Alot

Michael stood in the bedroom of the east side apartment and stared at the open closet. The black suit was right where the texts said it would be crisp, tailored to the broader shoulders and thicker arms he now had. He stripped out of the ruined lab clothes. The jeans stuck to his thighs when he peeled them down his cock was still half-hard from the residual heat, heavy and sensitive against his stomach once it was free. He ignored it as best he could and stepped into the suit pants. The fabric pulled tight across his ass and thighs. He had to adjust himself twice before the zipper would close without catching.

The dress shirt fought him at the buttons. Every brush of cotton against his chest made his skin prickle. He knotted the tie in the mirror and watched the unfamiliar face do the same stronger jaw, shorter hair, the faint shadow of stubble that hadn’t been there this morning. When he shrugged the jacket on, the shoulders strained. He looked like the guy in the team photos. He grabbed the keys from the bowl by the door, the ones with the small football keychain, and headed downstairs.

The car in the assigned spot was a black sedan, newer than anything he’d driven before. The seat was already pushed back for longer legs. He slid in, the suit jacket pulling across his back, and started the engine. The dashboard lit up with a contact labeled Brittany ♥ pinned at the top of the recent calls. He put the address from her last text into the GPS and pulled out of the lot, heading toward the restaurant on the other side of downtown while his new body still hummed under the tailored clothes.

Across the city, Felicia stood barefoot in the cheerleader’s bedroom and kept scrolling. The phone had unlocked with her face. Practice schedules. Group chats named “Varsity Girls.” A shared album full of game day photos her in the short skirt and crop top, mid-jump, red hair flying. Another album labeled “Private” that she opened without thinking. Mirror selfies in lingerie. A video thumbnail of her on a bed, laughing at the camera, one hand sliding under the waistband of tiny shorts. She closed it fast, face hot.

She walked to the closet. The cheer uniform hung on the back of the door white and red, the skirt shorter than anything she’d worn as Peter. She touched the fabric. Soft. The crop top was tiny. When she held it up against her chest the new breasts filled it completely, nipples already stiff from the cool air and the constant low ache the hormones kept feeding her. She set it down and opened the top drawer of the dresser. More lingerie. A box of condoms. A small vibrator still in its packaging. Her thighs pressed together on instinct. The wetness from earlier hadn’t fully dried; every small shift reminded her of Michael’s cock and the way her body had clenched around him.

She sat on the edge of the bed and kept reading. Class schedule. A part-time shift at a campus coffee shop. Texts from a girl named Tara about “covering for you at practice if you’re still sore from last night.” Felicia’s stomach twisted. She didn’t remember last night. She only remembered the lab, the gas, the way her hips had widened and her chest had filled while MJ’s body turned hard and male beside her. Now the apartment knew her as Felicia Hardy, cheerleader, and the body she was wearing still had hours left before it finished settling. She set the phone down, stood, and pulled the tiny crop top on just to feel how it stretched. The fabric dragged over her nipples and she bit her lip, staring at the unfamiliar reflection while Michael’s car carried him farther across the city toward a girl in a red dress who was already waiting.