No

You both made it out of the building without anyone stopping you. The side exit dumped you into a service alley behind the lab complex. Cool air hit the sweat still drying on your skin. MJ pulled the ruined jacket tighter across his broader chest. You kept the knotted shirt and the torn hoodie tied around your waist, every step reminding you how different your balance felt now hips wider, breasts shifting under the thin fabric, the wetness between your legs cooling against your thighs.

Neither of you checked the phones yet. The screens were cracked, batteries low, and the only thing that mattered was getting away from campus before the rest of the class came looking. MJ’s phone had one working map pin from an old rideshare app. Yours had another. Opposite directions. You didn’t question how the addresses had gotten there.

“East side,” he said, voice still rough. He didn’t look at the contact name. Just the street. “I’ll figure the rest out when I get there.”

You nodded. West side for you. A twenty-minute train if you caught the next one. You stood close for a second longer than you needed to, his bigger frame blocking the wind, the heat still rolling off both of you. Then he turned and headed for the bus stop without another word. You watched the broad line of his back until he disappeared around the corner, then started walking the other way.

The train was half empty. You kept your head down, arms crossed under your chest so the new weight didn’t move as much. Every time the car swayed your hips shifted and the makeshift skirt rode higher. By the time you reached the west-side stop your thighs were sticky again and your nipples ached from the constant brush of fabric. The address led you to a narrow brick building three blocks from the river. Third floor. The key was already on your cracked phone’s digital wallet like it had always been there.

Inside, the apartment was small and bright. Cheerleading trophies on a shelf. A duffel bag with pom-poms spilling out near the door. Photos on the fridge of a red-haired girl in a short skirt and crop top, arms around teammates. You stood in the middle of the living room, barefoot, still in the ruined clothes from the lab, and finally opened the phone all the way.

Felicia Hardy.

Cheer squad.

Practice tomorrow at 4.

A string of unread texts from numbers you didn’t recognize, half of them about a game this weekend.

Your stomach dropped. You scrolled the gallery. The face in the mirror selfies was yours now softer jaw, fuller lips, the same red hair but longer. The body in the uniform photos matched the curves you could feel under the knotted shirt. You set the phone down and walked to the bedroom mirror. The reflection confirmed it. Hourglass. Sensitive. Not Peter anymore.

Across the city, MJ’s bus dropped him on the east side near a newer complex with a gym on the ground floor. The key worked the same way. Inside: football gear in the corner, a jersey with Jones across the back draped over a chair, protein shakes in the fridge. He didn’t look at any of it until the door was locked behind him. Then he opened his phone.

Michael jones.

Starting linebacker.

Practice at 6 a.m.

A photo from Brittany still sitting at the top of his messages the red dress, the request for the black suit, the coffee after.

He stood in the living room in the torn lab clothes, new cock shifting against the ruined jeans, and stared at the unfamiliar muscular reflection in the dark TV screen. Neither of you had known any of it until the apartment doors closed. Now the lives were right there in the phones, in the closets, in the photos on the walls, and the bodies you were wearing still had most of a day left before they finished settling.