Upward Mobility, Downward Spiral

Craig didn't open his eyes, at least not right away. Awareness came first, slow and creeping, like something unwelcome slipping under a door. Consciousness settled in piece by piece: weight of blankets, the faint hum of the room, the distant early-morning quiet of the apartment. Morning had arrived whether he was ready for it or not.

He wasn't.

His eyes stayed shut.

Because opening them meant confirming it. Meant seeing it. Meant facing whatever new twist had been added overnight, another quiet rewrite slipped into place while he slept. That was the pattern now. Seven days of it. Seven mornings of waking up to a world that had shifted just enough to make him question everything.

Seven days since Eros had taken an interest.

Craig lay still, breathing slow, trying to exist in that narrow space where nothing had changed yet. Where the room was still just a room, and not whatever it had become.

He already knew what he'd find.

The black lace cami. Sheer. Floral. Soft in a way that still felt unfamiliar, even after nights of wearing things like it. The matching panties. The pink walls. The closet filled with clothes that didn't belong to the person he remembered being.

That much would be the same. It was everything else that worried him.

Something new. Something adjusted. Something that, if he tried to explain it to anyone else, would earn him a concerned look and maybe a quiet suggestion that he take a day off.

A slow breath in. A slower one out. Memory drifted in to fill the silence.

Laundry night. Last night.

Monday. Always Monday. Some things, apparently, still followed a routine. He'd stood there in the apartment, basket in hand, dressed in a spaghetti-strap top and a pleated skirt that swayed against his thighs when he moved. Marabou high-heeled slippers on his feet, soft, ridiculous, comfortable in a way that annoyed him because it shouldn't have been.

Frank had been on the couch, sulking about his mother's new boyfriend. Craig had listened. Nodded. Offered what support he could between loads of laundry. He got it. The guy had been an asshole at dinner the night before. But even though Craig wanted to be a good friend, the amount of changes he'd been going through kept weighing on his own mind, distracting him.

Exhausting him.

Not the bone-deep, muscle-aching kind he was used to after a day on the warehouse floor. This had been different. Softer, almost. But heavier in its own way. Yawning. Blinking hard to stay awake. Losing entire seconds at a time without realizing it.

Frank had noticed.

"Go to bed, bro. You need to get some rest."

No argument. No pushback. Just a nod.

Up. Turn. Walk. Balance perfect. Steps smooth. The soft tap of those ridiculous heels carrying him down the hall like it was the most natural thing in the world. Which, now that he'd been changed, it was.

No collapsing into bed fully dressed. No giving Eros an opening. He'd learned that lesson the hard way. Falling asleep without control meant waking up in something chosen for him. Something decided for him.

That wasn't happening again. Never again. In a life that he'd lost so much agency, every choice mattered. Even small ones.

So he'd picked it himself. The black lace set.

Standing there in front of the dresser, fingers brushing over fabric that barely felt real, selecting something that, however ridiculous it was, had been his decision.

Control.

A thin, fragile version of it, but still.

Back in the present, fingers moved lightly across his torso, tracing the lace where it rested against his skin. The patterns were delicate, raised just enough to feel. Soft. Warmer now than they had been when he first put it on.

A faint shiver ran through him. Not entirely unpleasant. Which was a problem all on its own.

How long until that stopped being strange? How long until this felt normal in a way that didn't come with that constant, low-level resistance? How long until he forgot what anything else felt like? Already he felt relief every time he stepped into a pair of high heels, looking forward to wearing shoes with higher and higher arches. Would he soon forget what it's like to wear boxers? Jeans?

The thought sat there, heavy and unwelcome.

His alarm began to sound, bringing him out of the abstract and into the present reality. It was morning. He had to get up.

"Shit."

One eye cracked open just enough to locate the glow of his phone. A quick, clumsy swipe silenced it, plunging the room back into quiet. No more excuses. He was undoubtedly awake.

A pause just long enough to let out a deep and mournful sigh.

Then Craig opened his eyes. Light filtered in gently, catching the edges of the room. Nothing exploded. Nothing dramatic. Just change. Quiet and immediate.

Walls. Bedspread. Still pink. That ornate white metal frame curling upward behind him like something out of a different life. The same as yesterday.

But not the same.

His gaze shifted.

The dresser.

Its top not empty anymore.

It took a second for his brain to process what he was looking at. Bottles. Brushes. Palettes. A scatter of items that hadn't been there before, arranged like they'd always belonged.

Makeup.

Perfume.

Jewelry.

Nail polish.

Hair products.

Tools. Applicators. Things he could name without thinking, which was its own kind of problem.

Craig stared at it.

"Shit."

The word slipped out under his breath, flat and tired.

Across the room, something else caught his attention. The shelf. It took him a second to register what was wrong. Then it hit.

Everything was gone.

The old pieces. The small, meaningless things that had somehow mattered anyway. Trophies. Cheap figurines. Bits of childhood that had survived every move, every cleanout.

Replaced.

A gold-coloured Eiffel Tower. Three Barbie dolls: one in a miniskirt, one in a wedding dress, one pushing a pram like it had somewhere important to be. And a block of wood with LOVE painted across it in looping pink cursive.

Craig stared at it for a long moment.

"Shit," he said again.

Quieter this time.

A hand dragged over his face as he sat up, the lace shifting against his skin. Annoyance flared, sharper now. The clothes were one thing. The job, the perception, the slow rewiring of how the world saw him, that was already too much.

But this?

This was different. This was his stuff. Relics of his past. Proof that he had existed, that he'd had a life before Eros. Before all the changes.

A line crossed.

"Why can't you just leave me alone?" he muttered, not expecting an answer.

None came.

Of course.

The slippers waited where he'd left them. Marabou, soft and absurd. His feet slid into them without hesitation, the lift of the heel settling his posture into something that felt (again, annoyingly) right.

Bathroom. Routine. Quick. Efficient. Familiar motions wrapped in unfamiliar details. Toothbrush. Water. Cloth. The small, practical rhythm of it grounding him just enough to keep moving forward.

Back to the bedroom.

Quiet steps. Careful to not make too much noise. Frank was still asleep, and Craig wasn't interested in talking before coffee.

His phone buzzed faintly on the nightstand. A notification. He picked it up.

Sal.

Craig frowned slightly as he opened the message.

SAL: Hey—my office looked great yesterday, and word from upstairs is that they loved working with you. Great work. Just heard from the big boss. He wants to focus on your development, so no more warehouse work for you. Been great working with you.

A second message followed immediately after.

SAL: Your new pay rate's retroactive to yesterday. Also, new job, new threads. You're a manager now—stop dressing like a grease monkey.

Craig blinked.

Then read it again. And again.

Promotion. Just like that. No meeting. No paperwork. No explanation. A text.

"What the hell..."

The words barely made it out. Excitement flickered, quick, sharp, real. A step up. Less strain. More money. A future that didn’t grind him down day by day. And right behind it...

Dread.

Because none of this felt earned in a normal way. None of it followed rules he understood.

Eros.

This had Eros written all over it.

What were the strings? What was the angle?

Craig exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. Didn't matter. Not right now. There was a job to get to.

A drawer slid open. Red satin. Fine. Good enough. Another drawer. Wrong one. Lace. Cups.

Bras.

Craig froze.

Picked one up.

Light. Structured. Pointless for a body that didn't need it.

"Shit."

That word was becoming a habit that morning.

It went back into the drawer a second later like it might burn him if he held onto it too long.

Next drawer. Hosiery. Thank God. Pantyhose selected without overthinking it. It wasn't lost on Craig how easily he had accepted the pantyhose, how seeing them in their drawer had felt like a moment of relief after seeing the bras.

Closet. A longer skirt this time. Black. Professional.

A blouse: red, soft, a little too ornate but close enough to what might pass as office wear.

Heels.

Dressing happened quickly after that. Efficient. Practiced.

The thought about the bras kept circling back. Why? Everything else had been a replacement. A shift. A reinterpretation of what he already owned. This was new. An unnecessary addition to his already feminine clothing..

He turned to his mirror. The reflection stared back at him. Polished. Put together. Feminine in a way that looked intentional now. And still, something was wrong. Not physically. Not exactly.

Just... incomplete.

His gaze lingered on his own face. Same features. Same structure. But something was missing. Eyes dropped. The dresser.

Makeup.

Understanding hit instantly. Names. Colours. Techniques. Knowledge that slid into place like it had always been there. Foundation. Blush. Mascara. He knew how to use it.

Exactly how.

"What the hell..."

The whisper felt smaller this time. Because part of him understood the answer. Part of him knew what it would do. And how it would look.

"No," Craig said, sharper now. "Not today. Not ever."

The decision came fast. Firm. He turned away before the thought could settle any deeper. Out of the room. Purse grabbed on instinct.

Kitchen.

Coffee. Cereal. Routine again. Quick, efficient, automatic. But every reflective surface caught his attention. Microwave glass. Dark window. A faint outline of himself staring back.

Wrong.

Incomplete.

And beneath that, the quiet, persistent thought of how easily it could be fixed.

Craig drained the last of his coffee and stood. Early bus.

Distance.

That was the plan. To get as far away from home as possible. Lose himself in his work. Because the longer he stayed in that apartment, the louder that thought got.

And he wasn't ready to listen to it.

Not yet.