Gay/Lesb - LGBT The Change I Didn’t Choose - A Story of Feminization and Obedience

[Thunder85]

Chapter 7: Shaped by Them
The next week slips by without any trouble.
After Sophie’s warning, I make sure there’s nothing to complain about. I’m up on time every morning. I wait for my turn to use the bathroom, wash the dishes, and make sure I’m home before ten. No lectures from them, no cold looks – just quiet routines and the soft hum of normal life.
Training goes well. I’m getting used to the rhythm: early start, steady work, friendly colleagues. Frau Schneider actually smiled at me on Wednesday – a small miracle.
And Lisa… we’ve been talking more. Messages, coffee after class once or twice. She’s funny, pretty, and easy to be around, the kind of person who makes the day feel lighter without even trying.
When I mentioned that I have to return by 10 every day since I don’t have keys to my apartment yet, she found it strange but funny. “People agree to weird conditions to live in a decent apartment in Berlin,” she said, shaking her head.
By Friday evening, I’m walking home feeling like maybe things are finally balancing out. The flat’s calm, the training’s steady, and even Berlin’s grey weather doesn’t bother me anymore. For the first time since I arrived, I start to believe this might actually work.
Saturday starts quietly. I wake up without an alarm for once, make coffee, toast, and sit by the window while the flat’s still half-asleep. The morning light feels soft, almost peaceful.
I’ve just finished eating when I hear footsteps. Mia appears in the doorway, her usual smile faint but polite.
“Ethan, could you come to the living room for a moment? Sophie and I want to talk to you.”
Something in the way she says it makes my stomach tighten. “Is something wrong?”
She shakes her head quickly. “No, no. Nothing bad. Just… come.”
That just come doesn’t help.
I follow her into the living room. Sophie’s already there, sitting upright on the couch, a mug of tea balanced perfectly on the coaster in front of her. She looks composed, serious, the kind of calm that makes me straighten up without thinking.
“Have a seat,” she says.
I sit.
Sophie folds her hands. “So – you’ve been here for about two weeks now. Claudia asked us to give her some feedback. About how you’re fitting in, how things are working in the flat, that sort of thing.”
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
“We thought before we respond,” she continues, “we should talk to you first. Tell you what’s going well, what’s… less so. And hear your thoughts.”
Mia gives a small, reassuring nod beside her, but Sophie doesn’t break eye contact.
“Because, ultimately,” she says, “our feedback will determine whether your contract is extended or not.”
The way she says our feedback settles like a weight in my chest.
Sophie leans back a little, studying me as if she’s deciding where to start.
“Overall,” she says finally, “you’re better than we initially thought. You’re trying to adjust, and even though there’s a long way to go, it’s clear you’re making the effort.”
I nod, not sure whether to thank her or just listen.
“The positives,” she continues, “are easy to list. You listen when we ask you to do something. You follow instructions. You’re quiet, considerate, you don’t make unnecessary noise, and you don’t disturb us.”
Her tone isn’t unfriendly, but there’s that measured distance again – like she’s reading from a report.
She turns slightly toward Mia. “Anything to add?”
Mia shakes her head. “No, I think you listed everything right with him.”
Sophie looks back at me, expression unchanged. “Good. Then let’s move on to the things that could be better.”
Sophie glances down at a small notebook on the table, as if she’s made notes beforehand.
“There are two obvious mistakes you’ve made so far,” she says evenly. “One was with the laundry. You forgot to add your clothes on Friday and then ran an extra cycle on Saturday just for yourself. That doesn’t work, Ethan. The system is there for a reason.”
I nod, keeping my voice calm. “Right. I understand.”
“The other,” she goes on, “was the curfew.”
The word makes me blink. Curfew.
It sounds strange – like something for college or a hostel, not a shared apartment – but I let it pass.
“You came home late,” she says, tone still flat, professional almost. “It was only once, but once is enough to test how seriously you take boundaries. But you apologized, and promised it wouldn’t happen again, so we decided to let it go this time. Just remember it won’t be forgiven a second time.”
“I know I messed up,” I say. “It won’t happen again.”
Mia glances at me briefly, almost sympathetic, but says nothing.
Sophie flips a page in her notebook. “Some other things aren’t as obvious,” she says. “But they’re still worth mentioning.”
I sit a little straighter. “Okay.”
“It’s about how you live here day-to-day,” she continues. “You wait to be told what to do. When it’s your turn to cook, we have to remind you. You should be taking initiative.”
“I thought we were following a rotation, and I…” I say carefully.
“Yes,” she cuts in, “but that doesn’t mean we should have to prompt you. A good flatmate notices what needs to be done and acts. Not waits for instructions.”
I nod, trying to keep my tone neutral. “You’re right. I’ll pay more attention.”
Mia leans forward slightly. “It’s the same with cleaning,” she adds, her voice gentler but still firm. “We’ve both cleaned the flat since you moved in. You’ve seen us, but you never offered to help.”
“I didn’t want to get in the way,” I say quickly. “You both seemed to have your own system, and I didn’t know where to start.”
Sophie raises an eyebrow. “You could have asked. Or picked up a cloth. It’s about being invested. Showing you care about the space you live in.”
I press my palms together under the table to stop them fidgeting. “I get that. I’ll be more proactive from now on.”
Mia gives a small smile. “That’s all we want, really. Just try to notice things on your own.”
“Right,” I say quietly. “Got it.”
For a moment, the three of us sit there in a silence that feels too neat, like the conversation’s been practiced.
Sophie glances toward the hallway. “I walked past your room yesterday,” she says. “And saw clothes scattered on your bed. That’s not acceptable.”
My face warms. “Yeah, sorry. I was just–”
“It’s not acceptable,” she cuts in. “We don’t leave things lying around.”
I blink. “Right. I just – there isn’t much space in my wardrobe.”
“Then you need to reduce what you have,” she says simply.
“Reduce?” I repeat, unsure I heard right. “But I already have so little. And since the color wash is only once a week–”
“That doesn’t matter,” Sophie says. “If you don’t have room for your clothes, then you have too many. But leaving them scattered isn’t an option.”
There’s a short pause. Then Mia, in her lighter tone, adds, “Or you could share some of ours. Just for home.”
I blink. “Share… your clothes?”
She shrugs. “Why not? T-shirts, tops, whatever fits. It’s just for around the flat.”
I stare between them, half expecting Sophie to laugh at the ridiculousness of the suggestion, but she only says, “It’s practical. Mia and I share clothes regularly, and now that you’re part of our household, you can do the same as long as it’s clean and you treat it with respect.”
The mere suggestion of wearing women’s clothes leaves me feeling really uncomfortable, something I can't even imagine ever doing. Yet they treat it like a simple favor, as if it’s completely normal to share garments in this way.
“Okay… sure. If it helps,” I say, but I know those are just words. I’m certain under no circumstances will I actually do that.
Sophie folds her hands neatly in her lap. “We also wanted to mention something small, but it matters. The atmosphere here – we work hard to keep it pleasant. Clean air, good smell, a sense of comfort.”
Mia nods. “It’s kind of our rule. No heavy scents, nothing that clashes.”
I frown slightly. “You mean cleaning products?”
“No,” Sophie says. “Your deodorant. Or whatever you use – cologne, aftershave. It’s strong. It stays in the hallway even after you’ve left.”
“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t realize. Sorry. I can spray less, maybe.”
“It’s not about less,” she replies. “It just doesn’t blend. It’s too sharp. We both use lighter fragrances, and it’s hard to relax when the whole flat smells like a men’s locker room.”
The way she says it makes my cheeks burn. “Right. Okay. I’ll find something else.”
Mia smiles a little. “You can use ours if you want. We’ve got a few that smell clean and fresh – nothing heavy.”
I stare at her, certain I misheard. “Yours?”
“Why not?” she says lightly. “It’s just perfume. Smells good, that’s all.”
“But your perfume smells like something a woman would use, not a man,” I protest, the thought sending a wave of discomfort through me.
“It’s just a scent,” she insists, her tone light and encouraging. “It’s something that smells good and would actually go well with you. You should give it a try.”
Sophie nods in agreement. “Exactly. It’s not a big deal, Ethan. The important thing is that the flat feels balanced. That’s how we keep the peace here.”
I nod slowly, still trying to imagine myself spraying one of their floral bottles before heading out. “Sure,” I manage. “I’ll… keep that in mind.”
I feel irritation rising as I think about the endless list of flaws they’ve pointed out so far. Many of them don’t even make sense. And it seems like Sophie’s list hasn’t ended yet.
Sure enough, she glances back at her notes. “There’s one last area we need to discuss – appearance.”
“Appearance?” I repeat.
“Yes,” she says. “It was mentioned in the listing that a pleasant appearance is important in this flat. We take that seriously.”
Mia nods. “It’s not about fashion. Just grooming, presentation, how we carry ourselves.”
I sit back a little, uncertain where this is going.
Sophie gestures toward me. “Your hair, for instance. You keep it… messy. It’s very boyish. You could make it softer, neater. Mia can help you with that later if you like.”
I blink. “My hair?”
“Nothing drastic,” Mia says quickly. “Just some styling. It’ll look tidier.”
“And at home you wear those loose T-shirts and shorts,” Sophie adds. “It’s fine, but the leg and arm hair… it’s not exactly pleasant to look at. You might consider removing it.”
I stare at her, sure I misheard again. “You mean… shave my legs?”
She meets my eyes evenly. “Or wax. Whatever works. We just prefer a smooth, clean look. It’s not mandatory, but it would help the overall harmony.”
For a moment, I can’t find a reply. “This is ridiculous. No man I know waxes their legs and arms.”
Sophie raises an eyebrow, her tone calm. “I’m not saying you need to do it today. I’m just saying it would go a long way in showing us you are making an effort to fit in.”
Mia adds gently, “Think of it as blending in – making the atmosphere comfortable for everyone.”
My instinct is to argue, to say this isn’t what renting a room means. But all I can think about is Sophie’s words earlier – our feedback decides. Arguing would only make things worse.
“Alright,” I say finally, voice low. “I’ll… keep that in mind. As long as I don’t have to decide today.”
Sophie closes the notebook with a soft snap. “Alright,” she says. “That’s all from our side for now.”
I exhale, thinking the talk is finally over, but then she adds, “You can go back to your room now. We need to talk to Claudia about the feedback.”
It takes me a second to process that – go back to your room.
The words sound so casual coming from her mouth, but there’s an authority in the way she says it, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to dismiss me from my own living room.
“Oh,” I say. “Sure.”
Mia gives me a quick smile, almost apologetic, but doesn’t contradict her.
I stand up, unsure whether to say goodbye or just leave. “Okay then. Thanks for the… feedback.”
Sophie nods once, already turning back toward Mia.
As I step into the hallway, the sound of their voices starts again – low, calm, confident – like I was never there at all.
I close my door quietly behind me.
Some of what they said makes sense. Helping more with the housework. Keeping the place clean. Fine. That is normal.
The rest… not so much.
Mia talking about me sharing their clothes. Using their perfume. Waxing. I would never do that. Just hearing it felt ridiculous, like living with them comes with rules about changing who I am. The idea alone makes my face heat.
Although the perfume… that one might actually happen. They said the flat smells too much like “man deodorant,” and I can’t fight that every day. I can’t exactly go without wearing anything. Maybe I can let that one go. The other things, no chance.
My thoughts circle back to the line of Sophie.
You can go back to your room now.
It sits in my chest longer than it should. Quiet. Final. A reminder of where I stand in this house.
I stay in my room most of the afternoon, half scrolling through my phone, half staring at the ceiling. The room feels even smaller today. I think about stepping out, maybe reading in the living room, but the memory of Sophie’s voice – You can go back to your room now – keeps me where I am.
Around one, hunger wins. I step out, hoping the air feels lighter on the other side of the door. Mia’s sitting on the couch with her laptop, hair tied up, a mug beside her. Sophie’s nowhere in sight.
“Hey,” I say. “Is Sophie home?”
“She went out,” Mia answers without looking up. “Groceries, I think.”
I hesitate a second. “Can I ask you something?”
She closes the laptop. “Sure.”
“It’s about what you said earlier. The perfume thing.”
Mia smiles faintly, as if she was expecting that. “You’re not comfortable using ours?”
“It’s just… strange,” I admit. “They smell fine on you, but on me it feels… wrong.”
She shrugs lightly. “This is women’s space, Ethan. The atmosphere matters. Strong masculine scents don’t fit here – they break the balance.”
I let out a small sigh. “And the rest? The hairstyle, the body hair?”
Mia leans back, studying me. “Same idea. It’s not that there’s anything bad with your hairstyle. But it looks… rough. A little unkempt. And the body hair…It just doesn’t suit the energy of this flat. Removing it would make you look cleaner, softer. It’ll make it easier to blend in.”
I look down at my arms, suddenly aware of how the light catches the fine hairs there. “You really think so?”
She nods. “I do. And it’s not a big deal. I can help you with your hair grooming now, if you like – just something simple.”
I hesitate. “Now?”
“Sure,” she says, standing up. “And tomorrow I’m going to the salon for waxing. You could come with me. You’ll feel better after.”
I try to laugh it off, but it comes out thin. “I’ll… think about it.”
“Good,” she says with a smile that feels both kind and final. “Come on, sit. Let’s fix that hair first.”
I sit down, feeling a little awkward as she stands behind me, comb in hand. “Your hair’s not bad,” she says, tugging gently through it, “just… directionless. It doesn’t know what it wants to be.”
I laugh softly. “That makes two of us.”
She smiles at that, then works a bit of styling cream between her palms. The scent is light, citrusy.
“Look up.”
I watch her reflection in the mirror as she smooths and shapes, the mess slowly turning into something deliberate – a side part, a little volume, softer around the edges.
“There,” she says finally, brushing a few strands into place. “More Berlin, less backpacker.”
I look at myself. It’s neater, cleaner… almost polished. But it feels strange, like the style is more fitting for a girl than a guy.
“Feels weird,” I admit.
“Only because you’re not used to seeing it like this,” she says. “Give it a day. You’ll like it.”
I nod slowly, unsure. “Maybe.”
Mia steps back, smiling. “Trust me. You look much better now.”
She studies me again, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “You know… if you let your hair grow out a bit more, it would frame your face better. Something softer. It would really suit you.”
Heat crawls up my neck before I can stop it. “Longer than this?”
She nods, perfectly matter-of-fact. “Just enough that it falls a little. It would bring out your features.”
I look away for a second. The thought of my hair brushing my neck, of looking… softer, something closer to theirs, makes my stomach twist. “I don’t know,” I mumble. “That feels… different.”
Mia smiles like she already knows what I’ll say. “Just think about it. I’m telling you, it would look good on you.”
I nod, mostly to end the moment, but the embarrassment sticks. Growing my hair out. Looking softer. A version of me I’m not used to seeing, and not sure I’m ready for.
After dinner I pass the hallway mirror on my way back to my room.
The light catches my hair differently now; the shape Mia gave it still holds. It’s tidy, smoother around the edges.
I pause for a second, tilting my head, trying to decide if I like it.
It doesn’t look bad – just… not me.
It feels a bit too refined, almost as if I’m trying to fit a mold that wasn’t meant for me.
I run my fingers through it, expecting the old mess to fall back into place, but it doesn’t. The style stays.
For a moment I wonder if that’s what she meant – that looking “better” might just mean looking less like myself and more like what they expect.
I switch off the light and go into my room, the faint citrus scent of her styling cream still clinging to my hands.
***
I wake up earlier than usual, sunlight slipping through the blinds.
For a moment I forget where I am. Then I catch sight of the mirror above the desk.
The hair still holds its shape. I stare at it, half expecting to feel amused, but what comes instead is something quieter: curiosity mixed with discomfort.
Mia’s words from yesterday float back – “Give it a day. You’ll like it.”
I pull on a T-shirt and step into the kitchen. The flat smells faintly of coffee and lemon soap.
Mia’s there, tying her hair back, dressed to go out.
“Morning,” she says easily. “I’m heading to the salon. Coming?”
I blink. “You meant it?”
“Of course,” she says, grabbing her bag. “They can fit you in right after me.”
I hesitate, thinking of Sophie, of yesterday’s talk, of how fragile my place here feels. Still, waxing feels like too much.
“Sorry,” I say finally. “I don’t feel comfortable with it. It’s just… too much.”
Mia shrugs lightly. “Alright. But don’t blame me if that lands you in trouble with Sophie.”
Her words hang in the air longer than they should.
Not a joke. Not a threat.
Just a reminder of how this house works.
When she leaves the apartment, the silence she leaves behind feels heavier than before.
I sit on the edge of the chair, staring at my hands, wondering how many more lines I’ll have to cross to stay here… and how many I’m already halfway across without admitting it.
Chapter 8: No More Neutral
Monday morning, I wake at the usual time and go through my routine. After I shower, I reach for my deodorant out of habit, then stop mid-motion, remembering Sophie’s rule: no using my own. It ‘disrupts the scent balance of the house,’ as she’d put it. Mia had said I could use theirs instead.
I feel awkward using their deodorant and perfume – the scent too soft, too floral, too not me. But I don’t have a choice. It’s better than going without. I spray just the smallest bit, hoping it’s enough to work without the smell giving me away.
I comb my hair, trying to copy the style Mia gave me. It’s not perfect, but close enough. The reflection still catches me off guard – how such a small change can make such a big difference. My face looks softer. Almost… prettier. I hate that the word even comes to mind.
At the training center, my classmates notice too.
“New look?” one of the guys asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Something like that.”
Lisa laughs when she sees it. “I like it,” she says. “Makes your face look more beautiful.”
Beautiful.
A man wants to hear handsome, not beautiful.
But the way she said it, soft and unthinking, almost made it sound like a compliment.
We’ve been talking more lately, having lunch together, sometimes walking back to the station. I catch myself wondering if this could turn into something real.
During the break, Lisa leans in close, sniffing lightly. “You smell different today.”
I blink, caught off guard. I was sure I’d used just enough not to be noticed.
“Really? How so?”
She grins. “What, did you accidentally grab your flatmates’ perfume this morning?”
I laugh awkwardly. “No, I just… I don’t know.”
Lisa laughs softly, nudging my arm. “Exploring a new side of yourself in Berlin, huh, Ethan?”
I shake my head quickly. “No, you’re getting it wrong.”
“Oh, relax,” she says, still smiling. “You wouldn’t be the first. Berlin changes people.” She pauses. “And for what it’s worth, I like it. It suits you.”
Her words leave me flustered, cheeks warm, embarrassed but oddly relieved, and even a little surprised that she actually liked these small, unwanted changes I’d been forced into.
The next couple of days pass in the same routine. Lisa teases me again about the perfume – says we should just share it since I already smell like her anyway.
Mia’s shown me how to style my hair properly, and now I can do it on my own correctly. The mirror doesn’t surprise me anymore; it just shows someone tidier and neater. Someone who knows how to fit in.
***
Wednesday evening, I’m in the kitchen, halfway through making dinner – pasta with whatever leftovers I can find – when Mia walks in, phone in hand, still on a call. She mouths a quick sorry and starts rummaging through the fridge.
I stir the sauce, pretending not to listen as she laughs into the phone, something about a work meeting gone wrong. She grabs a can of tomato sauce from beside me while trying to close the fridge with her elbow.
“Careful with–”
Too late. The can slips from her hand, hits the counter, and splatters a bright red arc across the stove – and me. Red streaks across my shirt, warm and sticky.
Mia gasps, grabbing a paper towel. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”
I sigh, staring down at the sticky mess. “Great. That was my last clean shirt. The only things I have left are for training the next two days.”
She grins, clearly trying not to laugh. “Guess you’ll have to eat shirtless then.”
“I mean it, I have nothing else. Small wardrobe, limited space, and the washing schedule only allows colored clothes once a week. I’m out of options.”
Mia tilts her head thoughtfully, then disappears down the hallway. When she returns, she’s holding something pale and folded. “Here,” she says. “One of Sophie’s tops. Mine would be too short on you.”
I stare at it. “You’re kidding, right? I can’t wear a woman’s top. That’s ridiculous.”
She shrugs, all mock innocence. “You need to wear something, don’t you? Unless you plan on cooking half-naked.”
We go back and forth for a minute, but eventually, I realize she’s right – and I really don’t have a choice.
I pull it on. The fabric clings in all the wrong places, soft and stretchy, the neckline a little wider than it should be. It looks… absurd. Too tight, too short, and unmistakably not mine.
Mia bites her lip. “See? Not so bad. Kinda cute, actually.”
When I glare at her, she laughs, leaning against the counter. “Relax, it suits you. You’ve got the shoulders for it. And honestly, you pull it off better than some girls I know.”
I groan. “Yeah. Hilarious.”
She chuckles, eyes still glinting. “If you keep dressing like that, Ethan, Berlin might start noticing you in a whole new way.”
Just then, Sophie walks in, keys still in hand. She stops mid-step, eyes narrowing in confusion.
“Ethan… why are you wearing my top?”
Mia bursts out laughing before I can answer. “My fault! I destroyed his shirt.”
Sophie crosses her arms, studying me from head to toe. “Hmm. Well, it actually looks… kind of nice on you,” she says with a faint smile, “but it’s definitely too tight. You’ll stretch it out if you keep wearing it.”
I groan. “Yeah, I know. It’s just… I don’t have any spare clothes right now. Everything else is still in the laundry queue.”
Sophie shakes her head, half amused. “Berlin life, huh? Still, maybe next time we’ll find you something a little less… fitted.”
She then smirks. “Or maybe not. I think it suits you.”
I sigh, tugging the hem down uselessly while both of them laugh.
Mia adds. “Okay, fine. Since this mess is my fault, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll buy you a couple of tops, like ours but in a bigger size.”
I frown. “Wait, why like yours? If you’re buying new ones anyway, why not get something like mine?”
She glances at Sophie before answering. “Because where will you even keep it? You barely have space in your wardrobe.”
“Same place I’ll keep the ones you want to buy,” I say, trying not to sound annoyed.
Mia shakes her head lightly. “No, see, if they’re like ours, we can just keep them in our wardrobe. Easy.”
“Then keep mine there too,” I argue.
Sophie steps in, her tone calm but firm. “That won’t work. We can’t keep men’s clothes with ours. It messes up the balance in our room. We don’t want that energy around.”
I stare at her, confused. “Energy? It’s just clothes.”
Mia gives a small shrug. “You’re living with us, Ethan. Sometimes that means adjusting a little. It’s part of blending in.” She smiles, playful but pointed. “And honestly, showing you can make small changes goes a long way. It helps people see you’re adapting – especially when we talk about extending your contract.”
I don’t know what to say. The logic makes no sense.
Sophie steps in before I can respond. “It’s only for home, Ethan. Not a big deal,” she says lightly, as if it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “This way it’s easier for you too. You’ll have enough of your own clothes for outside, and at home you can wear what we get for you.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she keeps going, that calm smile never slipping. “I’ll even lay out your clothes on the bed each day before you get back from training. That way you don’t have to think about it at all. Just come home, change, relax. Easy.”
Mia grins. “See? We’re helping you out.”
My face warms. The idea of them picking out what I wear every evening – women’s clothes, no less – makes my stomach twist.
The anxiety rises within me, and I finally blurt out, “You expect me to dress like a woman every day?”
Mia raises an eyebrow, a playful smile still on her lips. “It’s just for around the flat, Ethan. We all share a space, and it helps keep the vibe harmonious.”
Sophie adds, her tone calm and persuasive, “It’s not about changing you. It just helps soften the constant reminder that we’re sharing our space with a guy. Little things like this make the flat feel more balanced for us. It makes it easier to relax and feel comfortable around you.”
I frown slightly, trying to piece it together. “So if I… dress more like that, it makes you more comfortable?”
Sophie doesn’t flinch. “Yes. Around the house, it does.” Her voice stays even, almost matter-of-fact. “It softens the contrast. We’re two women sharing our space with a guy, and sometimes that difference feels bigger than it needs to. When you blend in a bit, it eases that tension for us.”
Mia nods beside her. “Only here. Only at home. We’re not asking you to change who you are. It just helps the flat feel more balanced.”
I open my mouth to argue, but their expressions tell me this isn’t up for debate. “Right,” I say quietly. “As long as it’s only in the house.”
Inside, I’m cringing. The mix of embarrassment and pressure sits uncomfortably under my skin, but pushing back now would only make things worse.
I go back to my room later, trying to catch up with what has happened. The room feels smaller. In the mirror, the softer haircut Mia gave me sits exactly where it’s meant to – too neat, too pretty. And Sophie’s top hangs on me in a way that makes my face heat, the neckline dipping just enough to feel wrong on my body. The floral perfume clings to my skin, sweet and unmistakably theirs.
It started with a new hairstyle. Then their perfume. Now “home clothes.” Is this what they meant by fitting in? Where does this stop?
Does sharing a flat with them mean becoming more like them?
Becoming… almost like a woman?
The thought hits harder than I want to admit.
My mind replays the evening: the splash, their laugh, how fast they had a solution ready– “We’ll buy you a couple like ours.” I want to believe it was an accident. I really do. But with the way they slid straight into ‘we’ll buy you clothes,’ ‘we’ll keep them,’ ‘you wear them at home,’ I can’t help wondering if it wasn’t just bad luck – if it was one more step in something they’d already decided.
***
When I get home from training the next day, Mia greets me at the door with her usual easy smile.
“I bought a few clothes for you,” she says lightly. “They’re in your room. You should change into them.”
My stomach tightens.
Already?
I didn’t expect her to actually follow through this fast.
Or at all.
I nod, trying not to look awkward. “Uh… okay. Thanks.”
When I walk into my room, I stop short.
Laid out on my bed are the clothes they chose for me.
A top.
And… a skirt.
I stand there for a moment, just staring. It feels absurd, unreal, as if the clothes are on the wrong bed in the wrong room. I sit on the edge of the bed, looking at the outfit, feeling a mix of embarrassment, confusion, and something I can’t quite name.
I pick up the top first. It’s soft and light. The neckline is too smooth, the sleeves too delicate, the shape cinched in ways my clothes never are.
I hesitate, feeling a wave of self-consciousness wash over me, then pull off my T-shirt and slip this one on. The fabric settles against me in a way that feels… strange. Not uncomfortable – just unsettling.
As I catch my reflection in the mirror, a rush of humiliation floods over me. It feels like I’m staring at a version of myself that’s slightly askew, as if I’ve crossed some unspoken line. My face heats instantly. This isn’t normal. This isn’t me.
The skirt lies beside me on the bed, neat and expectant, as if waiting for my answer. My stomach flips. I can handle the top, maybe. But that? No. Not yet. Not when I can barely look at myself without my chest tightening.
I grab my usual shorts, slip them on quickly, and take a slow breath before stepping out into the hallway.
Mia is in the living room. She looks up the moment she hears me. Her eyes go to the top first, a quick pleased flicker, then down to my shorts.
“You found the skirt too, right?” she asks.
I swallow. “Yes. I… saw it.”
“Then why aren’t you wearing it?”
I shift my weight, embarrassed.
“I have clean shorts. I thought… there’s no need to wear it.”
Mia tilts her head.
“It’s not about need, Ethan.”
My stomach tightens.
“It’s about adjusting to the home,” she says softly but firmly. “You know that.”
“I– I’m trying,” I say. “But a skirt is… different.”
“It’s just at home,” she replies. “No one else will see you. And it creates harmony. That was the whole point of buying it.”
A pause.
“Go change. Try it. You might be surprised.”
My cheeks heat. I don’t know if it’s embarrassment or frustration or something else entirely. But I nod anyway.
Back in my room, I shut the door quietly and pick up the skirt with both hands. It hardly feels real. My throat tightens as I slip out of my shorts, the air suddenly too cool against my exposed skin.
Stepping into the skirt feels agonizingly slow, each movement filled with hesitation – the fabric gliding up my legs in a way that feels both foreign and terrifying. When it settles at my waist, a flutter shoots through me, sharp and dizzying, like I’ve just crossed some invisible line I never even knew was there.
Embarrassment burns hotly up my neck, and my nerves twist tight. Underneath it all lurks a strange, unsettling sensation that I can't quite place, something I desperately want to ignore. I exhale, shaky and overwhelmed.
I’m wearing a skirt.
And I’m about to walk back out there like this.
I step out slowly, trying not to focus on the way the skirt whispers against my legs with every step. My heart thuds like it used to before big exams, loud enough that I’m sure Mia can hear it.
Her face brightens immediately on seeing me – open, warm, almost excited.
“Oh my God,” she says, grinning. “Ethan… you look really cute in it. It honestly suits you.”
The words hits me like a jolt of heat and ice all at once.
My face ignites with embarrassment, and I fidget at the hem, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands. I feel completely exposed, stupidly self-conscious, as if every inch of the outfit is glowing under her gaze.
I’m utterly humiliated.
Before I can even react to Mia, the front door opens. Sophie steps in, kicking off her shoes, and then she sees me.
She stops.
For a long moment she just looks – not shocked, not amused, just sharp and focused, like she’s evaluating a design choice. Then she gives a small, decisive nod.
“That looks good,” she says. “Much better. This fits the home.”
I swallow. “It feels strange.”
“It will,” Sophie replies, hanging her bag on the hook. “You’re not used to it yet. But you’re adapting. Faster than I expected.”
I take a breath, trying to articulate the whirlwind of feelings. “It’s just... everything feels different, you know? The fabric, the fit… wearing women’s clothes feels like I’m in someone else’s skin. I’m not sure how to handle it.”
Mia leans against the table, her expression encouraging. “That’s completely normal. It takes time to get used to new things. Just embrace it! You might even find you enjoy the change.”
A knot tightens in my chest – part embarrassment, part… something I don’t want to examine too closely. Because under all the awkwardness, their approval hits warm. Too warm.
And that scares me.
I glance down at myself. A guy in a skirt. In a flat that isn’t mine. In a city where no one knows me.
This should feel wrong. Completely wrong. And yet it doesn’t.
Not fully.
The shame is real, hot against my skin, but so is the strange, traitorous ease settling beneath it – a feeling I shouldn’t have, a feeling that makes me wonder what exactly is happening to me in this place.