Much faster and maybe even prettier than me

It was a quiet day at home.

The kind of morning that started with soft light spilling through the curtains and the warmth of shared sheets still clinging to our bodies. I padded barefoot across the hardwood floors, wearing nothing but a loose tee that barely reached past my thighs. Roman was already awake, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, shirtless and confident.

But it was my boyfriend—still sleepy, still rubbing his eyes—who caught my attention.

He looked different again.

Smaller.

His once-broader shoulders had softened, arms slimmer and more delicate. His waist had narrowed, hips subtly flaring out in a curve that hadn’t been there yesterday. Even his face—those angles that once made him look sharp and dominant—had softened into something undeniably cute.

He blinked up at me, confused. “Do I look different?”

I blushed. “A little. You’re… kind of gorgeous.”

Roman chuckled behind his coffee mug. “It’s accelerating.”

We spent the morning lounging—me curled up against Roman’s chest, my boyfriend on the other side of the couch, legs tucked under him. He hadn’t realized how much had changed until Roman pulled out his phone and showed him a picture from two days ago.

He stared at the screen.

Then back at himself.

“I look… smaller than you,” he said, eyes darting to me.

I nodded, biting my lip. “You are.”

Roman leaned in, whispering something in his ear that made his cheeks turn red.

“I can’t believe this,” my boyfriend whispered. “I’m…”

“Beautiful,” Roman finished for him. “Absolutely stunning.”

By the afternoon, the changes had become impossible to ignore.

His voice had softened, a sweet melodic lilt replacing his usual roughness. His frame had grown even more petite, and when he walked, there was a subtle sway in his hips that hadn’t been there before. His chest had started to round gently, just enough to push against the fabric of his tee.

He tried on some of my clothes out of curiosity—and they fit.

Too well.

“Do I really look hotter than you now?” he asked me, turning in the mirror.

I stepped up behind him, nodding.

“You look… stunning,” I whispered.

Roman came up behind us both, wrapping an arm around each of our waists.

“Look at you two,” he murmured. “Matching toys.”

We both flushed.

And smiled.

That night, Roman laid between us again—his arms wrapped around both of us, protective and proud.

“You’re both mine now,” he said softly.

And we didn’t argue.

We didn’t want to.