Men are Beautiful

“Uh… what the heck?” I muttered, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.

The body I was in—older, heavier, broader—moved differently. My hands, rougher. My breath, deeper. The lingering scent of last night’s cologne mixed with regret.

I grabbed the phone from the nightstand. The lock screen glowed with a message from my number.

“Sorry man, had too much fun. I don’t think I can ever swap back, but your memory will kick in a few minutes after you wake up.”

My stomach twisted. No, no, no. This isn’t happening.

I stood, stepping toward the mirror, taking in the reflection of Scott—a middle-aged father who apparently just “wanted some fun” last night.

Another buzz. A new message.

Mary: “Hey Scott, please come home. I’m sorry about making out with Greg.”

A wave of his emotions hit me like a truck—anger, betrayal, frustration. His body tensed on its own, fists clenching. His wife. His cheating wife.

I exhaled slowly, forcing the anger down. My fingers hovered over the keyboard before I typed:

“Don’t worry about me.” Send.

I looked back at the mirror, rolling my shoulders, feeling the strength in this body.

‘Might as well make the best of this,’ I thought, smirking.

There were plenty of people who’d appreciate a dad who looked like this.

I always wished I had a neighbor more like me. Living here felt like I was trapped behind glass — close enough to see everyone, but never quite part of it. Most people kept their distance. And the one person who didn’t? My neighbor across the street — a massive, musclebound military guy who stomped around in full gear like he was still on active duty. Always shouting into his phone, working out in the driveway. We had nothing in common. I barely even waved hello.

One night, feeling lonelier than usual, I muttered under my breath, "I just wish I had a neighbor more like me." I didn’t think anything of it. Just a passing thought. But the world must’ve been listening.

When I woke up, everything was wrong.

First thing I noticed was the weight of the dog tags clinking against my chest. I sat up, disoriented, and the bed creaked under my heavier frame. I looked down — I was wearing only a pair of tight black boxer briefs. And my body... Thick, heavy muscles bulged under my skin, veins tracing over biceps the size of softballs. My stomach was a carved six-pack, my legs like stone columns. Tattoos wrapped around my shoulders and arms — sharp black ink I didn’t remember getting.

I opened my mouth to shout, to ask what was happening — but instead, out came a calm, deep voice: "Situation normal. Good to go." I clamped my hand over my mouth, heart hammering against my ribs. This wasn’t right.

I stumbled out of bed — bare feet slapping the floor — and nearly tripped over a neatly stacked pile of folded camo fatigues. I rushed to the bathroom, gripping the doorframe like it might disappear.

The man staring back at me in the mirror was a stranger. Square-jawed, military haircut, a body like it was carved from granite. Hardened, disciplined. Unshakable. My hands — thick, calloused — shook slightly, but my face stayed stoic, calm, trained. I had to get help.

I yanked on a tight olive-green T-shirt, fatigues, and boots waiting by the door. Everything fit perfectly, like it had been tailored for this new, monstrous body. I bolted outside, desperate to find some scrap of normalcy.

That’s when I saw him. My neighbor. Standing by his truck, grinning wide, like we’d been friends for years.

"Mornin', brother!" he barked, striding over and clapping a heavy hand on my back. I tried to say something casual, anything — but my body snapped to attention, and I barked back, "Mornin', Sergeant! Outstanding day for PT!"

No. No no no. Inside, I was screaming. But on the surface, I was steady, confident, every word crisp like I’d practiced it my whole life.

We talked — about gear, training regimens, upcoming drills — and I just kept playing along, answering perfectly, even laughing when he cracked a joke about "those soft new recruits." At one point, I heard myself say, "Woke up at 0500 hours, got my warm-up set in before chow," — like it was the most natural thing in the world. 5 a.m., I corrected silently. Normal people say 5 a.m. But my mouth would never betray the facade.

"Come on, brother, we’re late for base," he barked, tossing a duffel into the truck. Without hesitation, I grabbed my own — somehow packed and ready — and climbed in.

The base was real. The ID around my neck scanned at the checkpoint. Guards waved me through. Nobody questioned it. We spent the day side-by-side, yelling commands, demonstrating lifts, pushing trembling recruits through brutal obstacle courses. And somehow, everything I needed to know was just there — drilled into me like muscle memory I never actually earned. Every command, every drill, every reprimand rolled off my tongue with perfect authority. And somewhere deep inside, the real me — the scared, confused version — shrank further and further down, screaming silently into the void.

That night, back in my strange, hyper-organized house, I tried to process it all. Photos covered the walls — snapshots of me and my neighbor on deployments, at competitions, at ceremonies. Awards lined the shelves. My inbox was full of congratulatory messages on recent promotions. My memories — my real ones — felt like faint shadows compared to the heavy, real weight of this new life.

The world believed this was who I'd always been. The world demanded I believe it too.

And no matter how much I panicked inside, no matter how much I begged for the old life back, my mouth only said, "Yes, sir." "Roger that." "Mission accomplished."

I guess my wish had come true. I wasn’t alone anymore. I had my best friend. My squad. My calling.

And deep down, under all the tattoos, the muscle, the discipline, the pride, the old me still existed. Still thrashing, still trying to surface.

I was getting dressed when I heard Leo groan behind me.

"Babe, come on. Let’s just stay in bed and be lazy today. It’s my only day off," he pleaded, stretching out dramatically.

I smiled but kept getting ready.

"I know we haven’t had much one-on-one time lately, but I can’t cancel. I made these lunch plans with Coach Anderson a month ago."

Leo shifted under the covers, grumbling playfully.

"Should I be worried about this coach now, huh? I’ve seen his insta dude is ripped."

I laughed, grabbing my keys.

"Nah. You know he was my basketball coach back in high school. He really helped me level up — it’s just a catch-up lunch, that’s all."

Leo raised an eyebrow, teasing.

"Or maybe you just think he’s ridiculously hot and you’re planning to leave me."

I smirked over my shoulder.

"I mean, yeah — back in high school, I thought he was hot. But now? I’ve got a cutie in my bed. You’ve got nothing to worry about."

Leo made a face, flopping onto his side.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. If I’m stuck here alone, I’m just gonna pick up a shift. You’ll see me tonight."

I was already halfway out the door.

"Alright, ugly. See you later."

Leo threw a pillow at me as I disappeared down the hall.

+++

We had a little time to kill before lunch, so we decided to hit up a nearby outdoor court.

The place was pretty run-down — cracked concrete, rusted hoops, chain nets clanging with every shot — but it would do.

Mr. Anderson was already there, casually dribbling near half-court, the ball echoing off the pavement in the warm afternoon air.

Andrew, my old teammate, showed up a few minutes later, grinning like he owned the place.

"Still think you can beat me, old man?" Andrew called out, tossing his hoodie onto the bleachers.

Mr. Anderson chuckled, spinning the ball in his hands.

"You two barely survived my drills back then. I’m not worried."

We laughed, stretched, and shot around for a bit — nothing serious, just catching up. The easy rhythm of the game made it feel like no time had passed.

After a while, Mr. Anderson clapped his hands.

"Alright, let's run a quick pickup game. First to eleven. You two against me. I’m feeling generous."

Andrew and I exchanged a look, grinning.

Even solo, we knew Coach had skills — but we were younger now, stronger. We'd run circles around him.

At first, it was just fun.

Light trash talk. Lazy defense. The familiar back-and-forth we always had.

But then... Mr. Anderson started getting a little too competitive.

He boxed out hard, jostled Andrew under the rim, drove into the paint with the kind of intensity he used to reserve for championship games.

When he faked a pass and stepped back for a jump shot, I caught the edge of his sneaker slipping on the dusty floor.

"Careful, Coach!" Andrew called out, half-laughing.

But it was too late — Mr. Anderson stumbled mid-shot, his body jerking slightly as he tried to catch his balance.

Except... it wasn’t a normal fall.

He staggered, hands clenching briefly at his sides, his eyes blinking like he was trying to fight off a dizzy spell. For a moment, his whole posture shifted — his chest rising like he was gasping for air he couldn't quite find.

Andrew jogged over, concerned.

"You good, man?"

Mr. Anderson’s head dipped forward, and then — just as suddenly — he straightened up.

When he lifted his gaze, something was... off.

His expression, usually sharp and commanding, was softer somehow. His mouth tugged into a slow, almost mischievous smirk that didn’t look like it belonged to him. There was a flicker of something familiar — familiar in a way that made my stomach tighten without knowing why.

"Yeah," Mr. Anderson said finally, voice a little raspier than before. He blinked slowly at me, like he was seeing me differently. "I’m good. Let’s... keep playing."

Andrew hesitated, glancing at me. I shrugged, trying to shake off the weird feeling crawling up the back of my neck.

We tossed the ball back into play, but the energy was different now. Coach — or whatever part of him was awake now — played closer, more physical. He cut me off aggressively when I dribbled, brushed against my side on rebounds a little longer than necessary.

And then there was the way he looked at me — not the familiar, mentorly pride I remembered — but something heavier. Something possessive.

Every so often, I'd catch Mr. Anderson’s mouth twitching — like he was fighting back a grin that didn’t fit his face.

Andrew, oblivious, was too busy trash-talking and laughing.

+++

The restaurant buzzed with low conversation and clinking silverware. We grabbed a booth near the windows — Andrew sliding in first, then me, and Coach across from us. Coach leaned back casually, arm stretching along the top of the seat, like he owned the place already.

I caught him looking at me as I shrugged off my jacket — not the casual glance of an old mentor catching up, but something steadier. Sharper. It made my skin prickle without knowing why.

"You ever been here before, Coach?" Andrew asked, flipping open a menu.

Coach shook his head, smiling a little. "First time," he said, voice smooth. His eyes flicked to me. "Good choice."

I gave a quick, easy smile, trying to shake off the weird feeling. "Yeah, Andrew thinks he’s a food expert," I said, nudging Andrew with my foot under the table. "You’ll have to forgive him if he oversells it."

Andrew smirked. "I don’t miss."

Coach chuckled low — not the barking laugh I remembered from practices, but something quieter. Warmer. The sound wrapped around me in a way I didn’t expect.

His gaze dropped briefly, running over me in a way that made the back of my neck heat up.

"Still in shape, I see," Coach said, voice low and almost approving.

I blinked, thrown for a second.

Andrew just grinned, elbowing me. "Eric’s still got it," he said. "Don’t challenge him to one-on-one unless you’re ready to lose."

Coach’s mouth tugged into a private smile, the kind you’d almost miss if you weren’t looking. "I wouldn’t mind losing," he said, tone easy — but something underneath it curled around the words. "Especially if it meant getting up close."

I let out a laugh — a little stiff, a little unsure. "You're not exactly the guy I remember trash-talking in the gym," I said lightly, glancing at Andrew like he’d back me up.

Andrew was too busy studying the menu. "Coach is just getting sentimental," he said, waving a hand. "Ignore him."

Coach hummed, still watching me. "Or maybe you just never paid close enough attention," he said.

Something in the air shifted — not enough to call it out, but enough to feel it in my chest. I dropped my gaze to my menu, flipping it open like I needed a distraction.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Coach lean in slightly, elbows resting on the table, eyes never leaving me.

Andrew finally flagged down the server to order drinks, joking about needing something strong after the day we'd had.

Coach didn’t joke.

 He just watched me — a slow, knowing look — and smiled.

+++

I watched Andrew head toward the bathroom, leaving me alone with Coach.

The booth felt ten degrees hotter.

Coach shifted slightly, turning more toward me, elbow resting on the table. His smile looked easy — but something in it was different.

Something hungry. Something seeing me.

"You really gonna pretend you didn’t notice?" he said, voice low, almost teasing.

I blinked, caught off guard.

"Notice what?"

Coach leaned in a little, the overhead light catching the sharp line of his jaw. There was an edge to his smile now — a private kind of smile.

"The way you kept looking at me," he said. "Like you were thinking about something you shouldn’t."

My mouth went dry.

I tried to play it off, shrugging a little too stiffly.

"You’re my old coach. I’m allowed to be surprised you still got a decent jumper."

Coach laughed under his breath — not the barked laugh I remembered from practice, but something softer, darker.

"That's not it." "You weren't watching my shot."

He said it like he knew things I hadn’t even admitted to myself yet.

I leaned back slightly, studying him. Trying to get my heart to slow the hell down.

"You’re not acting like yourself, Coach," I said carefully.

Coach chuckled low, the sound curling around me.

"Maybe you just never paid close enough attention back then."

He took a slow sip of his drink, setting the glass down deliberately, never breaking eye contact.

The air between us crackled — electric, dangerous.

"You know," he said after a moment, voice dipping, "I used to catch you staring. Even back in practice."

I froze. A hot flush crawled up the back of my neck.

"You were young," he added, almost musing. "Focused. Easy to rattle."

I cleared my throat, forcing out a laugh.

"I think you’re imagining things."

Coach leaned in closer, voice almost a whisper now.

"You used to blush when I corrected your form."

My fingers curled against the edge of the table.

Was this happening? Was my old coach — my mentor, the guy I'd low-key crushed on when I was seventeen — seriously flirting with me across a diner table right now?

Coach smiled, slow and dangerous.

"Couldn’t figure out if you hated the attention... or loved it."

I stared at him, heart hammering, completely thrown.

Part of me wanted to pull away — the other part wanted to lean in, just to see what would happen.

He sat back, watching me, letting the silence thicken.

"Maybe," he said, softer now, "you still don’t know."

My throat worked around words I didn’t have.

This wasn’t just nostalgia. This wasn’t just catching up.

This was something else — a thread being pulled, a door opening.

And standing in front of it — was Leo.

I don’t know how I knew. I just did.

I leaned in, voice dropping instinctively, cutting through the dizzy heat in my chest.

"Leo?"

Coach’s mouth twitched — and then, that familiar, cocky, mischievous grin spread across his face. Leo's grin.

"Took you long enough, baby."

He said it low, playful, like it was just between us.

I stared at him, stunned.

Leo — inside Coach — sat back like he had all the time in the world.

"Slipped in sometime after you broke Coach's ankles on that weak-ass crossover." "Figured I'd stick around. You seemed like you were having fun."

I shook my head, half laughing now.

"You're insane."

Leo smirked.

"You love it."

He tapped the rim of his glass with one finger, still smiling lazily.

"And admit it — a tiny part of you always wondered what it’d be like if Coach really looked at you like this."

I flushed, knowing he was right and hating that he knew it so easily.

Leo chuckled, low and smug.

"Guess I’m just giving teenage you a little wish fulfillment."

I dropped my head into my hand, laughing despite myself.

"You're the worst."

"I’m the best," he corrected, the grin widening. "And now I know you still get all flustered when someone calls you out."

He reached out casually, brushing his knuckles along my forearm like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Just then, Andrew's footsteps echoed as he came back toward the table.

Leo sat up straighter instantly, slipping back into Coach's easy posture — but I could still see it.

The glint in his eye. The curve of his mouth that didn’t belong to Coach Anderson.

"Hey, Eric," he said — the words polite, but the tone unmistakably smug underneath. "If you’ve got time later, maybe we can get some extra work in. Improve that shot of yours."

His hand brushed my shoulder — a little firmer, a little more claiming — as Andrew slid back into the booth, none the wiser.

I fought the urge to kick him under the table again.

+++

Lunch wound down, plates pushed aside, the check paid. Andrew stretched, glancing at his phone.

"Shit. My girl’s been blowing me up. I’m gonna dip before she actually kills me."

He clapped my shoulder in a rough, familiar way, gave Coach a polite nod, and headed for the door — leaving just me and Coach sitting across from each other in the suddenly quieter booth.

Leo didn’t even pretend to stay in full character anymore. The second the door swung closed behind Andrew, he shifted — relaxing into the booth, smirking at me with open mischief.

"Finally," he said under his breath. "I thought he was gonna tell another story about getting benched. I was gonna possess the waiter next just to escape."

I snorted, fighting a smile.

"You’re such an ass," I muttered.

Leo — still wearing Coach Anderson’s face and body — gave me a mock-wounded look.

"Rude. After everything I’ve done for you today? Fulfilling your high school fantasy and everything?"

He winked, and it hit me like a punch to the gut — because even though it was Leo inside, it was still Coach's voice, Coach's body, and it was all aimed at me.

Leo sat forward, elbows on the table, the playful glint in his eye turning a little softer.

"So," he said, tone low, coaxing, "what are we doing now, baby? Your coach is feeling... energetic."

He made it sound like a promise. Made it sound like he could undo me with one wrong look if I let him.

I swallowed, my mouth dry.

"I thought we were working on my shot," I said, playing along, arching an eyebrow.

Leo grinned wider, slow and lazy.

"Mmm. Changed my mind."

He tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the table, like weighing the options.

"Could go to the beach," he mused, tilting his head. "Could rent bikes. Could find some shitty little carnival and win you a stuffed animal."

He said it half-teasing, but there was a surprising tenderness underneath it — like part of him meant it.

"Or," he leaned in, his voice dropping again, almost conspiratorial, "I could just keep you all to myself for a few more hours."

My stomach flipped.

The way he was looking at me — through Coach’s eyes but with Leo’s soul — made my skin burn.

"You’re so dramatic," I said, trying to sound casual.

Leo gasped, clutching his chest in mock offense.

"Excuse me? I am romantic. There’s a difference."

I laughed, shaking my head.

"Sure, Coach. Very romantic. Nothing says love like kidnapping your boyfriend inside a mentor’s body."

Leo beamed proudly.

"Innovation, baby. You should be thanking me. Making memories."

He leaned back, arm sliding across the top of the booth again, casual — but his fingers brushed the back of my neck deliberately this time, slow and warm.

I shivered.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

"C’mon," Leo said, voice coaxing, almost boyish now. "Let’s go wander. No plan. Just me and you."

I hesitated.

He saw it — the warring mix of excitement and uncertainty — and he softened, real affection breaking through the teasing.

"You don’t have to be so tense, Eric," he said gently. "I know it’s weird. But it’s still me. Still the idiot you let share your bed. Just... in a taller, scarier package right now."

He smiled — not the cocky grin — a real, slightly dorky smile. The one he usually pulled when he made stupid jokes at 2AM or tried to teach me TikTok dances he was bad at.

And just like that — the tension in my chest cracked. Melted.

I shook my head, grinning despite myself.

"Fine. But if you get Coach Anderson’s body arrested doing something dumb, I’m not bailing you out."

Leo stood up, stretching his arms overhead, the hem of his t-shirt riding up slightly to reveal a flash of skin — Coach Anderson's skin, Leo's soul — and every part of me buzzed at the sight.

"Deal," he said, flashing me a bright, toothy smile that didn’t belong on Coach’s face but somehow fit perfectly now.

He held out his hand.

"Let’s go make some bad decisions, baby."

And for once — I didn’t hesitate.

I slid my hand into his, letting him pull me out of the booth and into the sun-drenched afternoon — wherever the hell he wanted to take me.

+++

The afternoon turned golden around us as we wandered — no real plan, no destination.

Leo — still wearing Coach Anderson’s frame — kept the act up just enough to pass for normal to strangers. But with me, he was relentless.

At a tourist trap of a boardwalk, he insisted on winning me a stuffed basketball from a ring toss game.

"For my MVP," he said, puffing his chest out dramatically as he handed it to me.

I rolled my eyes but couldn't stop the grin from breaking across my face.

Later, we grabbed ice cream cones from a street cart. Leo kept sneaking bites of mine when he thought I wasn’t looking — except he was terrible at being sneaky, and he knew it.

"Coach stealing food now?" I teased.

Leo licked a smudge of ice cream from the corner of his mouth, shooting me a look so shamelessly playful I almost dropped my cone.

"Character development, baby."

We meandered through little souvenir shops, Leo tossing dumb keychains at me and pretending to critique my "form" when I caught them.

It was stupid. It was easy. It was... perfect.

For a few hours, I forgot about the weirdness of him wearing someone else’s face. It was still him. Always him.

And somehow, it felt even more raw — like we were outside time, outside rules.

Eventually, the sun started sinking lower, burning the sky into shades of pink and orange.

We ended up back at the car, breathless from laughing, Leo draping himself over me with the full weight of Coach’s larger frame.

"Home?" he murmured, voice warm against my ear.

"Home," I agreed.

The drive was quiet — comfortable.

Leo kept stealing glances at me at red lights, like he couldn’t believe he pulled this off.

I shook my head at him every time, but the truth was, I couldn’t stop smiling either.

When we finally got back to the apartment, the door barely swung shut before Leo kicked off his shoes, stretching with a long, satisfied groan.

"Long day of seducing my boyfriend," he said dramatically. "Someone should give me a medal."

I snorted, tossing the keys onto the counter.

"You’re lucky I’m not making you sleep on the couch."

Leo grinned — that wild, boyish grin — and in one smooth motion, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and peeled it over his head, tossing it onto the back of the couch.

For a second, I just stood there, blinking.

Coach Anderson’s body — cut, solid, tanned — but Leo’s energy radiating from every inch of him.

He caught me staring and smirked.

"Like what you see, baby?"

I rolled my eyes — hard — but my ears were burning.

Leo sauntered closer, slow and deliberate, playful cockiness in every step.

He stopped just inches from me, eyes gleaming with mischief.

I tilted my head, trying to hold onto a shred of composure.

"So," I said, voice a little rough, "when exactly are you planning to get out of him?"

Leo smirked, hands slipping to the hem of his shirt.

"Tomorrow morning," he said casually, peeling the fabric up and over his head in one slow, fluid motion.

The shirt hit the floor with a soft thud, and I barely registered it — too busy staring at the solid, tanned chest, the cut lines of muscle, the way the overhead light caught on skin.

Still Leo.

 till Coach Anderson. Still completely undoing me.

Leo grinned wider, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me — then, with a sharp glint in his eye, he shifted.

Like flipping a switch, he rolled his shoulders back, straightened his posture, and slipped back into Coach Anderson’s familiar authority — so fast it almost gave me whiplash.

His voice dropped — deeper, steadier, pure Coach now.

"You’ve been slacking on your drills, Eric," he said, tone low and commanding. "We’ve got a lot of work to catch up on."

I swallowed hard, heat blooming low in my gut.

He stepped in closer, gaze sharp, assessing — like he was about to run me through a brutal workout. Like I was his.

My brain screamed at me to remember this was Leo — that it was play, that it was ridiculous — but my body was already answering without hesitation.

I didn’t move. Didn’t argue. Didn’t want to.

I just stood there, soaking in the heat rolling off him, the electric pull between us crackling louder than any thought in my head.

And when he reached for me — I let him.

+++

[The Morning After, Leo’s POV]

The light slipping through the window was pale and soft, the kind of morning that made you want to stay tangled up in bed all day.

I stretched slowly, feeling the strength packed into this body — the broad chest, the thick arms — and grinned lazily at my reflection in the mirror across the room.

Still Coach Anderson. Still thick, still powerful, still hot as hell.

I grabbed my phone off the nightstand, snapped a quick, casual mirror selfie — messy hair, bare chest, cocky morning smirk — and tucked the phone away before anyone could catch me.

Behind me, the sheets rustled. Eric shifted, blinking awake, squinting at me from the bed.

"Morning," I said, voice still rough with sleep.

He groaned softly, dragging the pillow over his face.

"You’re way too awake for this hour."

I laughed under my breath, crossing the room and flopping down onto the mattress beside him.

He peeked at me from under the pillow — eyes a little puffy from sleep, hair sticking up wildly — and my heart kicked up in that stupid way it always did with him.

I tugged the pillow away and leaned down, brushing a slow kiss to his forehead.

"C’mon, baby. Let’s get breakfast before you have to run off to work."

Eric grumbled but smiled, reaching up to ruffle my hair half-heartedly.

"Fine. But you're paying."

I was in the mall food court, halfway through a slice of greasy pizza, when I noticed him—an older man sitting alone at a small table by the fountain. Bald head catching the light. Big belly under a red polo. A thick, white beard that looked more “off-season Santa” than stylish.

He smiled at me.

“Wish you had a break from your life?” he asked, voice warm, eyes sharp.

I blinked. “Uh, yeah. Kinda.”

“Say it,” he said. “Say you wish you could be me for a bit.”

It was weird. But I laughed and said it.

Then I was him.

No flash. No warning.

One second, I was biting into crust. The next, I was staring at a pizza slice with liver-spotted hands and hairy forearms. My knees ached. My breath felt heavier. I looked down at a belly I didn’t remember growing—and across the table, my old body stood up, grinned, and walked off.

“Thanks for the break,” he said over his shoulder.

And then he was gone.

I barely had time to wobble to my feet before someone grabbed my arm.

“There you are,” a voice said, warm and familiar.

I turned.

A man stood there—mustached, cap low over his brow, denim jacket, and a knowing smile. He rubbed my stomach like it was habit.

“Let’s get you home, baby. You’re due for your beer and some television.”

“I can’t argue with that” I said in the man’s voice.

He took my hand. The weight of it felt so natural it scared me. We walked to his truck, and the whole ride home he told me about errands we’d forgotten and a neighbor’s dog who kept digging in the flower beds.

I didn’t know the names. But the memories started filling in—like someone pouring warm syrup into my brain. Thick. Sweet. Familiar.

By the time we pulled into the driveway, I was already leaning into the seat, belly stretching the hem of my t-shirt. I watched my hands rub it, like it soothed me.

My husband—his husband—looked at me again and smiled.

“You always get quiet like this. It’s cute.”.

Once inside the house, he handed me a cold beer and kissed my cheek, I felt it:

I was still trapped in this man’s body.