Domestic Management

The bus lurched slightly as it pulled away from the curb, the low rumble of the engine settling into a steady rhythm beneath Craig's feet. Evening light stretched thin across the windows, washing everything in that muted, end-of-day glow that made the city feel softer than it really was.

A seat near the middle sat empty.

He took it.

The vinyl was cool through the thin fabric of his skirt, a sensation he noticed immediately, whether he wanted to or not. Legs angled together out of habit. No, not habit, something more ingrained now, stockings whispering faintly as they brushed against each other. The hem rode higher when he sat. Of course it did. His right hand tugged it down automatically, accomplishing nothing.

Not that it mattered.

Across the aisle, a man in a heavy jacket scrolled through his phone, thumb moving in slow, absent swipes. A couple near the back leaned into each other, murmuring quietly, their conversation blending into the low hum of the bus. Someone further up had headphones in, nodding faintly to music Craig couldn't hear.

No one looked at him. Not a second glance. Not a flicker of confusion. Not even curiosity.

Craig was just another passenger.

Cropped t-shirt. Bare strip of midriff catching the fading light. Denim skirt that, in no world, should qualify as workwear. White stockings. High-heeled wedge sneakers planted neatly on the floor, posture balanced without effort.

Normal.

Craig shifted slightly in his seat, adjusting the strap of his purse where it rested against his hip. The motion came easy now, automatic in the same way everything else had started to. That was the part that stuck. Not just the clothes, not just the reactions of the world around him, but how quickly his body had learned.

Or was being taught.

Outside, the city slid past in familiar shapes. Storefronts. Parking lots. Streetlights flickering on one by one as dusk settled in. Ordinary. Predictable. Unchanged.

A woman stepped onto the bus at the next stop, juggling a grocery bag and her phone, muttering something under her breath about forgetting milk. The driver nodded, barely listening. She tapped her card, moved down the aisle, and took a seat without a second thought.

Simple.

Errands. Groceries. Dinner waiting at home, maybe.

Normal problems.

Craig watched her for a moment longer than necessary.

What would that feel like? To have a day that stayed yours. To wake up and know, with absolute certainty, that nothing fundamental had shifted while you slept. Clothes where you left them. Life following a straight line from yesterday into today. No ancient god rewriting the rules behind your back. No waking up to... pink furniture and panties.

A quiet breath slipped out of him as his gaze drifted away, back toward the window. His reflection stared back faintly, distorted by the glass, stretched by the passing lights. Still him. Technically.

The bus rattled over a rough patch of road, and the movement nudged his thoughts somewhere else entirely.

Work.

The day replayed itself in pieces, scattered and uneven. It had started with coffee. A lot of coffee.

Clipboard in hand, Craig had moved across the warehouse floor, stopping at each cluster of workers, pen hovering as he asked the same question over and over again.

"What do you take?"

The first few had been straightforward. Milk. Sugar. Black. No fuss. Just orders. Then the comments started.

"Well, look at this," one of the guys had called out, grinning as Craig approached. "Here's the big man, showing us who's in charge."

A few laughs followed. Craig had paused, pen hovering mid-air, unsure whether to push back or ignore it.

"Yeah, yeah," another voice chimed in. "Better get my order right if you want that promotion."

More laughter. Not mean. Not really. This was normal. This was how they talked. Busting chops. Giving each other a hard time.

"Coffee?" Craig had repeated, deadpan.

That had earned him a few approving nods.

"Two cream, one sugar."

"Black."

"Triple-triple, boss."

Boss.

By the time the list filled out, the teasing had settled into something easier. Familiar. Almost supportive, in its own sideways way. Still felt strange, though. Standing there in a skirt, writing down coffee orders like he was... what, exactly?

Not a manager.

Something else.

Eventually, the break room had yielded a solution to the overwhelming coffee order: a rolling cart shoved into the corner, half-forgotten. One wheel squeaked when it turned, but it held steady enough. Craig had loaded it carefully, balancing cups, double-checking lids, making sure nothing tipped as he pushed it back out onto the floor. The sound of the cart had announced him before he said anything.

"Well, would you look at that," someone had called out. "Full service now."

A few chuckles. Craig had rolled his eyes, handing off the first cup.

"Don't get used to it."

"Hey," another guy had said, quieter this time, accepting his coffee with a nod. "We're just joking."

A beat.

"Seriously, though. You deserve it."

Craig had blinked.

"Yeah," the guy continued, shrugging. "The promotion, I mean. Not the jokes."

Something about that had settled differently. Not a joke. Not a jab. Just a genuinely congratulatory moment.

"Thanks," Craig had said.

And he'd meant it, too.

The memory shifted. Sal's office. Calling it a mess had been generous.

Papers everywhere. Not just stacked, layered. Half-finished piles merging into each other like they'd given up on being organized halfway through their existence. Dust in corners that hadn't seen attention in weeks. Maybe months.

Craig had stood in the middle of it for a moment, hands on his hips, trying to figure out where to even start. But start he did. There was no use in delaying the task set in front of him. Stacks formed where there hadn't been any. Loose sheets gathered, aligned, clipped together where possible. A separate pile grew for things that made no sense: forms, notes, random scraps that only Sal could probably decipher.

The mugs were the worst part. Five of them. Each holding some variation of cold, half-finished coffee. Craig had picked them up one by one, wrinkling his nose slightly as the smell hit stronger up close.

"Seriously," he'd muttered.

Then carried them out.

The break room had been next. Sink full of dishes. Countertops cluttered. Floor marked with the usual wear of too many boots and not enough cleaning.

Water. Soap. Scrubbing.

There had been something oddly satisfying about it. Not fun, not exactly, but straightforward. You could see the difference. Dirty to clean. Messy to organized. Effort turned into result without ambiguity. It wasn't like working in the warehouse, where as soon as you unloaded one truck, two more were waiting. This was a task that had an obvious end.

By the time he'd finished, the place looked better than it had any right to. Not perfect. But close.

And then...

Upstairs.

That had been new.

The shift from warehouse floor to office space felt like stepping into a different world entirely. Quieter. Brighter. Cleaner in a way that had nothing to do with bleach or elbow grease. People had looked up as he passed. Smiled.

"Hey, Craig."

"Morning."

"Good to see you."

Names he barely knew, faces he'd only seen in passing, and somehow they all knew him. Awareness crept in again as he felt seen by an entirely new group of people, sharp and immediate. Of the skirt. The stockings. The way the heels sounded against the polished floor. Still, no one questioned it. Craig, in their eyes, was just dressed as Craig should be dressed. Nothing out of the ordinary.

The kitchen had been bigger than expected. Not a break room setup. Not a microwave and a kettle shoved into a corner. It was a real kitchen, like the type you'd find at home. Wide counters. Full oven. Cabinets stocked like someone actually used them. And waiting on the counter...

A recipe for cookies.

Written in his own handwriting.

Pushing aside the bizarre nature of his new life, Craig got to work. The apron had gone on without much thought. Pink. Lace trim. It tied neatly at his waist.

Then came the baking. Mixing. Measuring. Stirring. The process had come easier than expected. Not effortless, but familiar in a way that didn't quite sit right. Like his body knew what to do even if his brain lagged half a step behind.

The smell had filled the space quickly. Warm. Sweet. Comforting.

The delivery had been the strangest part.

Conference room. Long table. People seated around it, mid-discussion. Craig had hovered in the doorway for half a second before someone noticed.

"Ah, perfect timing."

Heads turned. Eyes landed on him. Recognition flickered in one of them. Daniel Mercer sat near the far end, offering a small, approving nod.

"Craig," he said. "Come on in."

The tension had eased just enough for Craig to step forward, setting the tray down carefully. An attractive woman in her fifties had leaned back slightly, studying him with open curiosity.

"This the Craig we've been hearing about?" she asked.

Daniel didn't hesitate. "That's him."

Her gaze lingered. Traveled. Not subtle. A slow smile followed, something warmer than polite interest, something that made Craig acutely aware of every inch of exposed skin, every line of the outfit he was wearing. Heat crept up his neck before he could stop it.

"Nice to finally meet you," she said.

Craig had managed something resembling a nod before making a quick exit, the sound of his heels echoing just a little too loudly in his own ears.

The memory faded. Back in the present, the bus rocked gently as it slowed for another stop. Craig stared ahead, unfocused.

Coffee runs. Cleaning. Cooking. A promotion built on that. It didn't add up. Didn't line up with anything he understood about work, about management, about anything.

And yet...

It was easier. Physically, at least. No lifting. No strain. No exhaustion settling deep into his muscles by midday. If it came with a raise...

A quiet, uneasy thought followed.

Maybe he shouldn't question it.

Maybe this was just...

Better.

Of course, none of this was random. It couldn't be. The clothes. The reactions. The slow shift in how the world treated him, how his body responded. This was building toward something. Eros' master plan.

A soulmate.

Craig's jaw tightened slightly as his thoughts drifted back to the conference room. To the woman who'd been checking him out. Confident. Attractive. Older. The kind of presence that filled a space without trying. And the way she'd looked at him...

Hungry.

Was that it? Was this all some elaborate path to put him in front of someone like her? To shape him into... what, exactly? Someone who baked cookies and served coffee in a skirt? What kind of woman wanted that? What kind of man was that?

The bus slowed again. His stop. The familiar stretch of road came into view through the window, streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. Craig stood, adjusting the strap of his purse automatically as he moved toward the front. The motion felt natural.

"Next stop," the driver called.

The doors hissed open. Cool air rushed in. One step down. Then another. Heels hitting pavement with that same steady rhythm.

Another workday done. The evening stretched ahead, quiet and uncertain. And somewhere beyond that...

Sleep.

Craig exhaled slowly as he started toward home. Because morning would come soon enough. And when it did, there was no telling what Eros would have changed next.