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— …and like I seriously have no idea what the hell this is, Kevin, no joke, I was literally just walking from the parking lot, and then — BAM! — and everything went fshhh-whoosh-clang and now I’ve got tits, a skirt, flip-flops, holy shit! It's me, Dylan, goddammit! — she was rambling, but the words started to blur together like a radio catching two stations at once. — …and then I was like, “uhhh no-no-no, I don’t wanna be some Barbie-slut, I’m a dude!” but now I’ve got nails, bracelets, this stupid croco-print purse, and...
I could hear her going on, but my brain was only catching random, meaningless fragments: "tits-skirt-fuck-fuck-babe-insane" — like a cartoon on fast-forward. The only thing I could focus on was her breasts, so tight under her top you could almost make out the shape of the purple lace underneath.
— …Kevin? — her voice suddenly sharpened, turned harsh, almost masculine — for just a split second. — Are you seriously staring at my tits, you dumbass?!
I flinched. My eyes slowly peeled away from her cleavage and met her face.
— Look, Di… — I hesitated. Saying “Dylan” felt… off.
— Yeah, like, I’m listening! — she said, striking a pose Dylan would never strike. Hands on hips, waist twisted, ass sticking out in a full-on influencer stance. I involuntarily stepped back — the gesture was so... girly, so provocative, that something in my brain short-circuited again.
— Uhm… — I began, my throat suddenly dry. — Are you… are you really Dylan?
— Oh my god, of course, fu—... — she paused, rolling her eyes. — Fu… frickin’ yeah! Why can’t I… say that word properly?! — Her voice suddenly turned into a sultry, almost purring coo. — Ugh, this is sooo damn frustra-cute… mmm, frustra-cute? What the hell am I even saying?! — She frowned, then immediately puffed out her lips, pressed a finger to them, and with a cutesy squeak blurted: — Why is everything so unfai-i-i-ir?
I opened my mouth to say something, but the moment I saw her face, I shut it right back. She was looking up at me with wide, round eyes, her lips pouting in that dumb duckface way, eyebrows pinched, chin trembling like she was about to cry. It was… too cute. Way too cute to be Dylan. My college classmate. The football team captain I hated with every cell of my body. The guy who shoved my head in the toilet for three days straight because I forgot to wear our school jersey on team spirit day. The guy who called me “Kev the creep” and stuffed my sneakers in the freezer for a whole week, who...
— Keeeevin, come ooon… — she sang, like she was about to yell at me, but there was this weird, almost purring undertone in her voice. — Are you, like, totally brain-dead? Need me to remind you who the fuck I am?! — She stepped forward, clenching her cute little fist as hard as she could, and for a second my heart clenched. I took a step back, eyes shut, suddenly overcome with that same fear I used to feel when Dylan would grab me by the collar outside the campus café. But instead, a few seconds later, I felt… warmth.
Her hand, so soft, manicured, with long glossy nails, touched my cheek and gently slid across it — like a caress, almost… intimate. My eyes flew open and met hers.
The look on her face was furious, tense, like someone about to punch you in the face. Eyebrows furrowed, lips tight. But her pose was unmistakably feminine, her hand still stroking my cheek, nails lightly tickling my skin. She probably thought she was punching me — or more likely, grabbing me by the collar?