His Ideal Man (part 2)
The hunger woke him.
Adrian’s eyes opened slowly in the dim light of his bedroom, the early morning sun just beginning to creep through the blinds. For a moment he didn’t move. His stomach twisted again. Not painfully. Just… empty. Violently empty.
“Jesus,” Adrian muttered.
He rolled onto his back and rubbed his face. Normally he skipped breakfast. Coffee was enough to get him through until lunch. But this— His stomach growled loudly again. Adrian swung his legs out of bed and stood.
When he caught his reflection in the bedroom mirror across the room, he paused. The man looking back at him looked even older today. The grey at his temples had spread farther into the dark hair above his ears. The mustache had thickened again overnight. And when Adrian lifted his hand to stroke it, the motion felt so natural he didn’t even question it.
“Alright,” he muttered.
His voice sounded deeper this morning. Not dramatically. But heavier. He stepped closer to the mirror.
His shirt from the night before lay across the chair. When he pulled it on, he noticed something new. The fabric stretched slightly across his torso. Adrian frowned and looked down. His stomach wasn’t flat anymore. Not dramatically different. But it pushed outward slightly now. A firm curve where there had once been a straight line. He pressed his palm against it.
The muscle beneath felt dense. Solid. Not soft. Just thicker. Adrian rubbed the spot slowly.
“Huh.”
The movement lasted longer than it should have. Then he shook his head.
“Food,” he muttered.
“Now.”
⸻
By the time Adrian reached the diner near his apartment, the hunger had sharpened into something almost aggressive.
He slid into the booth and barely looked at the menu.
“Steak and eggs,” he told the waitress.
“And hash browns.”
She nodded.
“Toast?”
“Yes.”
“Coffee?”
“Yeah.”
When the food arrived ten minutes later, Adrian leaned forward immediately. The smell alone made his stomach twist with anticipation. He cut into the steak. The first bite made his eyes close.
“Holy hell,” he murmured.
The waitress glanced over with a small smile.
“Good?”
Adrian nodded.
“Very good.”
His voice came out heavier again. The accent slipped just slightly.
“Very strong.”
He froze for half a second. Then shook his head and kept eating. The food disappeared quickly. Faster than he realized. Halfway through the plate, Adrian leaned back in the booth and rested one hand on his stomach. The motion felt automatic. His palm spread across the front of the firm curve beneath the shirt. He rubbed it slowly. Testing the shape. Something about the sensation felt… Good.
Across the diner window, Adrian caught his reflection faintly in the glass. Salt-and-pepper hair. Thick mustache. Hair pushing through the open collar of his shirt. And his hand resting comfortably on his stomach.
Adrian stared for a moment. Then chuckled quietly to himself.
“Christ…”
But instead of pulling his hand away— He patted the spot once. Satisfied. Then leaned forward again to finish the meal.
The cigar lounge smelled like leather, smoke, and dark whiskey. Adrian pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. The room was dim and warm, lit by soft amber lamps that reflected off rows of glass bottles behind the bar. A handful of men sat in deep leather chairs, smoke curling slowly toward the ceiling.
For a moment Adrian just stood there. Something about the room felt right. Comfortable. Familiar.
He rolled his shoulders slightly and adjusted his stance. Tonight he wore a dark blue button-down shirt. Tucked tightly into his jeans. The shirt stretched across his torso more than it used to. And the firm curve of his stomach pushed outward slightly above his belt.
Adrian rested his palm against it without thinking. Rubbing the spot slowly. The gesture felt strangely natural now. His other hand drifted upward. Thumb brushing across the thick mustache automatically.
“Da…”
The word slipped out quietly. Adrian froze. Then laughed softly under his breath.
“This is gettin’ ridiculous,” he muttered.
But the accent lingered faintly on the words.
“Ridiculous.”
Behind him the door opened again. Adrian didn’t even need to turn. He felt it. Misha.
The man approached slowly across the room. When Adrian finally turned, the reaction was immediate. Misha stopped walking.
His eyes moved slowly over Adrian’s body. Starting at his face. The thicker mustache. The stronger greying in his hair. Then downward. To the open collar. The dense chest hair. And finally— The stomach.
Adrian’s hand still rested there. Rubbing slowly.
Misha smiled.
“Ah,” he said softly.
Adrian chuckled.
“What?”
Misha stepped closer.
“You change again.”
Adrian leaned casually against the bar now, forearm resting along the edge.
“Yeah?”
Misha nodded.
“You look older tonight.”
Adrian raised an eyebrow.
“Older?”
“Da.”
Misha gestured lightly toward Adrian’s hair.
“More grey.”
Adrian ran his hand back through it automatically. The motion pushed the hair away from his temples, exposing the receding edges more clearly. He caught himself halfway through the gesture. But didn’t stop.
Across from him, Misha watched with clear appreciation.
“I like it,” he said.
Adrian smirked.
“You like everything apparently.”
Misha laughed.
“Not everything.”
The bartender approached and placed two glasses of whiskey in front of them. Adrian lifted his drink. But before he could take a sip, Misha’s gaze dropped again. To Adrian’s stomach. Still resting beneath his hand.
“You eat today?” Misha asked.
Adrian chuckled.
“Yeah.”
Then shrugged.
“A lot.”
Misha’s smile widened.
“You eat like man now.”
Adrian snorted.
“The hell does that mean?”
Misha leaned slightly closer.
“My favorite boyfriend once…”
Adrian groaned.
“Oh God.”
“…he loved food,” Misha continued.
“Big meals. Big drinks. Cigars.”
Adrian raised his glass.
“Well that sounds like a great life.”
Misha smiled.
“Da.”
He reached into the wooden cigar box on the bar and pulled one out. Holding it between two fingers.
“He also smoke.”
Adrian stared at the cigar. For a moment he was about to refuse. Then something strange happened. The smell hit him. Rich. Earthy. Appealing. Adrian’s fingers moved before he thought about it. He took the cigar. Turned it slowly between his fingers.
“Never tried one before,” he said.
But the accent slipped again.
“Before.”
Misha watched carefully.
“You try tonight.”
Adrian leaned back slightly. The firm curve of his stomach pressed subtly against the tucked shirt. His hand returned there again. Rubbing it slowly. He lifted the cigar. Smiled faintly beneath the heavy mustache.
“Why the hell not,” he said.
Then corrected himself without thinking.
“Why not.”
The cigar stayed with him. Adrian tasted it the moment he woke up. The flavor clung to the back of his tongue—earthy, smoky, heavy. His mouth felt thicker somehow, like the muscles around it had learned a new shape overnight. He smacked his lips slowly.
“Da… Christ.”
The word slipped out before he could stop it.
Adrian sat up in bed. For a moment he stayed still, letting the room settle around him. His throat felt rough. His chest felt heavier. And his stomach— His stomach felt full. Not from food. From weight.
Adrian swung his legs out of bed and stood. The movement pulled slightly at the front of his undershirt. The fabric stretched across his torso. Adrian frowned and glanced down.
The curve of his stomach was unmistakable now. Not the subtle firmness from yesterday. This pushed outward. Round. Dense. His hand moved to it immediately. Palm spreading across the surface. He pressed slightly. The belly resisted his hand. Firm. Heavy.
“Jesus…”
His voice sounded deeper this morning. Rougher.
He rubbed the spot slowly. Testing it. The movement felt disturbingly satisfying.
Adrian shook his head and moved toward the bathroom. The mirror light flicked on. He looked up— And froze. The man staring back at him was older again. Not just slightly. Noticeably.
The grey in his hair had spread farther overnight. Thick strands now ran along the sides of his head, blending heavily into the dark. His face had broadened. The lines beside his mouth cut deeper. And beneath his eyes— Soft bags now rested against the lower lids.
Adrian leaned closer to the mirror.
“Holy hell…”
His breath fogged the glass. The mustache had thickened again. It sat heavy across his lip now, darker and fuller than before. His fingers rose automatically, stroking it slowly. The gesture felt natural. Thoughtful.
Behind the mustache his mouth moved slightly, testing the shape of his lips. The cigar had changed something. His mouth felt wider. Looser. Built for heavier speech.
Adrian exhaled slowly. His chest rose with the breath. The movement pushed his shirt open slightly. Thick curls of chest hair spilled upward toward his collarbone now. Higher than yesterday. The hair looked darker too. Coarser. He dragged his fingers through it slowly. The sensation sent a strange ripple of satisfaction through his chest.
Adrian stared at the mirror again. The heavier face. The greying hair. The thick mustache. The dense chest hair creeping toward his throat. And the firm pot-belly pushing forward beneath the shirt.
For a long moment he said nothing. Then his hand returned to the belly again. Rubbing it slowly. Testing the weight. A small grin tugged beneath the mustache.
“Dis is gettin’… outta hand.”
The accent sat heavier in the words. He heard it clearly this time. But instead of correcting himself— Adrian chuckled. And patted his stomach once. Hard.
The diner was nearly empty.
A tired neon sign buzzed faintly in the front window, casting red and blue reflections across the chrome counter and cracked tile floor. Somewhere behind the kitchen wall a radio played old rock music just loud enough to fill the quiet.
Adrian sat alone on one of the spinning counter stools. His jacket hung over the backrest. His shirt was gone. Instead he wore a plain white undershirt now — one he had bought on the walk over from the cigar lounge after realizing the smell of smoke had soaked through everything he was wearing.
The thin cotton clung to his torso. The shape of his body beneath it looked different tonight. Thicker. Heavier. The curve of his stomach pushed forward beneath the fabric, rounding outward above his belt.
Adrian rested one elbow on the counter and leaned slightly forward. His belly pressed lightly against the edge of the chrome surface. For a moment he stayed like that. Feeling the weight. Testing it.
“Da…”
The word slipped from his mouth before he realized he’d said it. Adrian chuckled softly and shook his head.
“Jesus.”
The accent lingered around the word. He lifted the cigar Misha had given him earlier and turned it slowly between his fingers. The smell of tobacco drifted upward. Strangely comforting. The waitress returned with a fresh plate. Burger. Fries. Pickles.
Adrian raised an eyebrow.
“I didn’t order again.”
“You looked hungry,” she said casually.
Adrian looked down at the food. His stomach tightened immediately. He exhaled slowly.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Maybe I am.”
He picked up the burger and took a bite. The first mouthful made him close his eyes briefly. Good. Heavy. Real food. He chewed slowly, the mustache brushing lightly against the bun.
Across the chrome counter, his reflection stared back faintly in the metal. Adrian glanced at it.
Salt-and-pepper hair. The grey had spread farther again. And when he lifted his free hand and ran his fingers back through it, the strands stayed pushed away from his temples. The hairline showed clearly now. Older. Stronger.
Adrian studied it for a moment. Then shrugged slightly.
“Not bad.”
The words came out slower. Thicker. He leaned back on the stool. The movement shifted his stomach forward. The undershirt stretched across it. Adrian’s hand drifted down automatically. His palm spread across the firm roundness beneath the fabric. He rubbed it slowly. Satisfied.
The diner lights reflected softly off the chrome counter. Adrian took another drag from the cigar. This time he didn’t cough. Smoke curled from the corner of his mouth. He exhaled slowly.
“Dis ain’t so bad,” he muttered.
The accent was stronger now. He heard it clearly. But instead of correcting himself— Adrian smirked slightly beneath the mustache. And took another bite of the burger.
The loft was enormous. Twenty-foot ceilings stretched above polished concrete floors, and the entire south wall was nothing but glass overlooking the city skyline. Morning sunlight poured through the windows, filling the open space with a bright, clean glow.
Adrian stood in the kitchen beside the marble island.
Three potential buyers walked slowly through the loft behind him, speaking quietly to one another as they examined the open layout.
Adrian barely noticed them. He was studying the reflection of his own body in the stainless steel refrigerator. The man staring back looked… bigger. Not just heavier. Larger.
He had dressed carefully that morning. Dark jeans. Black button-down. Sleeves rolled. The shirt was tucked tightly beneath his belt. And the shape it formed across his torso made Adrian pause.
The belly was undeniable now. Not the soft rounding from two days ago. This was solid. Firm. A thick curve pushing forward from his midsection like the front of a barrel.
Adrian rested one hand on the marble island and leaned slightly into it. The belly touched the edge first. He felt it immediately. The contact. The weight. Adrian stayed there for a moment. Testing the posture. Something about it felt right. Comfortable.
His free hand rose automatically. His fingers slid slowly through the thick mustache. Then he glanced at the window reflection again.
His hair was different today too. For the first time he had combed it straight back after his shower. The grey along his temples showed clearly now. The hairline had receded enough that hiding it felt pointless. So he hadn’t. Instead the slicked-back style made his face look older. Sharper. More authoritative.
Adrian rolled his shoulders once and turned toward the buyers. A younger couple stood near the windows while an older man studied the exposed brick wall. Adrian cleared his throat.
“Dis loft—”
He paused. The accent hit the word harder than he expected.
“—has very strong space.”
The couple turned toward him. Adrian didn’t correct himself this time. Instead he leaned more heavily against the island. His belly pressed the marble edge again. He spread his stance slightly wider.
“Twenty foot ceilings,” he continued.
“Good light all day.”
His voice sounded deeper now. Rougher. The cigar smoke from last night still seemed to cling to the back of his throat.
The older buyer nodded approvingly.
“Feels solid,” the man said.
Adrian grinned beneath the mustache.
“Da,” he said before catching himself.
Then he shrugged.
“Very solid.”
His hand drifted down again. Resting comfortably across the front of his stomach. He rubbed the firm curve slowly as he spoke. None of the buyers seemed to find it strange. In fact— They seemed to listen more closely now. The younger woman tilted her head slightly.
“You’ve been doing this a long time?” she asked.
Adrian considered the question. The man reflected in the stainless steel refrigerator looked like someone who had spent decades selling properties. He smirked slightly.
“Long enough.”
And when he pushed away from the island to walk across the loft— His belly moved first.
Adrian walked slowly across the loft. The polished concrete floor echoed faintly beneath his boots as he crossed toward the enormous windows overlooking the city. Behind him the buyers followed. He could hear them whispering to each other. Adrian barely paid attention.
Instead he felt the weight of his body moving through the space. Every step seemed heavier today. More grounded. The barrel curve of his stomach shifted beneath the tight black shirt as he walked. When he reached the windows he stopped. Turned. And planted his feet wider. The belly settled forward naturally. Leading him.
“Dis view,” Adrian said slowly, gesturing toward the skyline, “is one of the best in the building.”
The accent rolled thickly through the words. He didn’t bother correcting it anymore. The older buyer stepped closer beside him.
“Wow,” the man said, staring out the glass.
“That’s incredible.”
Adrian nodded.
“Da.”
Then he chuckled softly.
“Yeah.”
His hand moved to his stomach again. Resting across the firm curve as if it belonged there.
The younger couple exchanged a quick glance. The woman tilted her head slightly.
“You sound… Russian,” she said.
Adrian paused. For a moment he considered explaining. Then he shrugged.
“Maybe little.”
His grin widened beneath the mustache.
“Good accent, yeah?”
The buyers laughed nervously. Adrian pushed away from the window. The belly shifted forward again as he walked back toward the kitchen. He leaned against the marble island once more. The weight of his stomach pressed comfortably against the edge. One hand slipped into his pocket. The other rose to stroke the mustache slowly.
“You askin’ price,” Adrian said, voice rough with smoke and age, “is very fair.”
The older buyer nodded quickly.
“I believe it.”
Adrian noticed something then. They weren’t just listening. They were watching him. The way people watched a man who clearly knew what he was doing. Adrian felt a slow warmth spread through his chest. Power. And for the first time since the transformation began— He liked it.
Two hours later Adrian stood in another apartment. This one was even bigger. A penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Hardwood floors. An entire wall of bookshelves.
Adrian stood in the center of the room. His stance wide. Hands resting comfortably on his hips. The barrel belly pushed forward proudly beneath the tight shirt.
The buyers this time were quiet. Listening carefully.
Adrian paced slowly across the room. His boots thudded against the floor with deliberate weight.
“You see dis room,” he said, voice deeper now.
“Perfect for entertaining.”
He spread his arms slightly. The movement pushed the shirt open at the collar. Thick curls of chest hair spilled higher toward his throat.
The woman near the doorway blinked. Adrian noticed. He smirked slightly. His hand moved up to the collar. He tugged it open a little more. Let the hair show.
“Plenty space,” he continued.
His accent was heavier now.
“Big windows. Good structure.”
He stopped near the center of the room. The belly shifted forward again. Adrian rested both hands on it for a moment. Testing the weight. Satisfied. Then he laughed softly.
“Dis place got character,” he said.
“And I like character.”
The buyers nodded. But Adrian could see it in their eyes. They weren’t just interested in the apartment. They were watching him. The big older man in the slicked-back hair. The thick mustache. The barrel belly. The deep voice.
Adrian ran a hand slowly through his hair again. Slicking it back into place. And smiled.
The cigar lounge was quiet. Low amber light from brass lamps pooled across the dark wood walls, and the air carried the thick scent of tobacco and whiskey. A few older men sat scattered in leather chairs, speaking in low voices that barely rose above the hum of the room.
Adrian stood at the bar. One forearm rested along the polished wood. His belly pressed comfortably against the edge. He barely noticed it anymore. The pressure felt natural. The shirt stretched tight across the heavy curve of his stomach, tucked firmly beneath the weight of it.
Adrian took a slow pull from the cigar between his fingers. This time the smoke filled his lungs easily. No coughing. No hesitation. He exhaled toward the ceiling.
“Damn,” he muttered.
The word came out thick. Gravel in his voice now. Behind him the door opened. Adrian didn’t turn immediately. He already knew.
Misha stepped inside a moment later and walked across the room. When Adrian finally looked over, he saw the reaction instantly. Misha slowed. Eyes moving slowly over him.
The slicked-back grey hair. The thick mustache. The broad shoulders. And the belly leaning proudly against the bar. Misha smiled.
“Look at you,” he said.
Adrian smirked beneath the mustache.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Misha stepped up beside him.
“Every time I see you… you change.”
Adrian shrugged.
“Hell of a week.”
The bartender set two glasses of whiskey in front of them. Adrian lifted his. Drank. The burn slid easily down his throat.
“Damn good,” he muttered.
His accent rolled heavier through the words now. Misha watched him carefully. Then leaned closer.
“You know,” he said casually, “one of my exes… he was big personality.”
Adrian raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah?”
“Da.”
Misha nodded toward the men sitting quietly in the lounge.
“He walk into place like dis… room change.”
Adrian took another drag from the cigar.
“Sounds like loud bastard.”
Misha laughed.
“Very loud.”
He leaned back slightly.
“He swear all the time. Dirty mouth.”
Adrian chuckled.
“Yeah?”
“Da. Didn’t give a damn what people think.”
Misha’s eyes drifted down briefly. To Adrian’s stomach pressing against the bar. Then back up again.
“But people listen to him.”
Adrian leaned heavier against the counter. The belly pushed forward more. His hand settled across it automatically. Palm spread wide. He rubbed the firm curve slowly.
“Yeah,” Adrian said.
His voice had grown deeper. Rougher.
“Men like dat… people pay attention.”
The words rolled out slower. The Russian cadence thicker. Adrian looked around the lounge. One of the men at a nearby table glanced their way. Then another. Adrian noticed. And a slow grin spread beneath the mustache.
“Well hell,” he said.
“If a guy’s gonna talk…”
He took another drag from the cigar. Smoke curled from the corner of his mouth.
“…might as well talk loud.”
Misha watched him with open fascination now. Adrian turned toward him slightly.
The movement shifted his belly forward again. The bar edge pressed into it. He didn’t move away. Instead he leaned harder into it.
Eyes narrowing slightly.
“Dis place…” Adrian said slowly.
“…good whiskey.”
Then he chuckled. Low. Dangerous.
“And I ain’t complainin’ about the company either.”
Across the bar, two men had stopped their conversation. Watching him now. Adrian saw them. And for the first time since all of this began— He didn’t feel embarrassed. He felt big.
And somewhere deep inside his chest, a quiet voice murmured approvingly.
Now dat’s a man.
Adrian woke before the alarm. Something felt… tight. He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling while the early morning light filtered through the blinds. His body felt heavier than it had the night before. Not tired. Heavy. Dense.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The floorboards creaked beneath his weight. Adrian stretched once and walked into the bathroom. The light flicked on. And he stopped.
“Jesus…”
The man in the mirror had changed again. His hair had thinned overnight. The slicked-back salt-and-pepper style still held, but now the temples had pushed deeper into his scalp and the crown looked noticeably thinner. Grey dominated the sides now, giving his head the unmistakable look of a powerful older man. Adrian ran his fingers back through it slowly. The hair stayed slicked. But there was less of it.
“Huh.”
He leaned closer to the mirror. The mustache had grown heavier again. But that wasn’t what caught his attention. His chest. The thick curls had exploded upward overnight. Hair now climbed high across his collarbones and toward the base of his neck. It spread wider across his shoulders and thicker down his stomach, the dark mass pressing visibly against the fabric of his shirt.
Adrian grabbed the hem and pulled it upward slightly. The sight made him blink.
“Holy hell.”
His entire torso was covered now. Dense. Coarse. Wild. He ran his fingers through it slowly. The hair dragged against his hand. Something about the sensation made him grin.
“Damn…”
The voice that came out was deeper again. Gravelly. His accent thickened around the word.
Adrian lowered his shirt again. The movement revealed the other change. His belly. It had grown. Not softer. Not sagging. Just… bigger. The gut pushed forward in a heavy rounded curve that stretched the shirt tight beneath it. Adrian rested both hands on the surface. The barrel shape filled his palms. He rubbed it slowly. Testing the weight.
“Dis is… somethin’,” he muttered.
He chuckled quietly. Then buttoned the shirt again, tucking it firmly beneath the curve of his stomach.
⸻
Two hours later Adrian stood inside the largest property he had ever shown. The mansion foyer towered above him. A chandelier hung from the ceiling like a floating sun, and a massive staircase curved upward toward the second floor.
Three buyers stood nearby. They were talking quietly among themselves. Adrian leaned casually against the banister. His stance wide. His belly led his posture. The massive curve pushed forward confidently beneath the tucked shirt. His hand rested across it naturally. The buyers turned toward him.
Adrian pushed away from the railing. The floor thudded beneath his boots as he walked toward them.
“Alright,” he said.
The accent rolled thickly now.
“Dis place got good bones.”
His voice filled the foyer. The couple exchanged a glance. Adrian spread his arms slightly. The movement pulled his shirt open at the collar. Thick black curls spilled visibly toward his throat.
“Six bedrooms,” Adrian continued.
“Two libraries. Wine cellar downstairs.”
He stopped at the base of the staircase. The belly settled forward proudly. One hand slipped into his pocket. The other stroked his mustache slowly. The buyers watched him carefully.
The older man finally asked:
“You the owner?”
Adrian laughed. A loud booming sound that echoed off the walls.
“Hell no.”
Then he grinned.
“But I could be.”
The buyers laughed nervously. Adrian ran a hand slowly through his thinning slicked-back hair. Then rested both hands across the heavy barrel of his stomach. The gesture felt natural now. Commanding.
And as the buyers followed him deeper into the mansion… Adrian felt something settle inside him. The transformation wasn’t slowing anymore. It was finishing.
The terrace overlooked the entire city. Night had fallen completely now, and the skyline stretched in every direction like a sea of lights. Music drifted faintly from the lounge behind them, mixing with the low murmur of distant traffic far below.
Adrian stood near the railing. The city wind tugged lightly at his shirt, which was already open several buttons down the front. Thick black-and-grey curls of chest hair pushed outward from the collar, spreading high toward his neck and shoulders. His belly pressed heavily against the fabric of the shirt beneath it, a massive solid curve that pushed forward like the prow of a ship. One hand rested across it. Not protectively. Possessively. Adrian rubbed the firm barrel slowly as he stared out at the skyline.
Behind him the terrace door opened. Adrian didn’t turn right away. He already knew.
“Da,” he muttered under his breath.
“You finally come out.”
Misha stepped onto the terrace a moment later. For a second he just stopped. The sight of Adrian seemed to hold him in place. The slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair. The thick dominating mustache. The dense chest hair spilling from the shirt. And the enormous belly pushing proudly forward beneath it.
Adrian turned slowly. The movement shifted the weight of his body forward. The gut led the motion. His heavy boots thudded softly across the stone as he stepped away from the railing.
Misha looked up at him now. And Adrian saw something new in his expression. Not just attraction. Respect. Adrian grinned. A slow, crooked grin beneath the mustache.
“Well,” he said.
His voice rolled out low and thick. The Russian accent was unmistakable now.
“You been starin’ long enough, yeah?”
Misha laughed quietly.
“You look… different tonight.”
Adrian snorted.
“Yeah, no shit.”
He stepped closer. The distance between them shrank quickly. Adrian was larger now. Not just heavier. Bigger. Heavier shoulders. Thicker chest. The massive barrel belly standing between them like a wall of muscle and weight. Adrian rested both hands on it and rubbed it slowly.
“Damn thing keep growin’,” he said with a chuckle.
“Can’t even see my own belt anymore.”
Misha’s eyes drifted downward briefly. Adrian noticed immediately. And laughed. A loud booming sound.
“Yeah,” Adrian said.
“Go ahead.”
He patted the belly once. Hard.
“You can look.”
The accent thickened further. Words rolling slow and heavy.
“Hell… I like when you look.”
Misha stepped closer now. Close enough that Adrian could smell the faint whiskey on his breath.
“You changed a lot,” Misha said softly.
Adrian leaned forward slightly. The belly pressed between them. His grin widened.
“Yeah?”
He lowered his voice. Rough. Profane.
“Funny thing is… I feel fuckin’ great.”
The words echoed lightly off the stone walls of the terrace. Adrian took a slow breath. Then lifted his hand to stroke the thick mustache thoughtfully.
“You know what I figured out tonight?”
Misha raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
Adrian leaned even closer. Close enough that Misha had to tilt his head upward to meet his eyes. The city lights reflected in Adrian’s dark pupils.
“World treats a guy different,” Adrian said slowly.
“When he stops givin’ a damn.”
He chuckled. Low and dangerous.
“Turns out people listen when you talk loud… swear a little… and take up some goddamn space.”
His hand slid back down to the barrel of his stomach. Rubbing it slowly again.
“Not bad life,” he muttered.
Misha watched him with open fascination now. Adrian could see it clearly. And something inside him settled into place. The old Adrian still existed somewhere. Watching. Aware. But he was quieter now. The man standing here— The big, loud, hairy, foul-mouthed bastard with the slicked-back hair and the enormous gut— That man owned the body.
Adrian gestured lazily toward the empty lounge chairs beside the terrace wall.
“C’mere,” he said.
His voice dropped another octave. Commanding.
“Sit down.”
Then he smirked beneath the mustache.
“Let’s have a drink.”
He leaned back against the railing again. The massive belly pushing forward proudly into the night air. And somewhere deep in his chest a satisfied thought rolled slowly through his mind.
Yeah… Dis is the man now.
The end.
