Jon summons up a busty model

By the third day, Jon Kekyll was restless in a way that power couldn’t touch.

Not the kind of boredom that came from a lack of options - he could change almost anything now with a graze of his fingers and a flick of thought. His tea never cooled unless he allowed it. His sneakers self-cleaned as he walked. But novelty had a shelf life. And the silence that followed was louder than he expected.

He had tested himself enough. Changed enough. He had abs now. A smoother jaw. A research grant that had mysteriously doubled in value. But even at his most improved, something gnawed at the edges.

He could shift reality, but not the loneliness in it.

What he missed was friction. The feeling of someone meeting him halfway - not just a passive receiver of his touch, but a voice, a mind, a weight that pushed back. He needed someone textured. Complicated. Real.

He thought of the women he’d altered—perfect smiles, smooth curves, silent gratitude. Not one of them had ever looked him in the eye afterward and asked why.

He found himself sitting at a cafe; his fingers twitched on the side of the porcelain cup.

I need someone who’s more than willing to help me find excitement with this power, he thought. Someone beautiful, sure - but exhausted from it. Someone who knows what it’s like to be watched too long, too often. Someone who talks back. Why not…

A buzz stirred in his fingertips. A low flicker of that familiar static. He looked up.

And there she was.

She walked in like a line of dialogue he hadn’t written - deliberate, sultry, and faintly untouchable. Beige trenchcoat, high heels that announced themselves across the tile, oversized sunglasses that swallowed half her face. The barista faltered mid-order, mouth ajar.

She approached the counter, asked for an oat milk cappuccino with vanilla syrup. British accent - soft, slightly weary. The kind of voice that used to carry theater and now sold swimsuits to the tune of six-figure sponsorships.

“I follow you on Insta,” the barista blurted.

The woman smiled, polite but glazed. “Just coffee today, thanks.” She turned and scanned the room.

Jon didn’t move.

She looked straight at him. Not recognition - calculation. Her gaze landed, paused, and assessed. His corner was quiet. Tucked away. No phone out. No idiot grin. She walked toward him.

“Mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full.”

Jon nodded. “Please.”

She eased into the seat opposite him, unwinding her coat. Beneath it, a cream-colored sweater hugged her torso like it had been tailored to accentuate the delights just beneath. Her chest moved with slow gravity. Her dark hair hung in a low ponytail, her makeup slightly smudged from the hours before.

She looked gorgeous. And used. Not in a tragic way. In a lived-in way. In a fought-for-every-step way.

She caught him watching, and without missing a beat, said, “You’re not going to ask if I’m really her?”

He tilted his head. “Would it help if I didn’t know who ‘her’ is?”

That earned a laugh. Not a big one—but real.

“Olivia,” she said. “Online I’m ‘Liv Lux.’”

Recognition flickered. He’d seen her on a trending reel once—sun-kissed skin, deep-cut lingerie, clickbait curves. But he hadn’t followed. She’d looked too polished. Too perfect. Had he inadvertently summoned her?

“Jon,” he said simply. “I’m off social. So you’re safe.”

“That’s actually refreshing,” she muttered, lifting her cup.

They sipped in silence for a moment. Then Jon spoke, breaking into polite conversation. Their back-and-forth came quite naturally, continuing through pleasantries for the better part of 20 minutes.

Eventually, his curiosity outweighed his hesitation.

“So… what’s it like?”

“Being her?” Olivia arched a brow. “Some days it’s like winning the lottery. Other days, I’m a pair of tits with a speaking fee.”

He blinked. She smiled at his expression. “What? Not used to women being honest?”

“No, I’m just not used to honesty being that sharp.”

She chuckled. “I’ve had this conversation a hundred times. Most men come in swinging, thinking they’re the first to notice I’m real. You didn’t. So I figured I’d test the deep end.”

Jon leaned forward, intrigued. “What don’t people ask you?”

She paused, genuinely thinking.

“They don’t ask why I keep doing it.”

“Okay,” he said. “So why do you?”

“Because I’m good at it. Because it pays. Because people think they own me, and the only way to keep that power is to rent it back to them.” She sipped her drink. “And because I earned this body. Every damn inch.”

Jon nodded slowly. She didn’t flinch when she said it. Didn’t invite praise. She said it like it was a fact of survival.

But even so, he could see the cracks. The fatigue. The hunger to not just be seen, but understood.

His fingers twitched on the rim of his cup.

He could touch her elbow right now and erase all that. Rewind the wear. Brighten the glow. Lift and smooth and round her into something impossible.

His hand shifted an inch - almost. Then stopped.

She caught the motion and said nothing.

Instead, he asked, “Do you ever wish people saw you as more than your body?”

She looked at him. Really looked.

“All the time,” she said.

He leaned forward, voice low. “What would that version of you look like?”

She stared down into her drink. Her fingers wrapped around the paper cup like it was anchoring her to the table.

“Someone who doesn’t have to smile for rent. Someone who wakes up without thinking of angles and lighting. Someone who gets to stop proving she exists.”

The words hung between them.

Jon said nothing. Just watched her eyes flicker, not for drama, but because she was tired of not saying these things.

She looked back up. “Sorry. That got heavy.”

“No,” he said gently. “That…makes sense.”

She tilted her head, studying him now. “You’re weird, Jon.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

And then: something shifted. Not in her, but in him. The charge in his fingertips softened. Not gone. But no longer clawing at his nerves like it needed an outlet.

He hadn’t touched her. Not even by accident. And suddenly, he didn’t want to. Not because she wasn’t beautiful.

But because - for the first time since the surge - he wanted someone he couldn’t improve. Someone who didn’t need fixing.

And just maybe, someone who could change him.