The six weeks expire. He calls Hale directly.

Hale answers on the second ring with the ease of a man who expected this call. "When can you start?"

He starts on a Monday.

The elevator doors slide open to a hum of keyboards and the sharp, citrus bite of cleaning products. Caden adjusts the strap of his laptop bag — too loose now, the leather sagging where his shoulder has narrowed — and follows Hale past rows of identical standing desks. Faces glance up, then away. A few hands pause mid-keystroke.

"Team," Hale says, clapping once. "This is Caden Voss. He'll be handling editorial on the demographic briefs." The room's murmur dies unevenly, like a radio losing signal. Hale scans the faces before landing on a young man slouched near the printer. "Drew — you're up. Show him the ropes."

Drew blinks, slow as a lizard in sunlight. He pushes off the wall, fingers leaving faint smudges on the glass partition. "Sure." The word lands flat, no bounce to it. His handshake is the bare minimum — dry palms, no squeeze — then he turns without checking if Caden follows.

His desk faces a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking a parking garage. Drew taps the keyboard, waking the monitor. "Login's first initial, last name. Temporary password's 'welcome1' — change it immediately unless you want the IT guys laughing at you." He leans in just enough to smell of stale coffee and whatever mint gum can't quite mask. "Files are all on the Z drive. Hale likes track changes, not comments. I’ve been working on the draft labeled Milwaukee, you should start there. And if you value your sanity, don't use the microwave after noon — it smells like death."

The chair swivels too easily under Caden's weight — less of it now, redistributed. He logs in. The first document loads: Declining Birth Rates and the Crisis of Masculinity. Footnotes are sparse. A graph comparing sperm counts to feminist publishing output has no error bars.

Caden's fingers hover over the trackpad. He deletes a paragraph comparing maternity leave to "taxpayer-funded indolence," rewrites it around a data point about economic incentive structures. The language feels both familiar and alien, like hearing his own voice on a recording played at the wrong speed. He hits send.

Hale's footsteps are distinct — confident but unhurried, the polished leather of his loafers barely making sound on the hardwood. Caden doesn't look up, but he feels the presence pause beside his desk. A shadow falls across the keyboard. "Adjusting?" Hale asks, voice pitched low enough that only Caden can hear.

"It's work," Caden says, matching the tone. Neutral. Professional.

Hale nods once and moves on.

Caden opens the folder. The top page features a graph plotting "feminine emotionality" against corporate leadership stats, axes unlabeled. He comments on the chart, writes source?. Down the page, a bullet point declares hormonal cycles disrupt team cohesion. He crosses it out, rewrites periodic recalibration may enhance creative problem-solving, then immediately hates himself for the concession.

He opens the Milwaukee draft, scans the pages, cursor hovering over a particularly egregious claim about estrogen levels and decision-making speed. The data is technically accurate, if you squint, but the conclusion is pure fantasy. He presses the delete key with more force than necessary.

Drew leans over Caden's shoulder. "You changed the conclusion," he says, tapping the redlined page. His voice is casual, but his fingers twitch against the paper. "Original version had better traction with the focus groups."

Caden keeps his cursor moving. "The original was statistically unsound." He doesn't look up. Drew's shadow stretches across the desk, angular and impatient.

"Funny," Drew says. "Hale never had a problem with it before." The office hums around them — keyboards, a distant coffee machine hissing steam.

Caden takes his hands off the keyboard. "Run the numbers yourself if you don't believe me." He swivels his chair to face Drew fully. Drew's gaze flickers over Caden's shirt, where the top button strains against the new swell of his chest.

Drew smirks. "Yeah, I'll get right on that. Wouldn't want to misinterpret the data." He walks away without waiting for a response.

Caden lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His bladder pulses — sharper now, more insistent than it ever used to be. No ignoring it. He pushes back from the desk, the chair rolling too easily on the polished concrete.

The men's room is empty except for Drew at the far urinal, shoulders hunched forward. Caden keeps his footsteps light, but Drew's head turns slightly anyway — just enough for Caden to catch the sidelong glance. He ducks into a stall, locks the door, and unzips his pants. Sitting down still feels unnatural, but necessity has worn away most of the hesitation. The sound is different now — higher, lighter. Not the heavy splatter he'd known for thirty-two years.

Drew clears his throat. The urinal flushes. Caden wipes — front to back, habitual by now — just as Drew's belt buckle jingles at the sinks. He waits a beat before exiting the stall, avoiding his own reflection in the mirror. Drew is drying his hands too vigorously, the paper towel crumpling in his fist.

Caden turns on the tap. The water is colder than expected, sharp against his wrists. He soaps up, methodical, counting to twenty in his head. Drew tosses the towel into the bin with a little more force than necessary. The door swings shut behind him.

A few days later, Caden is in the rhythm of the work when an email arrives mid-morning — just a subject line and a time: Conference Room B. 11:30. No signature. Caden smooths his tie against his chest — still silk, still navy, though the knot sits differently now against the hollow of his throat. He logs off his laptop and walks past Drew's desk without glancing over. Drew's fingers pause on his keyboard, then resume typing with deliberate force.

Hale stands by the window, sunlight slicing across his shoulders. He doesn't turn when Caden enters, just gestures to the chair opposite his desk. "Close the door." The latch clicks shut with finality.

Caden sits. The chair is lower than he remembered — or maybe his hips tilt differently now. Hale finally turns, holding a sheaf of printed complaints. "We've had complaints," he says, sliding them across the desk. The top one is labeled: Restroom Policy Violation.

"Company policy is biological identity." He taps the paper. "Not identification. Not presentation. Biology." His gaze flicks to Caden's chest — just a fraction of a second, but long enough. "You understand the position this puts me in."

Caden's fingers tighten on the armrests. The wool of his slacks rasps against suddenly-sensitive thighs. "I'm not using the women's restroom."

Hale leans back, sunlight glinting off his cufflinks — real silver, not the plated kind Caden wears. "No one's asking you to be anything." His voice is calm, the kind of tone reserved for talking people off ledges. "Just present the part. You know how this world works." He gestures toward the office floor beyond the glass walls. "Perception is currency. And right now, the team’s questioning whether we're violating OSHA codes."

The irony hangs there, thick as the bourbon they'd shared weeks ago. Caden stares at the complaints — printed in crisp black and white, the words biological female underlined twice.

"You're not wrong," Hale continues, softer now. He taps a pen against his knee — three precise clicks. "But you're not winning either. Own it. The clothing, the —" His hand circles vaguely toward Caden's chest. "Just enough to shut this down."

Caden's watch slides down his wrist as he flexes his hand. The face catches the light — a vintage diver's model, built for depths he'll never see. "You're asking me to perform." His voice doesn't crack, but it hovers at the edge of something precarious.

Hale smooths his tie — charcoal silk, knotted just shy of tight. "I'm asking you to solve a problem." He nudges a manila folder across the desk. Inside, Caden finds a receipt from Bergdorf's and a business card clipped to a company credit slip. "Eleven-thirty appointment. Marta's discreet."

"Presentation is everything," Hale says. "You of all people know that."

The dressing room smells of cedar and lavender sachets, the air thick with the muffled click of hangers shifting in the adjacent suite. Marta's fingers are cool against Caden's skin as she measures his chest— efficient, unimpressed. "Thirty-six," she murmurs, jotting it down. The tape dips to his bust. "Full B." Her tone is clinical, but Caden's breath hitches when the numbers leave her lips.

The first bra is utilitarian: nude T-shirt fabric with seamless cups. Marta hooks it behind his back with the efficiency of someone who has done this ten thousand times. The straps bite slightly until she adjusts them, then — worse — the weight settles evenly, comfortably, his breasts supported without being compressed. His chest looks purposeful now, no longer something that could be ignored under layers of Oxford cloth.

The navy-blue sheath dress — conservative cut, waist seam that curves inward just enough to emphasize the narrowing slope of Caden's torso. Marta unzips it with a practiced flick. "Try this with the matching blazer." The fabric whispers as it slides over his shoulders, cool against skin that had grown softer. The dress settles against his hips like it had been waiting for them. Caden stares at his reflection's waist, the cinch of fabric creating a distinctly feminine silhouette.

Marta produces a pair of sheer stockings, the packaging crinkling obscenely in the quiet room. "For the hemline." She hands them over without ceremony. Caden rolls them up his calves — smooth now, hairless without effort — and feels the elastic tops snap against his thighs. The sensation is alien and electric. His breath shallows.

"Turn." Marta adjusted the dress's shoulder seams, her fingers brushing the bare skin above his collarbone. "The neckline is modest, but the cut does the work." She steps back, assessing. "You have the shoulders for it. And the waist." Caden's face burns. The mirror shows a woman in a boardroom-ready ensemble. His pulse throbs low in his belly.

Marta hands him a silk-lined blazer, the shoulders padded just enough to square his frame without masking the drape of the dress beneath. "Button it at the waist." The fabric cinches snug where his torso narrows, the lapels framing his cleavage. Caden's breath hitches when he catches his profile — the gentle outward curve of his chest, the inward arc of his waist. Something hot and shameful coils behind his ribs.

"Good." Marta's approval is clinical. She opened a drawer lined with tissue paper. "Now the underthings." The bras are lace and satin, the panties scalloped at the edges. Caden's fingers tremble on the tags. "Cotton for daily wear," she says, sliding a nude set toward him. "Silk for evenings." The black set shimmers under the lights.

He dresses in the stall this time, fumbles with the bra, the lace pressed against his nipples. The panties settle high on his hips, the waistband dipping just below his navel. When he emerges, Marta nods. "Better." She adjusts a strap. "No lines."

The next dress is charcoal wool, the neckline a sharp V. Caden turns away from the mirror as the fabric slides over his thighs. "Arms up," Marta says, and he obeys like a child being dressed. The zipper teeth graze his spine. Cool air prickles against his exposed back.

"Turn." The command is gentle. Caden faces the mirror.

The woman staring back has his face, but the dress transforms her. The wool clings to his waist, the V-neck exposing the hollow of his throat. His chest rises and falls too quickly beneath the lace. Marta adjusts the belt. "You have the hips for this," she says, matter-of-fact.

Caden's pulse throbs in places he refuses to name. The stockings hiss as he shifts.

The shoes come next — black pumps with a two-inch heel, the leather supple as skin. "Start with these." Marta holds them out like a challenge. Caden wobbles on the first step, catching himself against the mirror's edge. The angle forces his hips forward, his shoulders back. His reflection stands taller, balanced on the balls of his feet in a way that makes his calves taut and his ass —

He looks away. Marta's expression doesn't change. "Walk."

Three steps. His hips sway instinctively for balance. The stockings rub together with a sound like pages turning.

Marta circles him. "You're resisting the movement." She places a hand on his lower back. "Relax into it." Her palm presses gently. His pelvis tilts. The dress clings.

He wobbles. The mirror shows a woman's posture — spine curved, shoulders back, the dress emphasizing every new line. Heat prickles under his skin. His breath comes shallow.

"Better." She hands him a handbag — structured leather, the size of a hardback. "Phone, keys, lipstick." He blinks. She sighs. "You'll need one."

"Enough." Caden's voice comes out sharper than he intended. Marta pauses, halfway through folding another silk blouse. He can feel it — the slickness between his legs, warm and insistent, seeping through the lace panties onto his thighs.

Marta doesn't react. Just nods, hands moving efficiently as she packs the selected outfits into garment bags. Caden retreats to the dressing stall, peeling off the stockings first — the elastic leaves red marks on his thighs. The lace bra comes next, his nipples stiff and oversensitive against the sudden rush of cooler air. He dresses quickly in his old clothes: boxer briefs, a worn Oxford shirt, jeans that now gap at the waist. The familiar fabric against his skin is a relief.

Until he sits in the car. The seat vibrates faintly with the engine, the pressure just enough to press against him through the layers. He grips the wheel tighter. Every bump in the road sends a jolt through his hips. By the time he pulls into his apartment's parking garage, his breath is coming too fast, his fingers tapping restlessly against the gearshift.

The garment bags rustle as he carries them upstairs, the sound absurdly loud in the empty hallway. He drops them just inside the door, kicks it shut behind him. His knees hit the hardwood before he'd even decided to move.

The jeans come off first — too tight around the hips now, catching on his thighs. He barely gets the boxer briefs past his knees before his fingers are between his legs. The moment he touches himself, he jerks back — not just from the wetness, but from the reflexive arch of his back, the way his thighs part without thought.

His reflection in the hallway mirror catches him mid-motion: one hand gripping his breast through the shirt, fingers pinching his nipple hard enough to ache. The other still pressed between his thighs, knuckles glistening. His face is flushed, mouth slack — the same look he'd seen on Lena's face when she'd —

Caden squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his forehead to the floor. The wood is cool against his overheated skin. He doesn't stop touching himself.

The shame twists tight in his stomach, sharp as the pleasure. He thinks of Marta's clinical hands adjusting the bra straps, the way the silk blouse had gaped between buttons. The skirt's slit parting when he walked. The sound the stockings made when his thighs rubbed together.

His fingers move faster.

The orgasm hits like a punch, sudden and shuddering. His back arches off the floor, thighs clenching around his own wrist, the aftershocks rolling through him in waves.

Silence. Just his ragged breathing and the sticky sound of his fingers pulling away.

Caden lies there for a long time, staring at the ceiling. The apartment smells like new wool and female sex. The garment bags lie where he dropped them, tissue paper peeking out like an accusation.

---

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