Chapter 4: The Request
The silence after he asked the question was a physical thing, thick and heavy in the sunlit room. His fingers were still in her hair, a gentle, repetitive motion that now felt like a metronome counting down the seconds.
“Shaving?” Louise finally said, her voice barely a whisper.
“It’s just…” Ilia shifted slightly, his body tensing against hers. “In my world, it’s… expected. At the rink, with the costumes… and personally, it’s just what I’m used to. I think I’d feel more comfortable.” He rushed on, hearing the hollow stillness of her response. “It’s not that you’re not beautiful. You are.So beautiful. It’s a me thing. A preference. Like preferring vanilla over chocolate.”
It wasn’t like that, and they both knew it. Chocolate wasn’t a part of your body you presented to someone in the most vulnerable moment of your life. His words from earlier—my failure, not yours—echoed bitterly in her mind. This felt like a correction. A revision to her manuscript.
Her stomach tightened, a cold ball of embarrassment settling low in her gut. The memory of his fleeting look, the “adjustment,” now had a name.A preference. She saw the sleek, hairless bodies of the other skaters she’d glimpsed on his Instagram, the flawless dolls in the audience who screamed his name. That was his normal. She was the aberration.
“Okay,” she said. The word tasted like ash.
He lifted his head to look at her. “You sure? I don’t want you to feel pressured.”
“I’m sure. If it’ll make you more comfortable.” She forced a small smile, the kind that hurt her cheeks.
He kissed her forehead, a seal on the agreement. “If you want, I can help you. It can be… tricky.”
The idea of him kneeling in his bathroom, razor in hand, while she lay splayed and exposed was too much. It felt clinical. It felt like preparation. “No,” she said, too quickly. “I’ll handle it. I know a place.”
“Okay.” He pulled her closer, his relief palpable in the way his muscles relaxed. He thought it was settled. He’d expressed a need, and she, eager to please, had agreed.The perfect dynamic.
She stayed curled against him for another twenty minutes, listening to his heartbeat, while her own mind raced in frantic, shame-filled circles. When he finally sighed and said, “I should probably get up, skate awaits,” she almost welcomed the disruption.
She gathered her clothes from the floor—the jeans from yesterday, his shirt she’d slept in. She dressed quietly while he pulled on training leggings and a tight athletic shirt, his mind already shifting to the ice. The glamour of his world felt oppressive now, the trophies on his shelf like silent judges.
At the door, he kissed her, deep and sweet.“Tonight? I’ll be tired, but I’ll order us disgusting amounts of sushi.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Sounds good.”
“Text me when you’re home safe.” He tapped her nose, his champion’s smile in place.
The moment his apartment door clicked shut behind her, the plastic smile melted off her face. The hallway was cool and impersonal. She walked to the subway on autopilot, the sounds of the city muffled as if she were underwater. His shirt, which had smelled like safety and cedar, now felt like a costume.
Back in her own tiny dorm room—a stark contrast to his curated sanctuary of blues and golds—she pulled out her laptop. Her fingers trembled as she typed “Brazilian wax studio near me.” The search results showed smiling women with perfect skin, leaning back in elegant chairs. Words like smooth, clean, confidence leaped off the screen. She clicked on the most sterile, professional-looking one, ‘Belle-Smooth Studio’. The website promised a “pain-free experience” in a “clinical, comforting environment.”
She booked the first available appointment for that afternoon. A “Full Brazilian,” the option said. She paid the deposit with a click, a numb finality to the action.
The studio was all white leather and polished chrome, smelling strongly of antiseptic and artificially sweetened vanilla. A woman with impossibly shiny hair and a lab coat gave her a clipboard with a waiver. Louise initialed next to paragraphs about skin irritation, infection, and the possibility of “minor discomfort.”
“First time?” the woman asked, her voice brightly neutral.
Louise nodded, unable to speak.
“Alrighty. Follow me.”
The room was small, lit by harsh fluorescent lights. A paper-covered table sat in the center. On the wall, a diagram of a woman with perfectly symmetrical, hairless anatomy felt like an accusation. The technician, a different woman with a kind but tired face, came in. “Hi, Louise.I’m Maria. You ready?”
Louise undressed from the waist down, lying back on the crinkly paper. She stared at a water stain on the ceiling tile, trying to detach her mind from what was happening. The first touch of the warm wax was a shock. Maria’s hands were efficient, professional. She chatted about the unseasonably warm weather as she applied the strips.
“Okay, deep breath,” Maria said.
The rip was a white-hot flare of pain, so sudden and violent it stole the air from Louise’s lungs. Her eyes watered instantly. She dug her nails into her palms.
“You’re doing great. Just a few more.”
Each pull was a searing punishment. She thought of Ilia’s face, his “preference.” She thought of the flicker. She thought of the way he’d said comfortable. With every strip, she felt a piece of herself being torn away, not just hair but a layer of innocent defiance. This body was hers, but she was remodeling it for him. The pain was acute, humiliating, and peculiarly satisfying—a penance paid for not being naturally what he desired.
“All done,” Maria said finally, applying a cool, stinging lotion. “Take a look.”
Louise didn’t want to look. But she forced herself to sit up, to glance down. The skin was angry and red, but it was utterly smooth.Bare. It looked younger, unfamiliar. It looked like the diagram on the wall. It looked like it belonged to someone else.
She dressed in a haze, paid at the front desk, and walked out into the afternoon sun. The tender, raw ache between her legs was a constant reminder with every step. She felt hollowed out and hypersensitive.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Ilia. A text: How’s your day? Miss your face.
She stared at the message. She pictured him gliding on the ice, effortless and powerful, in a costume that left little to the imagination, his body a universally admired object.His comfort zone. She was now stepping into its periphery.
She typed back, her fingers cold: Day’s okay. Got that thing done. Hurts a bit.
Three dots appeared immediately.Oh, baby. I’m sorry it hurts.Thank you. Can’t wait to see you tonight. Followed by a winking emoji.
See you then, she replied.
She walked home slowly, the newness of her body feeling strange and exposed under her clothes. She didn’t feel more confident. She felt like a visitor in her own skin. But she also felt a grim sense of accomplishment. She had done the thing. She had met the preference. She had erased the flicker.
That night, she stood before her own mirror in her bathroom, wearing just a towel. She dropped it. The girl in the reflection was pale, freckled, curvy. And now, fundamentally altered. She touched the sore, smooth skin. A shiver went through her, part anticipation, part dread.
The doorbell to her dorm buzzed; he was early. She wrapped the towel back around herself, tighter than before. The momentum of the day carried her forward, a wave she was now riding whether she wanted to or not. She had crossed a threshold, and the only direction left was into whatever came next.