Playing Pretend Pt. 2

The Forget-Me-Mints sat innocently on the counter, now upgraded to a 12-hour version after Liam’s persistent whining had somehow eked out another six hours of amnesia insurance. The small tin glinted under the kitchen light, promising the escape hatch he clearly felt he needed.

Hermes leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching Liam with amusement. “Alright, bro—or sis, soon enough—here’s the deal. I’m not just flipping some switch and making you all giggly and vapid or whatever you think is gonna happen.” He wagged a finger. “You’re still you, just… a girl version. You'll be in the backseat of yourself a little bit, but you won't be fighting yourself every second. No awkwardness—just comfortably being.”

Liam shot him a skeptical look. “Comfortably being what, exactly?”

Hermes grinned. “A girl. Duh.”

You jumped in before Liam could protest. “And, while you’re at it, Hermes, can you give her some basic girl skills? Like, y’know… walking in a way that doesn’t scream disgruntled linebacker? Knowing how to do her own hair without it turning into a bird’s nest? I’d rather not waste time teaching her the bare minimum.”

Liam groaned. “Oh my God, you’re enjoying this way too much.”

You grinned. “I really am.”

Hermes, on the other hand, just hummed, considering it. “Hmm. Not a bad idea. A little ingrained muscle memory… yeah, I can work that in.” He turned back to Liam. “You ready?”

Liam exhaled sharply through his nose. His fingers drummed against his arm, restless, ****, but committed. His fate was sealed. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Hermes cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and shut his eyes. His fingers wiggled absently in the air, and you felt a subtle shift in the room—like the air itself trembled for a fraction of a second before settling again. He wasn’t chanting or glowing or waving a wand, but you could tell the magic was happening, piecing itself together in unseen, intricate ways.

Then, after a long pause, Hermes opened his eyes. “Done.”

Liam blinked.

You stared.

It was subtle—but also not. Her posture had changed—not ****, not exaggerated, but natural. She wasn’t standing like someone stuck in a foreign body, wasn’t fidgeting awkwardly, wasn’t fighting herself. She shifted her weight to one hip without thinking, her shoulders a little looser, her expression a little more fluid.

You tilted your head, testing the waters. “Liam?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Mmm… no, don't call me that, babe.”

Hermes let out a low whistle. “Damn. That was fast.”

You blinked. “What, you mean you're not Liam anymore?”

She shrugged, tilting her head in thought. “That name. It just doesn’t fit anymore.” She hummed, tapping her fingers against the counter, then nodded decisively. “Layla.”

You let out a slow, stunned breath. “Huh.”

Hermes smirked. “Nice. Layla it is.”

And then—before you could even process that—Layla turned, eyes lighting up, and clapped her hands together excitedly. “Oh my God, I need to do my makeup.”

She spun on her heel and beelined for the bathroom, probably looking for your makeup bag like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You turned to Hermes, slack-jawed. “Dude. That was fucking brilliant.”

He grinned, holding up a hand, and you smacked yours against it in a victorious high-five. “Told you,” he said. “Best in the business.”

You shook your head in disbelief, grinning. “She’s so into it. I love it.”

Hermes chuckled, then stepped back like he was preparing to leave. But just as he lifted his fingers to snap himself away, he paused, smirked, and gave a little flick of his wrist.

With a small shimmer, his coffee mug—still half-full, resting on the counter—morphed into a very familiar-looking strap-on harness.

You barely had time to react before he shot you a knowing wink. “Think you’ll need that tonight.”

And with a final snap—he was gone.

You leaned against the bathroom doorframe, watching with a mix of amusement and fascination as Layla worked, utterly absorbed in the art of her own beauty. She stood in front of the mirror with the natural confidence of someone who had done this a thousand times, head tilting just so as she blended a dark, smudged shadow along her upper lid, creating the beginnings of a perfect smoky eye.

The movement was effortless. Automatic. The kind of thing that should’ve taken practice, weeks of fine-tuning, yet here she was—gripping a blending brush between delicate fingers like she’d never held anything else. She switched to a shimmer shade next, dabbing just a kiss of it onto the center of her lid, then reached blindly for eyeliner without even looking down, flipping off the cap in one practiced motion.

You smirked. “So, I’m guessing the ‘basic girl skills’ upgrade was a roaring success.”

Layla grinned, carefully dragging the liner into a sharp wing. “Oh, obviously.”

It was bizarre. And amazing. And so damn entertaining that you almost wanted to pull up a chair and just watch.

Layla pursed her lips as she inspected her work, blowing lightly on her eyeliner to help it dry. “Y’know,” she mused, reaching for mascara, “I get why this takes so long. It’s kind of therapeutic.”

You huffed a laugh. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself, princess.”

She gasped, feigning offense as she wiggled the mascara wand at you. “Excuse me, but if I’m a princess, I’m at least one of the cool ones. Like, I dunno—Jasmine.” She lifted a brow. “You calling me a damsel?”

You snorted. “No, I’m calling you pretty. Which is true.”

Layla wiggled her brows. “Damn right it is.”

Your smirk softened a little as you crossed your arms, leaning more comfortably against the doorframe. “You’re, uh… really going all in on this, huh?”

She batted her lashes at you, leaning toward the mirror to perfect her lashes. “Obviously. That’s kinda the point of the spell, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but…” You tilted your head. “How much of you is in there?”

She paused for a fraction of a second—long enough that you caught it—then blinked at you through the mirror. “All of me,” she said simply. “I mean, it’s still me. I don’t feel different. I’m just…” She shrugged, dabbing concealer under her eyes with her ring finger. “Relaxed about it, I guess? Like, no ‘holy shit, I’m a chick, what the fuck is happening’ panic, just…” She gestured vaguely at herself. “This is me, right now. It’s not weird. It’s just how it is.”

You watched her a moment longer.

Yeah. That was still Liam under there.

The playful snark, the animated expressions, the way she talked—it was all still the same. He was still the same. Just… a little smoother. A little more effortless. Layla moved with a natural grace that Liam had never bothered with, but her humor? Her banter? It was all still there. And maybe that was why you weren’t freaking out about it either.

Because, despite all the outward changes, this was still the person you loved.

Layla smacked her lips together, blending out the rosy nude lipstick she’d just applied, then struck a playful pose. “Well? What do you think?”

You took a slow step forward, drinking her in. The smoky eye framed her stunningly, making her eyes pop like they belonged on a magazine cover. The soft contour along her cheekbones gave her a sculpted, sultry glow. And her lips—subtle, glossy, kissable—pulled into a slow, knowing smirk as she watched your reaction.

You hummed, circling an arm around her waist and tugging her gently toward you. “You look… gorgeous.”

Layla bit her lip, pleased. “Mm. Good answer.”

You pressed your forehead to hers, noses brushing, hands curling loosely around each other’s waists. The moment stretched, intimate, warm. You could feel her heartbeat through the thin material of her crop top, steady and real, and for a moment, you forgot entirely that this wasn’t the way things always had been.

“Still my Liam,” you murmured.

She exhaled, melting just a little into your touch. “Still your Liam.”

You grinned. “And my Layla?”

She laughed softly, pressing her lips against the corner of your mouth in a feather-light tease. “That too.”

Your arms tightened around her, pulling her flush against you, and for the first time since this whole ridiculous situation started, you weren’t thinking about the logistics of it.

Because whether she was Liam or Layla—boyfriend or girlfriend—the only thing that mattered was her.

Layla’s lips were soft, warm, and absolutely insistent against yours, her hands curling into the back of your shirt as she pulled you flush against her. The kiss was hungry—not ****, not rushed, but consuming, the kind that made you forget where you were and left you with nothing but the heat of her body against yours.

And god, it was hot. You didn’t expect it to be this hot.

Your hands slid down to her waist, feeling the gentle curve of her hips under your palms, and fuck, it was almost disorienting how natural it all felt. She was still Liam, still the same person, but this—this was different in a way that made your pulse quicken, made your fingers grip just a little tighter.

Layla smirked against your lips, clearly very aware of the effect she was having on you. “Enjoying yourself, babe?”

You huffed a breath, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth, then another down the line of her jaw. “Maybe a little.”

She laughed—a breathy, delighted sound that sent a shiver down your spine—and pulled back just enough to grin at you. Her lipstick was smudged, a soft pink haze spreading at the edges, and when she caught her reflection in the mirror, she let out an exaggerated gasp.

“Babe! My lipstick!”

You smirked. “Yeah, yeah, my bad.”

She rolled her eyes playfully and grabbed her lipstick from the counter, twisting it up and expertly reapplying with a few swift strokes. You watched, still a little dazed from the kiss, until she reached over, plucked your lipstick from the collection, and handed it to you without looking.

You blinked at it. “How did you—”

Layla arched a brow, capping her tube with a snick. “Babe. Please. Who do you think you’re talking to?”

You scoffed, grinning as you re-applied your own lipstick, and when you both looked up, your gazes locked in the mirror.

Layla’s expression softened. “We look cute.”

You hummed in agreement. “Yeah, we kinda do.”

She beamed. “Okay, mirror selfies. Right now. I wanna document this.”

You laughed. “Oh, now you wanna document it?”

“Duh!” She pulled you in close, lifting her phone. “We look hot.”

And, well… she wasn’t wrong.

Layla had that effortless, flirty charm that made it impossible to take a bad photo, and now that she had all the natural ease of someone who had been a girl her whole life? She knew exactly what she was doing.

She tilted her head slightly, bringing your cheeks together, and snapped the first pic—a simple, soft one. The next, she pouted, pressing her lips in a little kiss against your cheek while you grinned. Then, she turned her face slightly, smirking at her own reflection, running a delicate hand through her hair in a way that made it cascade perfectly over her shoulder.

“Damn,” you muttered, watching her pose. “You’re really enjoying this, huh?”

Layla grinned at you through the mirror. “Oh, absolutely.”

You wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer for the next shot. This one was playful—Layla scrunching her nose, you sticking out your tongue, both of you pressed so close together you could feel her giggles vibrate through her chest.

Then she turned, pressed her lips just shy of yours, and snapped a picture right before they touched. The energy in it was electric, teasing, the kind of shot that looked effortlessly intimate.

You huffed a laugh. “You’re a menace.”

She winked. “Yeah, but I’m your menace.”

You kept taking pictures—some sweet, some downright sexy, some absolutely ridiculous as Layla made exaggerated duck faces and dramatic model poses while you cracked up behind her. At one point, she turned around and leaned against the counter, arching her back slightly as she looked over her shoulder, batting her lashes at her reflection.

You raised a brow. “Going for the thirst trap now?”

She snickered, snapping the shot. “Babe, I am the thirst trap.”

You rolled your eyes, smirking, but gods, you couldn’t even deny it. She looked fucking good.

The next one, you pulled her onto your lap as you perched on the counter, tilting her chin up with your fingers. She practically glowed in the soft lighting, eyes twinkling as she smiled against your lips.

Click.

Layla turned the phone to show you, grinning. “That’s my favorite.”

You nodded, eyes flicking between her and the screen. “Yeah. Mine too.”

She exhaled softly, gaze lingering on you for a beat too long, then leaned in and kissed you again. Slower this time. Deeper.

When she pulled back, she smiled, nudging her nose against yours. “You really like me like this, don’t you?”

You exhaled a laugh, fingers tracing absent circles against her waist. “You’re still you.”

Layla’s expression softened, and she tangled her fingers with yours, squeezing lightly. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Still me.”

You grinned, forehead resting against hers. “And still mine.”

She smirked. “Always.”