Chapter 8: Heavy Handed

7:00 a.m. — Pop.

You wake up gasping, like a man surfacing from a bad dream and into a worse one. Something soft is pressing against your cheek. Not pillow soft. Not blanket soft.

No. This is warmer. Damp, somehow. And there’s a scent—powdery, floral, and faintly like cinnamon rolls.

You crack one eye open.

There’s a hand on your face.

A large hand.

A very large, padded, bejeweled hand.

It’s attached to a woman who appears to be roughly the size of your refrigerator. She’s wearing a lot of leather. Corset, choker, wrist cuffs with actual spikes. Black lipstick. A pink scrunchie.

She blinks down at you, eyelids glittered, expression unreadable.

You attempt to speak, but her palm is pressed over your entire mouth and nose like you're a small fire she's trying to smother.

She coos.

“Ohhhhhh. You're cute.”

7:01 a.m. — Suffocation and Introduction

You flail. Politely. You try to peel her hand away, but the magical seal has done its usual perverse thing: fused you like art students in a trust exercise gone horribly wrong.

Eventually, she peels her hand off your face just enough to let you speak.

“Hi,” you wheeze, blinking up at the stranger currently spooning your skull.

She beams.

“I’m Sugar. I’m a switch. And I’ve always wanted a little face-pet.”

You sit upright so fast you nearly sprain your neck. She rises with you—effortlessly, like the world bends to her gravitational pull. Her hand stays stuck to your face, right palm over your right cheek, fingers brushing your jawline like a deeply inappropriate mascot head.

You mutter, “It’s a genie thing.”

“Mm-hmm.” She leans in closer. “Say ‘magic curse’ again. Slower.”

8:14 a.m. — Leaving the House With Dignity (Failed)

You try to dress. She insists on picking the outfit.

“Horizontal stripes,” she says, digging through your closet. “Show off those skinny-boy ribs.”

You end up in your least dignified hoodie and jeans while she struts out in your bathrobe, one size too small, her leather corset peeking through the seams like it’s trying to escape your laundry entirely.

You attempt to explain, again, that the two of you are stuck together for twenty-four hours and there is no deeper meaning.

She nods.

Then whispers, “But maybe there could be.”

9:37 a.m. — Coffee and Containment Breach

You try to stop for coffee on the way to work.

You do not get coffee.

Because Sugar insists on ordering for you, and when she leans across the counter, her enormous hand pulls your face along for the ride. The barista drops an entire tray of muffins.

“Two oat milk lattes, honey,” she says. “One for me. One for my little biscuit here.”

You make a noise.

She smushes your lips gently and whispers, “No talking, baby mouth.”

A woman faints in the corner.

10:45 a.m. — Workplace Integration

Linda from HR sees you and stops mid-step.

“...Is that my cousin?”

“No,” you say quickly.

“Yes!” Sugar says proudly.

Linda stares at your face. At Sugar’s hand. At Sugar.

“You know what?” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I don’t get paid enough.”

She walks away.

You consider following her. Sugar gently redirects your face.

“No thoughts. Only Sugar now.”

2:00 p.m. — Lunch and Light Domination

You eat soup. It’s hard. Sugar insists on feeding you with your left hand while her right hand remains fused to your cheek like she’s holding a very emotional basketball.

Every time you spill, she goes, “Tsk tsk tsk,” and dabs your face with a napkin like you’re at a Victorian spa.

Someone walks by and mutters, “Honestly, I ship it.”

You die a little inside.

6:12 p.m. — Couch Talk

You collapse onto the couch. She follows, snuggling you like a beanbag full of body positivity.

“This was fun,” she purrs. “You’re such a good listener. Quiet. Moist.”

You don't respond.

You can't.

Her hand is back on your mouth.

7:00 a.m. — Pop.

She’s gone.

Your face is cold. Blessedly, wonderfully cold.

On the kitchen counter: a card.

It reads:

“Had a blast. You’ve got a sweet skull. If you ever want a dom who bakes, call me.”

Underneath, a lipstick print.

And a muffin.

Still warm.