Above the Knee

Colin Wall tapped his dainty, manicured fingers on the curved edge of his pink laptop case, watching the lecture hall slowly fill in. His baby-blue stiletto heels—five inches, glossy patent leather—crossed neatly beneath the padded seat, the high arch sending a gentle tug up his smooth, bare legs. His skin shimmered softly, moisturized and powdered that morning to an even, luminous finish. He shifted slightly, his silk panties cool against his thighs, and smoothed the hem of his cream lace tunic, which draped elegantly over his waspish waist and the snug hug of his matching bra.

It had taken him thirty minutes to do his makeup this morning—not rushed, but not indulgent either. Just the usual: foundation to blur, blush to lift, smoky eye to emphasize, and liner to tease. And of course, lipstick. Today it was a rich berry gloss that made his pillowy lips pop. He’d picked it to match the sheen on his freshly painted nails, almond-shaped and dazzling with violet shimmer and silver butterflies.

He liked feeling put together. Everyone did, really. It was impossible not to care—not with a world like this.

Three years since the makeup glitch. By now, everyone had their own style, their own signature. It wasn’t even that weird anymore to see football bros compare mascara notes or engineering profs coo over their contour kits. Colin had a favorite beauty YouTuber, a part-time philosophy major who specialized in feminine looks with a punk edge. She had taught him how to set highlighter just under the cheekbone for an ethereal lift.

He’d practiced for days. His dad said it looked amazing.

Dad. Yeah. Colin adjusted his seat, his hips shifting smoothly in the satin-lined chair. His mind flicked, as it sometimes did, to the early days—the old photos in the hallway, the ones his father couldn’t bring himself to take down. Big-bearded, muscle-bound, leather-booted. Before the body hair vanished. Before the heels. Before the bra straps and the flicks of eyeliner and the way their voices lilted now, light and airy and sweet, no matter how they tried to speak low.

His dad still tried sometimes. Tried to speak rough and curt. But the tone always melted into something flirty, almost sing-song, like it was dancing on air.

Colin loved his dad. He knew the world had taken something from him. But they still had each other. Still giggled in the dressing rooms together, trying on bustiers and boots. Still went home after a day at the lingerie outlet and gave each other tips on setting spray.

His dad missed the past. But Colin? This was his world.

And in this world, there was Alice.

She slipped into the seat beside him, sliding her lilac heels under the desk, her skirt swishing just enough to catch Colin’s eye. Her makeup was perfect, dewy and fresh. Her lips were glossed in a shade of lilac that actually worked on her (so rare). Her hands fluttered with that innate feminine grace that everyone had developed, painted nails flashing a minty holographic green as she adjusted her binder.

“Hey, you,” she said, voice like a bubble on a breeze.

“Hey,” Colin said, crossing his legs, brushing invisible lint from his sheer tights. “Those heels? They’re everything.”

Alice grinned. “Yours too, sugarplum. You walk in those like you were born to.”

He had been, in a way.

His heart beat fast. Today was the day. He was going to ask her. After weeks of trading eyeliner tricks and admiring each other’s matching lingerie straps when they peeked from their tops, it was time.

But before he could lean in, before he could murmur anything breathy and charming, a shiver ran through the air.

It was the kind of feeling you never forgot—the world stuttering, like a breath caught mid-gasp.

Gasps echoed through the room.

Colin looked down.

His tunic—still there. His bra, his panties, his heels. His lips still gleaming, his hands still adorned.

But… his pants?

Gone.

In their place, a skirt. Short. Pleated. Tight at the waist, flared at the hips. Very flared. And the hem? Scandalous. Way above mid-thigh. A dark rose pink that shimmered faintly with some kind of iridescence.

Around the room, every other student blinked and adjusted—skirts everywhere. Satin, lace, pleated, flowing. Tight. Short. Every hem above the knee. Some just barely. Some—like his—barely covered anything at all.

Alice looked down at her own, a periwinkle ruffle-trimmed number, then giggled.

“Oh my God,” she said, fingers fluttering in delight. “This is so cute.”

Colin flushed slightly, then caught his own reflection in the blank screen of his laptop. The makeup, the lips, the curls he'd pinned back in a soft updo, the long lashes. His hands were poised over his skirt, pinkies lifted, rings catching the light.

This was normal. The world had changed before. It would change again.

But he’d grown up in it.

So he smiled—pillowy and pink—and crossed his smooth, hairless legs. He shifted in his seat, felt the whisper of fabric brush against the back of his thighs. A bit of cool air danced beneath the hem.

“Yours is amazing,” he said to Alice, voice a playful melody. “It makes your waist look even tinier. I’m kinda jealous.”

She winked. “Yours is scandalous. I can almost see your panties.”

He laughed, flicking his hair over his shoulder in a learned, instinctive move. “Then I guess I better not drop anything.”

The moment was perfect.

The fear was gone.

He leaned toward her, heart full, lips curved.

“So, Alice,” he said, “I was thinking maybe we could go grab a drink sometime? I know this cute place with a killer wine list and velvet booths that are amazing for gossip.”

She tilted her head, the curls at her temples bouncing gently. “Are the drinks good, or is the lighting just really flattering?”

“Both,” he whispered, eyes sparkling.

“Then I’m in,” she said, her perfectly glossed lips curling.

Across the campus, and across the world, people adjusted their new skirts, found their confidence, their flirty tones, their gleaming hands resting on silky fabric.

The world had changed again.

And Colin Wall was ready for it.