He leaned in. Whispered, "They suit you." I blushed so hard it made me dizzy.

We made our way through the mall toward the theater. What would people who looked at us think? That we were a couple? And if they thought that, it would be obvious who they thought was "the girl." It was embarrasing. Being in public with my "boyfirend." But even more heart-stopping: Malik, being in public with me, his girlfriend. The embarrassment faded with every step, replaced by... calm.

We sat in the back row of the theater. Some quiet art film with subtitles. I couldn't tell you the name. What I remember is how he slid his arm around my shoulders. How I leaned into him, almost without thought. How the heat of his thigh pressed against mine. How my hand, trembling, settled atop his. And how his fingers slowly traced mine, drawing me in.

I looked up at him.

He turned to me. Our eyes met. He touched my chin with the back of his fingers.

And he kissed me. Long. Lingering. Deep. His mouth was warm and patient. Mine was open and waiting. And somewhere, in that breathless silence, I stopped being Evan.

And became Eva.

It was like nothing I had ever experienced. Not with girls. Kissing a girl came with such... I don't know... responsibility. With Malik, I followed his lead. Our tongues gently, sensuously danced. I tasted his breath, breathed his breath, and he mine. I felt his slight stubble scratching my face, yet another conventionally female sensation. My head spun, and my hands wandered along his thigh until I felt a handful of stiff maleness in his jeans, snaking down his leg.

Jesus! How big was he? I had a feeling that I was going to find out.

I don't know how long we sat there, feasting on each other until the credits started to roll. We got up shakily and made our way through the lobby. Did anyone see? Could they tell? How could they not? All I could think of was peeling off his clothes and tasting every last square inch of him, tasting his sweat, tasting the very essence of him! Taking him inside of me! Letting him put himself...

Any illusions of maleness, or at least heterosexuality, were shattered by a lust more intense than I had ever felt.

I'm not sure how we got home without having a wreck. Our hands were all over each other. Happy, giddy, ravenous.

As soon as we got into his apartment, Malik stripped off his shirt. I kicked off my shoes, pulled off my pants and shirt, quaint symbols of an obsolete masculinity, and stood before Malik in my camisole, garter belt, stockings, and panties. Perfumed, pierced, and primped, ready to be given to him. His eyes roamed over my form, his breathing heavy, and he slowly, deliberately undid his belt and let his pants drop to the floor.

Clad now only in a pair of black boxer briefs, Malik pulled my body into his, and I could feel his heat burning through me. Without the need of prompting, I sank to my knees in front of him, pressing my face to the hot, musky bulge between his thighs. I gently grabbed the waistband of his underwear and slowly pulled down, revealing the magnificent maleness that I was going to serve.

I had stopped being a man. Malik was a man. This beautiful, rigid cock in front of me was a true symbol of maleness. Not like my pathetic little member.

I knew my role. It was to serve, to be the submissive partner, to bring him pleasure, to be the woman.

I grasped his member, drew the tip toward me, and licked the tip. For the first time, I knew the salty taste of precum. For the first time, I felt a hard, male cock go past my lips into my mouth. For the first time, I bowed my head forward, like a prayer, taking more of him until it reached the back of my throat. I wrapped my lips around the shaft and drew back, then forward again.

For the first time, and now, for the rest of my life, I was a cocksucker.

And it felt like the most wonderful thing in the world.

The feeling of my lingerie, the residual ache in my ear lobes from my newly pierced ears, the smell of my perfume mixed with Malik's own earthy musk, and the sensation of his cock filling and refilling my mouth reminded me of who I was now.

Malik ran his hands through my hair, carressed my shoulders, and moaned.

"Oh, yeah, baby girl. You're doing just fine. You're such a good girl."

Every word validated these new feelings and fired my passion. I wanted... no, needed, to bring him to the final ecstasy, and I worked my mouth and tongue more and more over his hard shaft. Gently cupping his huge balls, occasionally licking the crease between his thighs and his ball sack, bringing even more urgent moans from him.

All too soon, I felt his body stiffen. His grip on my hair tightened and I felt a pulse of something in the back of my throat. I could feel pulse after ecstatic pulse of his essence as it filled my mouth. I swallowed, wanting all of it, wanting him inside me forever. I wanted to carry him around in my belly, so I swallowed compulsively, desperately, until I collected and saved every last drop.

Malik fell back against the couch. He chuckled, "Oh my God, Eva... You're a beginner? I can't imagine how you're going to be after some practice!"

I sat back, feeling my nyloned heels against my nyloned thighs, sitting now before my satiated, post-orgasmic man, gazing at his exhausted expression, knowing that I had accomplished that. Knowing that I had successfully performed as a female, and while those guilt-ridden inner voices weren't exactly quiet, they were drowned out by the realization that this might just be what I was meant to be.

The guilt could wait until tomorrow. Right now, Eva had taken care of her man.

Chapter 7: The Makeover

If Malik was any indication, I had done a good job.

He was dead to the world, snoring softly on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, head tilted to one side, mouth slightly open in a blissful, unconscious grin.

Maybe not the most romantic reaction.

But very validating.

I stood there for a moment, wrapped in the fading warmth of what we'd just shared, still in my camisole and stockings, pierced ears tingling gently with every movement. The room smelled like jasmine and sweat and sex: me, and Malik, and something new between us that didn't yet have a name.

Feeling both lightheaded and grounded, I dressed slowly, pulling on my jeans and shirt like they were borrowed, foreign clothes. I slipped my shoes onto my feet, the slippery nylon sensation a private reminder of what I had become tonight.

I didn't wake him. I just let myself out.

Sleep came slowly. My mind spun like a pinwheel. Questions, complications, ecstatic images, imagined disasters. The memory of Malik's voice in my ear - "you're such a good girl" - settled over me like a second skin.

There was no denying it anymore.

These compulsions, this need, they weren't going away. They weren't some phase, some momentary kink. They were part of me. They were me. And now they had a shape, a body, and a name.

Eva.

I lay on my back in the dark, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding. I'd crossed so many lines. And I felt no regret. Only fear. Not of Malik. Never of him. But of everything else.

What if my parents found out? Would they disown me?

Would my classmates at UT laugh behind my back? Would I be employable once I graduated?

And what if I liked this too much? What if I couldn't ever go back? One way or another, I had to make room in my life for Eva. But I didn't know how.

Malik texted the next morning: "Made you breakfast. Still warm." I hadn't expected anything. Maybe some polite distance. Maybe even regret. Instead, I got eggs, toast, black coffee, and a slow smile that made my knees feel weak. We sat together on his balcony while the neighborhood buzzed beneath us, our feet bare against the warm planks, shoulders close enough to brush.

"I don't know what happens next," I confessed.

"You don't have to," he said, without missing a beat. "Not yet." I looked at him, searching for any trace of mockery or condescension. There was none.

"You don't have to map out the rest of your life today," he said. "You don't even have to know what Eva is to you, or how far you want to go."

"And if I don't know where I want to stop?"

"Then you keep going," he said, quiet and steady. "One day at a time. You let yourself find out." I stared at the horizon. The Texas heat shimmered against the rooftops. For the first time in what felt like days, I took a full breath.

"Actually," Malik added after a moment, "you might not have to figure it all out alone." He nudged me with his elbow.

"My sister could help."

Tasha was nothing like Malik, and somehow exactly the same. She was short, round-hipped, with a head full of cinnamon curls, thick-rimmed glasses, and a grin that could melt steel. She hugged me the second we walked in the door.

"So this is the girl I've heard about!" she said with a wink.

Malik gave her a look. "Be nice."

"I'm always nice. Especially to confused cuties." I blushed furiously.

She just laughed and took my hand. Leading me into the back, she tied her stylist's apron over a tank top that read Makeup Is Cheaper Than Therapy.

"You've bathed and shaved all over like I asked?"

"Yes. A long soak with lilac bath oil, shaved all over, and moisturizer after. I saved the shampoo and conditioner for you."

"Good girl," she said.

Tasha's salon was in the back of her home, a converted garage with a wide mirror framed by makeup lights, racks of clothes along one wall, and a long workbench of brushes, palettes, and more lipsticks than I thought existed. I stood in the center of the room, suddenly overwhelmed.

"Tasha, I don't know if I can..."

"Sweetheart, you don't have to do anything you don't want to," she said gently. "This is just an experiment to help you see what's possible."

"I don't want to look ridiculous."

"You won't. Trust me," she said, then smirked. "I make drag queens look subtle."

I stood in front of the mirror, a thin robe tied loosely at my waist. Underneath, only panties. My skin was still warm from the bath, legs smooth, the faint scent of lilac lotion curling around me like mist. I sat at Tasha's shampoo station, hair combed back from my face. The mirror in front of me reflected someone in between: a canvas in flux, half-shadow, half-possibility.

Tasha's fingers worked shampoo into my scalp with rhythmic confidence. I closed my eyes, letting the tension dissolve. Each rinse, each stroke of her hands was a small unspoken permission: to shift, to imagine, to step further.

With a towel wrapped around my head "girl style," I moved over to Tasha's salon chair.

"You sure about this?" she asked.

I hesitated. Then nodded. "Yeah. I want this."

"Good. 'Cause once you see her, you won't unsee her. Now, talk to me about hair," she said, toweling me off. "What are we thinking?"

"I don't want it too... obvious," I said carefully. "Not bangs. Nothing screaming 'trying too hard.'"

She grinned. "Got it. Subtle, unisex, but femme enough you'll feel her even in a hoodie and jeans."

She listed options like spells: pageboy, bob, wedge, shag. We weighed the softness of a cheekbone graze versus the boldness of a tapered nape. I found myself leaning toward shapes that held some edge but didn't erase me, just tilted the light a little.

"What about this?" she said, holding up a photo. Tousled, layered, with just enough bounce to feel intentional but not theatrical.

"Yes," I said before I had time to second-guess it.

"Good call." She clipped and sectioned, snipping with the calm authority of someone sculpting what was always meant to be there. My damp hair fell away in quiet flutters. I watched it go, strands of hesitation hitting the floor. I wanted to be ready. I didn't know if I was.

Then she blow-dried, round-brushed, coaxed it into shape--touches of product, a final sweep of her hand.

"You ready?" she asked, already turning the chair.

The mirror caught me all at once. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't loud.

It was me. Or the version of me I'd carried in the corners of my mind, too fragile to name. Soft, effortless waves framed my face with a knowing lift. Feminine but not forced. Strong lines softened just enough to whisper rather than shout.

I stared.

"I love it," I said, before I even realized I was speaking.

"Good. If you want, you can brush it back a little and tone it down whenever you're in boy mode, but I can show you how to blow it out and get this look. You'll need a styler with a round brush, paddle brush, and curling barrels. Not cheap, but I get a professional discount. And you get another discount for making my brother happy."

"Do I really...? What?" I stammered.

"Oh, I'm not planning any wedding showers for you. Yet... But, yeah, Malik likes you. Says you're smart and funny and courageous, and you make him feel like being protective."

I tingled at those words, at the thought that Malik would feel that way about me. But...

"Tasha, that's wonderful, but I'm not that person."

"Oh, honey, cut the crap," she chuckled, then turned serious and looked me in the eye. "I've only known you for an hour, but one thing I've learned is that you are exactly that person."

Emotions suddenly overwhelmed me, and tears began to flow.

"Shhh... baby, it's okay. I know, the idea takes a little getting used to. That's why we're here; you need to meet the person that Malik and I see."

"Okay, baby girl," she said, gently dabbing the tears away. "Let's turn this canvas into art." I swallowed and took a deep breath. My heart was thudding.

Tasha started with a skincare routine: cleansing, exfoliating, moisturizer, and explained each product as she dabbed or demonstrated. Her hands were confident, brisk, warm.

She started with primer, smoothing it between her fingers before dabbing it onto my cheeks and forehead.

"This gives us a clean slate," she said. "Smooths your pores. Think of it like lingerie for your face: supportive and invisible."

I laughed nervously. "So... necessary?"

She winked. "Essential."

Next came foundation. She held up two shades to my cheek before choosing one.

"Your undertones are warm. Honey beige works best. Cooler tones'll make you look like a corpse in a dress." I watched as she stippled the makeup with a sponge, patting it gently across my skin.

"I feel like I'm breaking some kind of ancient rule," I murmured.

"Oh, you are, girlfriend" she said. "And it looks good on you." She reached for a small wand of concealer.

"This hides the shadows, especially under the eyes. You want a bright, awake look, even if you've been crying over a man."

"Have you?"

She smiled. "Please. I've cried over three today. Now, here's a trick for you: draw a line down the bridge of your nose. Softens and slims the shape. Makes your face more delicate."

I nodded, entranced.

She guided my hand. "Now you do it." I drew the line. My fingers trembled. Another line crossed.

She brushed on a light powder. "Sets the base. Keeps you from looking oily."

"I'm learning so much," I said.

"You're becoming," she corrected gently. That hit something deep in my chest. Then she smiled and picked up a compact of blush.

"Okay. This one's coral. Soft. Natural. Smile for me." I obeyed. She swirled the color onto my cheeks.

"There," she said. "Now you've got that sweet-girl glow. Like you just got kissed on the neck."

I flushed. She grinned. "Or lower."

Bronzer was next.

"This one's subtle," she said, brushing it near my temples and under my cheekbones. "You don't want to look baked. Just warm." She angled my chin.

"This defines your face. Feminizes it. You're lucky, babe; you've got good bone structure. Just needed a little coaxing."

Then she moved to eyes.

"Eyeshadow time. I'm doing champagne shimmer with a soft brown crease. Simple, everyday pretty." She dusted my lids, her touch feather-light.

"Eyeliner changes everything," she said. "For daytime? Keep it thin. But for a date, like tonight?"

I froze. "Tonight? Malik hasn't asked..."

"Malik hasn't seen you yet, either. Just saying."

She leaned close.

"Top lid: full line, thicker toward the outside. Bottom lid: just the outer half. That'll make your eyes look bigger. More sensual." I bit my lip.

"Bigger eyes. Got it."

"And mascara?" she said, twirling the wand. "Focus more on the outer lashes. That'll give you a flirty lift." She applied it slowly, carefully. I blinked, then blinked again.

"Oh my God," I whispered. "I look..."

"Like Eva," she said softly.

Finally came lipstick. She held up three shades--bubblegum pink, coral gloss, and deep matte red.

"Last step, best step."

"Which one?"

"For tonight? Blood red. Matte. Sexy, serious, and it won't smudge when you're..." she mimed kissing, "... making memories." I laughed, nerves spiking.

"No lip liner?"

She scoffed. "Girl, lip-liner is trashy. Just walk away." She leaned in, applied the color with a brush. Her brow furrowed in concentration.

"Your lips are a great shape. You don't need tricks. Just confidence."

She stepped back.

"There." I looked in the mirror. My mouth opened slightly. She was there.

Not Evan.

Eva.

"I think she's ready for the next step," Tasha said softly, brushing a final touch of translucent powder over my cheekbones.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. My throat was tight. My lips, painted and perfect, still tingled with fresh color. In the mirror, the girl stared back at me wide-eyed--nervous, blushing, trembling.

She looked like someone about to be kissed.

Or unwrapped. Tasha led me to the bedroom with a garment rack already lined with options. But it wasn't the dresses that caught my eye first.

It was the delicate satin bra lying on the bed, beside two soft, flesh-toned breast forms. I stared.

"You've never worn one before?" Tasha asked gently. I shook my head.

"Then let's take our time." She stepped behind me, untied the robe, and let it slip from my shoulders. I stood there in only my panties, arms slightly crossed over my stomach.

"Don't hide, baby. You're beautiful already." I didn't feel beautiful. I felt... exposed. Preposterous.

But when she handed me the bra--silky blush pink with scalloped lace along the band--I touched it like it was a holy object. The cups were softly molded. Feminine. Empty. Waiting.

I slid the straps up my arms, let Tasha guide the band around my back.

"Hook it here," she murmured, showing me in the mirror. "On the loosest setting first."

Click.

The band snapped into place. It hugged my ribs just beneath the swell of my chest.

Then came the forms.

"These are C-cup. Not too much. Not too little." She slipped one into my left cup, adjusting gently until the weight settled just right. Then the right.

I stared in the mirror.

Breasts. Not ballooned or fake-looking. Just... soft. Natural. Balanced. I turned slightly, watching them shift with my movement.

"Oh," I breathed. My center fluttered. My thighs pressed unconsciously together. Another line crossed. No man wears this. But I did.

And it felt... right.

After the bra, she helped me into a matching garter belt, nude mesh with pale ribbon accents, and a pair of high-waisted lace panties that hugged my hips. She drew sheer beige stockings up my legs with practiced ease, then clipped them to the garter tabs one by one.

"I'm glad you like wearing nylons. You don't want to make it an everyday thing, but on a big date, they let your man know that you went to an effort." She leaned toward me conspiratorially. "Malik likes 'em, too. He told me," she giggled. That sent a tremor through me. After a lifetime of trying to make myself attractive to women, I was adjusting to the idea that I was now dressing to arouse a man's interest (and succeeding)!

When I turned to the mirror again, my breath caught. I didn't just look feminine. I looked like someone inviting touch. This wasn't a costume. It was presentation. Like a gift wrapped in silk and satin, designed for one person's hands.

His hands.

"Time for dresses," Tasha said, as if I wasn't already overwhelmed. We tried the babydoll first: a soft lavender thing with flutter sleeves and a high waist. I winced in the mirror.

"It looks like a nightgown."

"Yeah, not your silhouette," she agreed. "Too childish."

Next came an A-line: powder blue, sleeveless, a little twirl at the hem. I stepped into it, shimmied it up over my hips, then zipped the side.

Tasha clapped once. "There it is." I turned. The skirt flared just enough. My waist looked smaller. The neckline framed my collarbones and breast forms beautifully.

"This," I said softly.

"This," she agreed. We tried one more: a fit-and-flare in soft rose pink with cap sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. I turned slowly, watching the skirt fan around my thighs. I looked like I belonged on Malik's arm.

Or maybe kneeling at his feet.

"Accessories make the outfit," Tasha said, and added a multi-bangle gold bracelet, a delicate gold chain around my neck with a heart-shaped pendant. She considered another bracelet, then reconsidered. With one last wisp of hair brushed into place, she pronounced me officially "done," and turned me to look in the full-length mirror.

Eva had arrived.

"I think you're ready," Tasha said, brushing invisible lint from my shoulder. I stood in front of the mirror, dress swaying softly, legs hugged in sheer nylon, breast forms rising and falling with each breath, lips painted, earrings catching the light. I looked like something that belonged beside a man in a restaurant. Or in his bedroom.

Tasha walked to the doorway. "Let me go get him."

A few minutes later, I heard the footsteps. I didn't turn. I waited.

"Eva?" His voice was soft. Almost reverent. I turned slowly. His eyes swept over me, not with lust exactly, but with heat, and wonder, and something like pride.

"You look..." he exhaled. "You're stunning."

My voice caught in my throat. "You like it?"

"I more than like it." He stepped closer, touched the edge of my sleeve.

"So do I pass? Would go out? Like this? With me?" I asked.

"Let's go out now."

My breath stalled...

Chapter 8: A Seat at the Table

I stood in the entry hall of Tasha's house for what felt like forever. My lips were tinged in rose-pink, a whisper of perfume swirled about me, and my clothes, my hair, my face... all saying "female." My heart pounded behind my ribs like a fist slamming against a locked door. Malik stood by the door, patient, silent, waiting.

"I don't think I can do this," I whispered, more to myself than to him.

"You don't have to," he said, calm and gentle. "But I think you want to."

He was right. God help me, he was right.

Every part of me wanted to step out, not as Evan in costume, but as Eva in full bloom: seen, accepted, understood. But the fear clung to my skin. What if someone looked too closely? What if the illusion cracked under harsh lighting or a cruel glance?

"What's the place like again?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

"It's called Paloma," he said. "Nice place. Quiet. Low lighting. Great food. Classy but not stiff. Nobody's going to bother us. Just... dinner. Just us."

"You've been there before?"

"Yeah," he said. "And I wanted your first time out to feel safe. Thought it through."

I turned slightly, meeting his eyes. "So you planned this..."

He shrugged, smiling. "I've wanted to take you out for a while."

I looked down at myself: rose-pink fit-and-flare dress, cinched waist, flared skirt that fluttered slightly when I walked. My RHT stockings shimmered softly in the light. My nails matched my lipstick: deep, red, confident. Around my neck, a gold pendant in the shape of a heart, catching every breath of light. My earrings, still healing, felt warm and weighted. I felt... visible.

I drew a breath and nodded. Malik opened the door for me.

"You go, girl," beamed Tasha.

The night air met my skin like a whisper, cool, grounding. Each step in my modest 21/2-inch heels clicked softly against the pavement, the sound surprisingly rhythmic. Every movement reminded me of who I was tonight. Who I was.

Malik walked beside me, his pace easy, calm. When we reached the car, he opened the passenger door and offered me his hand.

I took it.

"You okay?" he asked, watching my eyes.

"No," I said, truthfully. "But I'm going anyway."

He smiled, slow, proud. "That's my girl."

Paloma sat on the corner of a brick-lined avenue in the arts district, tucked between a wine bar and a florist, the windows soft with amber light. The kind of place with candles on the tables and piano jazz humming under every conversation.

The hostess greeted us with an effortless smile. "Reservation?"

"Malik," he said, and she checked the list, then waved us toward a table near the window.

"Welcome," she said. "You'll love the chef's special tonight."

No double-take. No pause. Just the same look she gave every other couple in the room

Our waiter arrived a moment later. He was tall, early thirties, well-groomed, with a classic button-down tucked into dark slacks. He had warm eyes and an easy, practiced smile.

"Evening," he said, setting down the menus. "Welcome to Paloma."

He looked at me a moment longer than necessary. Not in judgment, just long enough to give my body the once over. His smile warmed.

"Wine list?" he asked, offering it to me first.

I blinked, then nodded. "Thank you."

"Take your time," he said, and his voice had a softness to it, an edge I recognized. Not flirtation exactly. But something like it.

Malik leaned in once the waiter walked away. "Told you. No one's staring."

"I know," I said. "But it still feels like they should be."

"They're not," he said, touching my hand gently. "They see what I see."

I excused myself during the second course. My heels echoed softly on the polished tile. I didn't hesitate when I reached the women's room.

Inside, soft lights framed the mirror. A vase of white lilies sat near the sink. The air smelled faintly of citrus and powder.

At the mirror stood a woman in her late thirties, brown hair tucked behind one ear, red lipstick applied with precision. She wore a simple black blouse, dark jeans, and a faded denim jacket with a brooch near the lapel. She glanced up as I walked in and offered a small, approving smile.

"You look lovely, dear," she said. Just like that.

"Oh," I managed. "Thank you."

She turned slightly. "That color suits you. The dress, it's very classic."

I felt heat rise in my chest. "I wasn't sure if it was too much."

"It's just right," she said. "And he clearly thinks so too."

I blinked. "Who?"

"The lovely man at your table," she said, lightly touching her lipstick tube to her bottom lip. "Your date. The way he looks at you, it's sweet. You're a lucky girl."

I stared at the mirror, at her reflection. "Yes... Thank you. I guess I'm just... nervous."

I looked down, fingers fidgeting with the gold bracelet at my wrist.

She chuckled gently. "So... Have you slept with him yet?"

My head shot up. The words caught in my throat.

She chuckled. "You don't have to answer," she said, grinning. "I remember that look. Just be careful. And if he's half as kind as he looks, I hope he's gentle with you. First time with someone who matters..." She looked away for a second, remembering. "You won't forget it."

I didn't know what to say. My cheeks were on fire.

Then she added, voice softer now, "You carry yourself well. Elegant. You belong here, honey. Don't doubt it."

She tossed the lipstick back in her bag and gave me one final smile. Then she left, heels clicking across the tile, just like mine.

I came back to the table lighter than I'd left.

Malik looked up as I slid into my chair. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I said, my smile breaking free. "Better than okay."

He reached across the table--not for my hand this time, but to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers traced along my jaw, slow and warm.

"No one's ever touched me like that," I whispered.

"No one's ever seen you like this," he replied.

The ride home was quiet, wrapped in the hush of streetlights and shared breath. I watched Malik drive--his profile lit by the dashboard glow, his hand resting near mine on the console.

We didn't talk much. We didn't need to. The silence between us wasn't empty--it was electric. Like every breath was still charged with candlelight and wine, soft jazz and slow glances. My body hummed with it. My skin still tingled where he'd touched me. My lips felt kissed.

When we pulled into his garage, Malik walked around the car and opened the door for me, just like he had hours earlier. Gentleman to the core. When he offered his hand, his palm lingered against mine for half a second longer than necessary. I stepped out carefully, the hem of my dress swaying just above my knees. As we walked to the door, I felt his hand against the small of my back, guiding without pressure.

And I let him guide me. Without thinking. Without resisting.

It felt natural. It felt right.

At his door, I hesitated. Not out of fear--but out of awe. Awe that this had happened. That no one had questioned me. That for one night, I had lived as myself, with no corrections, no hiding, no flinching.

He opened the door and turned to me.

"Eva," he said quietly, "you don't have to be anyone else tonight." That one sentence undid me more than all the compliments in the world.

I stepped inside, heart thundering in my chest.

"Okay, then I won't be," I said.

And for the first time, I believed it.

The hallway was dim. His apartment was quiet. And when he shut the door behind us, I turned to him and smiled.

He looked at me for a long moment. Like he was memorizing the way I looked in that dress--how the neckline curved just right, how the gold chain at my throat caught the light, how my lips were still the same bold red I'd chosen hours earlier.

I slipped off my heels as he poured two glasses of water. Stockings whispered across the hardwood as I padded barefoot toward him. I leaned on the counter, watching him.

"You know," I said, swirling the glass in my hand, "I've been thinking about something."

He raised an eyebrow. "Should I be worried?"

"Well," I said, tilting my head, "you fell asleep the last time I did something very nice for you."

He blinked. "What?"

I gave him a look. "You were passed out in minutes. Not even a thank-you."

He set his glass down too fast and winced. "Eva..."

"I worked hard," I said, mock-offended. "And I'm starting to think I must be incredibly boring."

His face flushed. "God, no. You weren't boring. You were... I was overwhelmed."

I narrowed my eyes, fighting a smile. "Too overwhelmed to stay conscious?"

He laughed nervously. "I was exhausted. And, uh, deeply relaxed. You're... very talented."

"'Talented'?" I teased, stepping close, voice lower now. "That's so romantic."

He looked down at me, his hands at his sides, clearly trying not to reach for me. "You know what I mean." I brushed a hand up the front of his chest, slow. Felt the muscle under the cotton. Felt him go still.

"Maybe I need a second chance to impress you," I whispered.

He closed his eyes for a moment. "You don't have to do anything."

"I know," I said, lips brushing his collarbone. "That's what makes it fun."

We didn't rush.

He let me lead. I slowly unbuttoned his shirt, kissing each new inch of skin I uncovered. His hands eventually found my waist, then the back of my thighs, then the small of my back where my zipper started. I slid it down, let the dress fall to the floor, and watched his breath hitch when he saw what I'd worn underneath.

He didn't say a word. Just looked at me like I was made of fire and starlight and something too fragile to touch without reverence.

And when I sank to my knees, he didn't move. Not at first. Then his fingers touched my cheek. Slow, reverent, grateful.

Later, we lay together in the dark, the sheets tangled around our legs. I wore nothing but the necklace and a smile. His arm was wrapped around my waist, his palm flat against my stomach. His breathing had slowed. But I knew he was awake.

"You didn't fall asleep this time," I murmured.

He kissed the curve of my shoulder. "Didn't dare."

"Good," I said. "I would've taken it personally."

He laughed quietly and pulled me closer, burying his face in my neck. His stubble tickled, but I didn't move.

He held me like he meant it. Like he'd never unhold me again.

His breath was warm against my neck. "You know," he murmured, "we could get away. Just the two of us."

I shifted slightly in his arms. "Away where?"

"I was thinking Galveston. There's a little boutique hotel I found. Quiet. Private. By the water." He paused. "We wouldn't have to hide."

The idea settled over me like silk. The ocean. A soft bed. A whole weekend where Eva could just... be.

"You want to take me to the beach?" I teased, tilting my head back to look at him. "It's too cold to go swimming - if you're trying to get me into a bikini."

He smiled. "I want to take her to the beach, even if we just walk along the seawall. Let Eva breathe."

I felt my throat tighten, not from nerves, but something close to joy. No one had ever spoken about me that way. Like I was someone who deserved peace.

"When?" I asked.

"This weekend. If you want to."

I pressed my lips to his chest, right over his heart. "Oh, I want to."

I slipped out at dawn, wearing one of his hoodies over the soft black lingerie he hadn't let me take off right away. The city was asleep, but I was wide awake. Thrumming with something fierce and warm and terrifying.

When I walked past the full length mirror in my hall, I caught my reflection: wild hair, smudged lipstick, bare legs. The gold studs in my ears still glinting in the low light.

I looked like her.

I was her.

And for the first time, I knew exactly what I wanted.

I just wasn't sure how to keep it.