A Small Piece of Control

Craig woke before the alarm. Not by much, just enough that the room still sat in that quiet, dim morning light where the world hadn't quite decided to start yet. For a moment he didn't move. Then instinct took over, hand sliding across the mattress toward the nightstand, fingers finding his phone by memory alone. The screen lit his face in a pale glow as he silenced the alarm before it had a chance to break the stillness.

Silence settled back in around him.

He lay there, staring up into the dim outline of the ceiling, breathing slow, deliberate. A few more seconds. A few more moments where nothing had changed yet. Where the world hadn't shifted under him again.

Because it would.

He knew it would.

The remnants of sleep clung stubbornly to the edges of his mind, already dissolving the second he tried to hold onto them. Dreams. There had been dreams. Not the usual kind. Not the ones he would've expected, given everything. No standing naked in front of a crowd. No humiliation. No panic. Something else.

Sunlight on skin. Warmth. The distant rush of waves.

A flash. Himself on a beach, stretched out across a towel, a bikini clinging to his body like it belonged there.

Gone.

Another image surfaced just long enough to register. A kitchen. The soft hum of an oven. A pie being pulled free, steam curling upward. Blue fabric with white polka dots. A frilled apron tied neatly at the waist.

Gone.

A third. Sitting somewhere, maybe a store, maybe a bedroom. Shoes lined up in front of him. Each pair just a little higher than the last. Trying them on. Standing. Turning. Evaluating.

Gone.

Craig exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him in a quiet, steady stream. Not stress dreams. That might have been worse. Maybe.

With a small, resigned motion, his hand reached out again. This time, it found the lamp.

A click.

Light spilled across the room.

Pink.

That was the first thing that hit him. Not gradually. Not subtly. Immediate and undeniable.

Pink.

The bedspread draped over him. Pink. Soft, pale, almost pastel, catching the light in a way that made it look intentionally gentle. His eyes lifted, taking in the rest of the room piece by piece, like his brain needed to catalogue the damage.

A headboard, white metal, curved and ornate, something out of a different decade entirely, rose behind him in delicate loops and flourishes. The walls weren't quite the same shade as the blanket. Coral, maybe. Close enough to sit in the same family, far enough to make it feel deliberate.

The dresser had changed too.

Bigger. More intricate. A wide mirror attached to the top, framed in carved detailing that hadn't been there yesterday. Everything looked softer. Lighter. Designed instead of assembled.

Craig blinked once, slowly.

"Right," he muttered under his breath.

Eros had redecorated.

Because apparently rewriting reality wasn't enough. Now there was an eye for interior design involved.

A hand dragged down over his face as he sat up, the pink bedspread sliding off his body in a quiet whisper of fabric. His gaze dropped instinctively, and paused.

Relief hit first. White. The same white chemise. The same panties. Exactly what he'd gone to bed in. No silk replacement. No lace surprise. No overnight wardrobe swap. Nothing had changed.

A beat passed.

Then the second thought followed immediately after, sharp enough to make his stomach twist.

Relief? Really?

Out of everything wrong with this situation, that was what his brain latched onto? Not the fact that he was sitting in lingerie. Not the fact that it felt increasingly normal. No, he was relieved that the same lingerie was still there rather than a new one that had been picked out for him by a mysterious ancient god.

That shouldn't even be on the table. Boxers. Sweatpants. Nothing. Anything that made sense. Not this. And yet...

It was better than waking up to something new. It was a small piece of control.

Craig exhaled again, slower this time, and pushed the thought aside before it could spiral any further.

Fine.

Room redecorated. That was manageable. Annoying. Unsettling. But manageable.

His feet slid off the edge of the bed, searching for the familiar height waiting below. The heels met him exactly where they should, like they'd been placed there with intention.

After buckling up his ankle straps, standing came easily, balance settling without effort as his weight shifted forward. Of course it did. Another thing that shouldn't feel normal.

Across the hall, the apartment remained quiet. Frank was still asleep. Good. That gave him time. Enough to get ready, enough to process whatever this morning had decided to throw at him before stepping back into the world. Because even with all the changes in his life, work wasn't optional. Not now. Not ever, really. Rent didn't disappear just because reality had started bending in on itself. Bills still existed. Food still cost money. The warehouse job, shipping and receiving, nothing glamorous, was still the most stable thing he had going for him.

And there had been talk. Promotion. Office work. Something cleaner. Something better.

Losing that because he couldn't get his act together? Not an option.

The bathroom light flicked on as he stepped inside. More pink. Of course. The razor sitting beside the sink caught his eye immediately. Sleeker. Curved differently. The now-familiar-colour unmistakable. He picked it up, turning it slightly in his fingers.

"Seriously?" he murmured.

Apparently even his shaving habits had been rebranded.

Still worked the same. Blade against skin. Careful strokes. Routine intact, even if the tools weren't.

Toothbrush (now pink). Water running. The quiet, grounding rhythm of it all helped, just a little. Something normal. Something predictable.

Back to the bedroom.

The chair by the dresser (now painted in alternating white and pink), held a denim miniskirt. Draped over the back, short enough that it made his brain hesitate for half a second before he pulled it free and tossed it onto the bed. Taking up the space his work jeans had once occupied.

Drawer open. Fingers reached in without looking, grabbing the first pair of panties they touched. No energy left for decision-making at that level. They landed on the bed beside the skirt, a flash of baby blue catching his eye just long enough to register how little fabric there actually was.

A shirt came next. Cropped. Light. The graphic across the front, two cherries on a stem, felt just a little too intentional for comfort. Craig stared at it for a second, then snorted under his breath and tossed it onto the growing pile.

"Subtle," he muttered.

Shoes. Familiar at least. The wedge sneakers he'd worn last week sat waiting by the dresser.

Then the pause. Second drawer down. Socks didn't exist anymore. Not for him.

The drawer slid open with a soft wooden whisper, revealing rows of neatly folded hosiery. Stockings. Pantyhose. Variations of the same theme, all arranged like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Craig stared at them for a long second.

Then reached in.

"Fine."

If the world was going to insist, he could at least stop fighting every single piece of it.

Dressing happened quickly, but not carelessly. The chemise slipped away, pooled briefly before being discarded. Heels kicked off. Balance shifted automatically as he stepped out of them, rising slightly onto his toes without thinking as the new panties were pulled into place.

They rode higher than anything he'd ever worn before. Settled differently. A faint flush crept up his neck, but there wasn't time to dwell on it.

Skirt next. Tight. Form-fitting. Sitting exactly where it was supposed to, like it had always belonged to him.

The shirt followed, fabric brushing over his skin as it settled into place.

Sitting down, Craig reached for the stockings. One at a time. Slow, careful movements. The material slid against his legs in a way that was still just unfamiliar enough to notice. Smooth. Controlled. Precise.

No snags.

Good.

Shoes last.

The wedge heels lifted him back into that adjusted centre of gravity, posture shifting without conscious effort as he stood again.

A hand smoothed over the skirt, tugging it down a fraction of an inch that made absolutely no difference.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered.

And yet he was dressed for work. This was what he was going to walk into the warehouse wearing. This was what everyone else would see as completely normal. A hollow sort of disbelief settled in his chest.

He slid his hands toward the pockets of the skirt only to find them sewn shut. Purely decorative. Of course there were. His hands hovered uselessly for a second before his gaze shifted, drawn to something resting beside the dresser.

A purse.

Brown leather. Small. Structured.

Waiting.

Craig stared at it.

Then walked over, bending slightly to pick it up. The strap slid easily over his shoulder, settling into place like it had always been there. Inside: keys, wallet, bus pass. Mints. Hand sanitizer. A phone charger. Lip balm.

"Fine," he said again, quieter this time.

No time to argue. No time to search for alternatives that didn't exist.

The clock was ticking. A bus to catch. A job to get to. A life, however distorted, to keep moving through.

Craig adjusted the strap once, squared his shoulders, and headed for the door.

Monday had started.

And whatever came next would already be waiting.