Check out the clothing store

You cross the street toward Petal & Thread, your heels finding the grooves between cobblestones with surprising confidence. The boutique's window display draws you in—mannequins draped in flowing chiffon, a rack of sundresses in sherbet tones, a curated collection of delicate gold jewelry on velvet stands. It looks like the physical manifestation of Chloe's wardrobe philosophy: feminine, intentional, beautiful.

You applied here. You might work here. Alongside women who actually understand these things.

The idea settles into you with a warmth that has nothing to do with arousal. You've always gravitated toward female friendships—your college study group was four women and you, your closest friend from high school was a girl named Becca who you lost touch with after graduation. There was always an ease there, a conversational rhythm that clicked. But there was also always that invisible barrier—the moment where you'd be talking about something real and they'd suddenly remember you were a guy, and the dynamic would shift. Not badly. Just... differently.

What if there was no barrier? What if you were just... one of them?

The bell above the door chimes as you push inside. The shop is small but immaculate—racks organized by color gradient, soft recessed lighting, the faint scent of dried lavender and something leathery. A vintage sofa in dusty rose sits near the fitting rooms. Everything is curated with the precision of someone who genuinely loves clothes.

A woman emerges from behind a curtain of hanging scarves. She's tall—taller than you in these heels—with close-cropped silver hair and reading glasses perched on her nose. She wears a linen shirt rolled to the elbows, wide-leg trousers, and an expression of polite interest.

"Good morning. Can I help you find anything?"

Her voice is low, unhurried, with the cadence of someone who doesn't rush conversations.

"Just browsing, thanks," you hear yourself say in that new alto, and it comes out so naturally you barely register the shift. "I'm new to town."

"Ah." She extends a hand. "Margot Sinclair. I own this little temple of impracticality."

You shake her hand—firm grip, warm palm. "Riley."

"Riley." She repeats it like she's tasting it. "That's a lovely name. Are you settling in nearby?"

"The Ellison place, actually. House-sitting for my aunt."

Margot's eyebrows rise. "Vanessa's estate? My goodness. That house could fit three of this shop." She gestures around. "Well, you're welcome to look around. I just got a shipment of silk blouses from a maker in Portland—absolutely divine fabric. If anything catches your eye, I'm happy to pull sizes."

You drift toward the nearest rack, fingers trailing across the garments. A wrap dress in sage green. A structured blouse with pintuck detailing. A skirt in brushed cotton with an embroidered hem. You touch each one, feeling the weight and texture, and realize with a sinking sensation that you have absolutely no vocabulary for any of this.

What is this fabric? Is this a good cut? Would this look good on someone? You have no idea. You've been dressed by a robot for two days and you don't even know what you're wearing right now beyond "skirt" and "blouse."

You glance down at your own outfit—the charcoal pencil skirt, the white silk blouse, the corset beneath—and you couldn't name the specific style of any of it if pressed. LUXE assembled this. You just stood there and let it happen.

"That one would suit you beautifully," Margot says from behind you, nodding at the sage wrap dress. "The V-neckline works with your collarbone structure, and the wrap style is forgiving through the waist. You could size down if you wanted it more fitted."

She says it casually, the way someone discusses weather. Expert knowledge delivered without pretension.

She knows things. She knows why things work on bodies. You know nothing.

You smile, crimson lips curving. "You make it sound so simple."

"It is simple," Margot says, adjusting a hanger. "Most people overthink it. The trick is understanding what a garment is doing—where it draws the eye, what it emphasizes, what it conceals. It's psychology, really."

Your psychology-degree brain lights up. It's psychology.

Maybe you could learn this. Maybe you don't need to already know it—maybe you just need to be willing to absorb it, the way you've been absorbing everything else about this experience.

Margot is watching you with those perceptive eyes behind her reading glasses. "You have good instincts," she adds. "The way you're touching the fabric—most people grab. You're feeling. That matters in this business."