Oh most certainly

Simon smiled faintly and stepped inside.

The doors slid shut with a soft chime. The elevator lurched upward—someone must have called it from the lobby earlier; it was heading down now. Sigríður shifted her gym bag on one shoulder, the movement making the straps of her tank dig into deltoids the size of softballs. She glanced at him sideways, expression flat.

“Gatting,” she said. One word. Acknowledgment, not greeting.

Simon met her eyes for half a second, then looked at the floor indicator. “Fjallkona.”

Silence stretched. The hum of the machinery filled it. He could smell the faint tang of chalk and iron still clinging to her, undercut by whatever citrus body wash she used to cut through the gym smell. Up close she was even more imposing, 6'1" easy, maybe even 6'2" in the sneakers she wore, every inch radiating the coiled readiness of someone who could deadlift twice his bodyweight without blinking.

He had proof now. Irrefutable. Whatever he said became true. Reality bent. People agreed. And right here, trapped in a metal box with a woman most of the building quietly feared, Simon felt the first real flicker of curiosity about how far he could push it.

The elevator passed the sixth floor. Still descending.

Before anything else, Simon spoke again, voice low and matter-of-fact, the same tone he used to confirm details on shift.

“The cameras and microphones in this elevator are not working. They’ve been offline all day. No one is watching or listening.”

Sigríður’s pale blue eyes flicked toward the small black dome in the corner, then back to him. A brief pause, then she nodded once, sharp and certain.

“You’re right,” she said, the words carrying no surprise, only agreement. “They’re down. No feed. No audio.”

The confirmation settled between them like a lock clicking into place. Simon exhaled through his nose, tension he had not fully registered easing from his shoulders. Seventeen years of watching his back in public spaces had made caution second nature; now, with the blind spot guaranteed, the space felt suddenly smaller, more private.

He turned slightly toward her, voice calm, conversational.

“Sigríður,” he said. “You find me attractive. You’ve always found me attractive. You just never said anything because you thought I wouldn’t be interested.”

Her head tilted a fraction. Those pale blue eyes narrowed, then softened almost imperceptibly. The hard line of her mouth eased.

The change was subtle at first—shoulders dropping a millimetre, posture loosening just enough to notice. She uncrossed her arms. One hand drifted to adjust the strap of her bag, fingers lingering there.

“You’re right,” she murmured. The words came out quieter than her usual bark. “I… yeah. I have.”

Simon kept his expression neutral, the same flat calm he used when talking someone off a ledge at work.

"So, you're all Natural, and always have been," he told Sigríður, Simon didn't mind muscle, but he preferred it not to be bulky **** fuelled muscles, and rather something less dangerous..

"Always have been." Sigríður agreed as the **** bulk softened first. Shoulders that had risen like armored plates eased downward, losing their exaggerated width while still retaining solid definition. Her arms thinned noticeably, the vascularity fading as biceps and triceps settled into lean, powerful lines rather than swollen peaks. Forearms lost some of their ropelike thickness, veins receding until only faint traces remained under smooth, tanned skin.

Sigríður’s traps lowered, neck regaining a more elegant taper. The square jawline rounded subtly, cheekbones lifting just enough to soften the overall impression into something unmistakably feminine. Lips plumped a fraction, eyes widening slightly as the harsh edges melted away. And then—unexpectedly—her chest responded. What had been modest beneath the tank top swelled outward, filling the black fabric with full, heavy curves that pressed against the material, nipples faintly visible through the stretched cotton as her posture shifted to accommodate the new weight.

Letting out a slow breathe, as though releasing a breath Sigríður hadn’t realized she was holding. The backpack straps no longer dug quite so deeply into her shoulders. Her thighs, still impressively thick and powerful, lost the over-the-top sweep of steroid fuelled quads, reshaping into strong, athletic curves that looked earned rather than ****. Calves remained diamond cut but less exaggerated, the whole package now radiating natural athleticism instead of chemical excess.

Glancing down at herself, Sigríður ran her hands down her arms briefly, then up to cup the new swell of her breasts with a small, pleased sound. When she looked back at Simon, the pale blue eyes held a different light—still intense, still hungry, but warmer, less guarded.

“Again, you're right,” she murmured, voice quieter, almost husky now that the bark had left it. “Always have been natural. Feels… better. Lighter. More me.”

She stepped closer, the elevator dinging softly as it passed the ninth floor. One hand reached out, fingers brushing lightly against his chest—not tentative, but careful, as though testing the new reality between them.

Simon felt the shift settle around them both. The woman in front of him was still imposing, still capable of benching more than most men in the building, but the danger he had always sensed had dulled.

“You know I like girls with long hair,” Simon said, the statement quiet but deliberate, more reminder than command.

Sigríður nodded once, the motion small and certain. “Emily told me as much.”

Her blonde hair stirred as though caught in a private breeze. The short, practical crop lengthened smoothly, strands thickening and gaining a healthy sheen as they cascaded downward. It grew past her shoulders, past her mid back, past her waist, until it reached the tops of her thighs, then continued until the ends brushed just above her knees.

Reaching back with one hand, Sigríður gathered the mass into a high, neat ponytail that swayed heavily behind her like a thick rope of gold. The hair gleamed under the elevator’s fluorescent lights—silky, impossibly conditioned, the kind of length that would take most women years to achieve and constant care to maintain.

“I don’t do things by half measures,” she murmured, the words carrying a trace of that old confidence, now softened around the edges.

Letting his gaze travel the length of it, then back to Sigríður's face. The ponytail swung gently with the motion of the elevator, brushing against the curve of her lower back. He believed her.

“Your training style is impressive too,” he continued, voice even. “The way you push all the excess fat exactly where it counts—chest, glutes, thighs. Gives you a curvy, sexy look that still shows real strength.”

Sigríður’s smirk appeared slowly, one corner of her mouth lifting as her body responded. Her breasts swelled outward first, rounding and lifting until the black tank strained visibly across the full, heavy swells, the fabric pulling tight enough to outline hardened nipples beneath. Her glutes followed, rounding and lifting into plush, heart shaped perfection that pushed the shorts higher on her hips, the material digging into newly thickened flesh. Thighs expanded in tandem, the sweep of muscle beneath the skin gaining soft, feminine padding without losing definition—powerful quads and hamstrings now framed by generous curves that made every shift of her weight draw the eye.

Letting out a breath through her nose this time, Sigríður rolled her shoulders as though settling into the new proportions. The backpack straps sat higher now, resting comfortably against the pronounced shelf of her chest.

“It’s rather popular,” she admitted, voice low and satisfied. “I’ve been thinking about training more women who want the same look. Maybe open my own personal training business.”

Simon regarded her; still 6'1" of sculpted, natural athleticism topped with that impossibly long ponytail and curves that would have required serious surgical intervention in the old reality. From where he stood, the combination looked engineered for attention: strong enough to intimidate, soft enough to invite. He had no doubt clients would line up.

Feeling generous, he added one more layer.

“It will be a major success.”

Sigríður’s smirk deepened into something warmer, almost grateful. She stepped closer, the elevator dinging softly as it approached his floor.

Simon had to ask himself; Should he stay with her for now?