Dusting off an older series of stories I had,

Ravyncrowe Mixtape track 7-

I used to think jealousy was a kind of proof. Like: if it burns, it’s real. If it gnaws at your gut like a rat with a grudge, it matters. If it keeps you awake until your sheets feel like 60-grit sandpaper and your pillow feels like a bag of rocks, then congratulations, you must be in love.

Turns out jealousy is just your ego in a cheap polyester tuxedo, trying to crash a wedding it wasn’t invited to.

And me? I was the drunk uncle at that venue.

That night started the same way most catastrophic decisions do: with a mirror I avoided eye contact with, a button-up shirt I didn’t bother ironing because "rugged" is a look (right?), and a speech I practiced in my head that made me sound like the brooding, reasonable hero of a French noir film.

Be cool, Miles. Be charming. Be the guy who doesn’t care. Be the guy who invented not caring.

My reflection looked like a man who’d Googled “how to be unbothered alpha male” and then immediately panic-refreshed the page twelve times.

I checked my phone again. No new message from Cass.

We weren’t together together. We were… atmospheric. Gravitational. A handful of dates that went too late, a handful of mornings that started too early, and a handful of her laughing in my kitchen while wearing my oversized band t-shirt, looking like a supermodel who’d just survived a shipwreck.

She had a laugh that made you want to confess things. Not sins, exactly. Just truths you’d been hoarding in the basement of your soul.

She’d texted earlier: Going out with friends tonight. Don’t be weird about it.

Which, to any emotionally stable person, reads as a heads-up.

To me, it read as a duel.

I arrived at the bar late on purpose, like being tardy could be a personality trait instead of a symptom of anxiety. The place was one of those dim, cozy rectangles with exposed brick and an “industrial” light fixture that looked like a trapped steampunk spider. Everyone inside had that Friday-night shine: cheeks flushed with gin, voices pitched an octave too high, the air thick with pheromones, expensive cologne, and the sweet, humid lie of “tomorrow I’ll be responsible.”

I scanned the room, my eyes hunting before my brain even authorized the search.

And there she was.

Cass was perched at a high-top near the back, looking dangerous. Her hair was pinned up in a chaotic, artful way that exposed the long, elegant curve of her neck—a neck that looked like it tasted like vanilla and trouble. She was wearing a black dress that clung to her like a second skin, featuring a neckline that plunged just enough to ruin a weak man’s credit score.

She was laughing at something the guy next to her said, one hand resting on his bicep like a bookmark.

He was tall, of course. They always are. He had the kind of jawline you could slice cheese on and teeth so white they probably had their own 401(k). He looked like he smelled like sandalwood and financial security.

Cass’s fingers slid off his sleeve. A small touch. A microscopic gesture.

But my brain did what it always did: it turned a silent movie into a Wagner opera.

I drifted toward them like I wasn’t drawn by gravity, like I’d simply chosen this vector for purely scientific reasons.

Cass saw me first. Her eyes—dark, intelligent, and currently sparkling with gin and tonic—widened. For a heartbeat, her smile was just for me.

Then it flickered. Not vanished. Just… recalibrated.

“Hey,” she said, and she sounded bright, like she’d just polished the word before handing it to me.

“Hey,” I said back, forcing my voice into a lower register, trying to sound like casual wasn’t a costume I was wearing backward.

The guy looked me up and down with a slow, lazy grin. “Friend of yours?”

Cass hesitated. Just a fraction of a second.

And in that fraction, my ego tripped, fell down a spiral staircase, and broke its neck.

“Yeah,” she said. “Miles.”

No label. No this is the guy who makes me coffee. No back off, Ken Doll, he’s mine. Just my name, set on the table like a crumpled receipt.

The guy offered his hand. “Graham.”

I shook it. His grip was firm, dry, and annoyingly confident. He squeezed like he was trying to crush a walnut.

“Cool,” I said, because my vocabulary had filed for divorce in my time of need.

Cass gave me a look that was half warning, half amusement. She knew. She always knew. It was one of the reasons I worshipped her and one of the reasons being around her felt like standing naked under a fluorescent light.

“You want a drink?” she asked, her voice a low hum.

I did not want a drink. I wanted to be Graham. Or dead. Or both.

“Sure,” I said, because I am a man and therefore genetically incapable of refusing liquid courage when my masculinity is hemorrhaging.

Cass slid off her stool. Her dress rode up an inch, revealing a devastating amount of thigh. “I’m going to the bar. You coming?”

Graham leaned in, his cologne assaulting my nostrils. “I’ll go with you.”

And Cass, smiling that damn smile, said, “Okay.”

Okay.

The word was a pebble.

My brain turned it into an asteroid.

They walked away together. Not holding hands, not kissing, not doing anything technically incriminating. Just moving in sync, their hips brushing occasionally, navigating the crowd like they shared a secret frequency.

And I stayed behind, suddenly aware of my own hands and the awkward meat-sacks they were attached to. I shoved them in my pockets. Then took them out. Then crossed my arms. Finally, I grabbed my phone, pretending to read a very important email from the President of Business.

From where I stood, I could see Cass at the bar. Graham was close. Too close. He bent his head toward her ear to whisper something, his lips grazing her hair.

Cass threw her head back and laughed, her throat exposed, her chest rising and falling in a way that made my mouth go dry.

My stomach twisted into a knot tight enough to moor a ship.

I hate how quickly my imagination gets dressed in leather and goes out without me.

In my head, I saw them leaving. I saw his large hand splayed on the small of her back. I saw her in his expensive car, her mouth on his neck, that black dress shoved up to her waist without ceremony.

I was a spectator to my own humiliation, watching through a window that wouldn’t break.

And the worst part? A part of me believed I deserved it.

Because I hadn’t claimed her. Because I hadn’t said, I want you, and I’m terrified, but I want you.

Because I was too cool, too careful, too busy playing the stoic.

Cass turned, drink in hand, and bumped lightly into Graham’s chest. He steadied her with a hand on her waist. She didn’t pull away.

Then she looked over, met my stare across the room, and her expression hardened.

Not angry. Not cruel.

Just… done.

She said something to Graham, handed him her drink, and walked back to me. Her hips swayed with a hypnotic, dangerous rhythm.

I braced myself for the conversation. The we need to talk talk. The you’re suffocating me talk.

She leaned her forearms on the high-top, her face close enough that I could count her eyelashes. She smelled like citrus, jasmine, and trouble.

“You’re doing it,” she said softly.

“Doing what?” I lied.

“That thing.” She tilted her head, a shark examining a seal. “The thing where you turn into a noir detective. Like you’re gathering evidence for a murder that hasn’t happened.”

“I’m not—”

Cass reached out and pressed a finger to my lips. Her skin was cool, startling. “Don’t lie to me. Lie to yourself, Miles, but don’t insult my intelligence.”

I swallowed against the lump in my throat. “I just didn’t know you were… with someone.”

Cass blinked slowly. “I’m not with him.”

“Then why is he wearing you like a scarf?” I snapped. The words were ugly, sharp, and I regretted them instantly.

Cass’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Because he’s fun. Because he laughs. Because I can talk to him without feeling like I’m walking through a minefield of your insecurities.”

I flinched. “That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair,” she hissed, her voice dropping to a sultry, dangerous register, “is you acting like you own the property when you refuse to sign the lease.”

My mouth opened, then closed. She had me. Dead to rights.

Cass leaned in closer, her voice vibrating in my chest. “You know what I think? I think you like the pain. You like the drama. You like being the wounded, misunderstood guy in the corner.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Her smile turned sharp, feral. “So, you’re not going to punish me later with silence? You’re not going to make me work for your affection?”

Heat climbed my neck, hot and prickly. “You’re punishing me for having feelings.”

Her eyes flicked down to my chest, then back up to my eyes. “Yes,” she said simply. “But not for having feelings. For how you wield them.”

I stared at her. “What does that mean?”

Cass reached out. For a second, I thought she was going to slap me. Or kiss me.

Instead, she placed her palm flat against the center of my chest, right over my sternum.

“Let’s teach you something,” she purred.

And then the air changed.

It wasn’t like a movie. No lightning. No thunder. It was like the bar inhaled and held its breath. The noise of the crowd dampened into a thick, underwater hum. The lights seemed to dim and sharpen at the same time.

Cass’s eyes glowed. Not metaphorically. A literal, faint luminescence ignited behind her irises, violet and terrifying.

I froze. “Cass?”

Her smile returned, soft as velvet, sharp as a razor. “I told you not to be weird.”

“I’m not being—” I started, but my voice cracked. Badly. Like, puberty-level crack.

Cass’s hand warmed against my chest.

No, not warmed. Burned.

A heat, sweet and heavy like warm honey, began to spread from her palm, seeping through my shirt, soaking into my skin. It radiated outward, hitting my nerves with a buzz that felt like champagne bubbles in my bloodstream.

I tried to pull back. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” she said, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Just… shifting the perspective.”

The heat surged.

My shirt suddenly felt… wrong.

It pulled tight across my chest, the fabric straining. I looked down, confusing panic with arousal, and saw the buttons holding on for dear life. My chest wasn’t just expanding; it was softening. The flat planes of my pecs were swelling, rounding out, pushing forward with a relentless, heavy pressure.

I gasped, the sound high and breathy in my throat. “Cass, stop.”

She tilted her head. “Stop what? You look flushed.”

My belt.

My belt was suddenly cutting into me. I felt a weird, rolling sensation in my midsection, like my insides were being rearranged by a very aggressive interior designer. My waist cinched in, sharp and sudden, while my hips…

My hips flared out.

I felt the bone structure grind and widen, a sensation that wasn't pain but a shocking, intense pressure.

I gripped the table, my knuckles white. “Cass, I’m serious!”

“So am I,” she whispered, her eyes tracking the changes with hungry curiosity. “Look at you.”

I looked down.

My thighs were rubbing together. They were thicker, softer. The rough denim of my jeans was suddenly filled to capacity. My legs felt smoother against the fabric, the hair retreating, the skin refining into something silky.

“My eyes are up here,” I muttered, a desperate, defensive joke.

Cass laughed, a low, throaty sound. “Oh, sweetheart. They’re everywhere now.”

Another wave of heat washed over me, starting at my scalp.

A tickling sensation ran down my neck. I reached up and felt hair—thick, silky, and shockingly long—spilling over my collar, brushing against my shoulders. It felt heavy and luxurious

.

I tugged at it. It was real. It was mine.

My face… my face felt weird. Lighter.

My jawline, usually square and stubbly, seemed to melt, reshaping into something sharper, more delicate. My lips tingled, swelling, blooming outward like a flower in time-lapse. I pressed them together and they felt plush, foreign.

I made a strangled noise. It came out as a soft, melodious whimper.

Cass stepped closer, invading my personal space. She smelled incredible. “There it is,” she murmured. “Lesson one. Vulnerability.”

My center of gravity shifted violently.

I stumbled, my balance completely wrecked. I felt shorter. Lighter, yet heavier in new places.

I looked at my feet. My beat-up sneakers were gone.

In their place were black leather ankle boots with a three-inch heel. My ankles looked delicate, dainty. My calves were shaped differently, higher, smoother.

I grabbed Cass’s arm to keep from falling. Her skin felt electric against my smaller, slender fingers. I looked at my hand—no hair, manicured nails painted a deep, oxblood red.

“You turned me into a girl?” I hissed. My voice was a stranger’s—lighter, breathy, with a natural lilt I couldn’t suppress.

Cass corrected me, her thumb brushing my now-smooth cheek. “I turned you into a woman, Miles. There’s a difference.”

“Fix it!” I demanded, but it sounded less like a command and more like a plea.

“Why?” Cass asked, genuinely curious.

“Because this is insane! I’m in a bar! I have a penis!”

I paused, panic spiking. Did I?

I squeezed my legs together.

Oh. Oh no.

The silence from my nether regions was deafening. The specific, familiar crowding of biology was… absent. Replaced by a smooth, terrifying vacancy.

I went pale. Or, knowing my new complexion, probably a lovely porcelain shade of terrified.

Cass leaned in, her lips grazing my ear. “Lesson two. You’re not used to being looked at, are you? Not really.”

“People are looking?” I whispered, horrified.

Cass spun me around to face the room.

The bar was the same. The people were the same.

But the gaze… the gaze had weight now.

A guy at the next table glanced at me. His eyes didn't meet mine; they dragged over my body—my legs, my hips, the swell of my chest under the straining button-up—before finally landing on my face with a smirk.

It felt physical. Invasive. Like a touch I couldn’t wipe off.

I shivered violently.

“See?” Cass whispered, her hands sliding down my arms, grounding me. “You think jealousy is about owning someone. But you’ve never had to worry about being owned.”

I turned back to her, my chest heaving. The sensation of breasts moving against the fabric of my shirt was maddeningly distracting.

“You can’t just do this,” I said, tears pricking my eyes. Tears? Since when did I cry this easily?

“I can. I did.” Cass looked me over, her gaze appraising, almost… appreciative. “And damn, Miles....no.....Millie You make a very hot woman.”

My face burned hot enough to fry an egg. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

I stared at her, helpless. My body felt like a live wire. Every nerve ending was exposed. My clothes felt too rough, the air too cold, the lights too bright.

“Lesson three,” Cass said, her voice dropping an octave. “You don’t get to hide.”

She grabbed my hand. “Dance with me.”

“No. Absolutely not. I can’t dance as a man, I definitely can’t dance as… this.”

Cass arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “You’re wearing three-inch heels and a body made for sin. You’ll figure it out.”

She dragged me onto the floor.

The music was heavy, a pulsing bass that vibrated in my teeth.

We moved into the crush of bodies. I was instantly aware of how small I was. Shoulders brushed against me. A guy bumped my hip and didn’t apologize, his hand lingering for a second too long on my waist.

I flinched, pulling closer to Cass.

She wrapped her arms around my neck, pulling my taller body down (though I wasn't that much taller anymore).

“Feel that?” she murmured against my mouth. “That need to be close to someone safe? That’s not weakness, Millie. That’s survival.”

My hands hovered awkwardly around her waist.

“Touch me,” she commanded.

I rested my hands on her hips. They fit there perfectly.

Cass began to move, a slow, grinding rhythm against me.

And my body… my body betrayed me.

It knew what to do. My hips loosened, swaying in time with hers, responding to the bass, to her heat. It felt fluid, natural, and incredibly erotic.

Graham walked by. He looked at Cass, then looked at me.

His eyes went wide. He smiled—a predatory, appreciative smile. He didn’t recognize me. He just saw her.

“Nice,” he mouthed to Cass, nodding at me.

I wanted to punch him. I wanted to vomit.

I buried my face in Cass’s neck, breathing in her scent, shaking.

“It’s okay,” Cass whispered, her hands stroking the long hair at the nape of my neck. “I’ve got you.”

“I hate this,” I whimpered into her skin.

“You hate feeling out of control,” she corrected. “But look at you. You’re beautiful.”

She pulled back and looked at me. Her eyes were dark, dilated.

“Let’s go see what you really look like.”

She led me to the bathroom.

Mercifully, it was empty. The fluorescent lights buzzed.

I stood in front of the mirror and stopped breathing.

The reflection wasn’t me in drag. It wasn’t a joke.

It was a woman in her mid-twenties who looked like she could ruin your life and you’d thank her for it.

Dark, glossy waves of hair. High, sharp cheekbones. Lips that were a shade of pink I’d never seen before. And eyes—my eyes, but framed by lashes so long they looked heavy.

My shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing the swell of cleavage that rose and fell with my panic. My jeans had transmuted into tight black leather pants that hugged every curve of my new, wider hips.

I touched my face. The skin was impossibly soft.

“I’m… hot,” I whispered, shocked.

Cass stood behind me, her chin resting on my shoulder. We looked like a power couple on the cover of a magazine.

“You are,” she agreed. “Now tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Why were you jealous?”

I looked at our reflections. The man I was—the insecure, brooding guy—felt a million miles away.

“Because,” I said, my voice trembling, “I thought if I didn’t hold on tight enough, you’d realize you could do better.”

Cass’s eyes softened in the mirror. “Mills. You can’t control love. You can only choose it.”

She ran her hands down my arms, her fingers tracing the veins in my wrists.

“You wanted to know what it feels like to be on the other side? To be the one who has to trust?”

I nodded, a tear slipping down my cheek.

“This is it,” she said. “This is the proof. Not pain. Vulnerability.”

“Is this permanent?” I asked, terror warring with a strange, creeping excitement.

Cass kissed my bare shoulder. The sensation sent a jolt of electricity straight to my groin—or lack thereof.

“Only if you want it to be. Or… until you learn the lesson.”

“And if I don’t learn it?”

“Then we’re going to have a very interesting, very sapphic relationship.”

I choked out a laugh. “You’re a monster.”

“I’m a witch, baby. There’s a difference.”

She took my hand. “Let’s go home.”

The ride home was a blur of sensory overload. The cold air on my neck. The smell of the Uber driver’s cheap air freshener. The way my thighs stuck to the leather seat.

Cass held my hand the whole way, her thumb rubbing over my knuckles.

When we got to her apartment, she didn’t turn on the big light. Just the lamp by the bed.

I stood in the center of the room, feeling like a raw nerve.

Cass walked over to me. She didn’t say a word.

She reached out and began to undo the remaining buttons of my shirt.

My breath hitched. “Cass.”

“Shh.”

She peeled the shirt off my shoulders. It slid down my arms, leaving me standing in a lacy black bra I definitely hadn’t put on.

The cool air hit my skin, nipple hardening instantly against the lace. The sensation was so intense I nearly buckled.

Cass stepped back and undressed.

When she was naked, she looked like a goddess. But for the first time, I didn’t feel like I was just watching. I felt… matched.

She came back to me, skin to skin.

Softness against softness. Curves fitting into curves.

She kissed me, and it wasn’t like before. It was deeper, hungrier. I tasted her lipstick. I felt her hands exploring my new geography, mapping out the waist, the hips, the breasts.

I gasped into her mouth as her thumb brushed a nipple. It was like a lightning strike.

“Sensitve?” she teased against my lips.

“You have no idea,” I moaned.

She pushed me gently onto the bed.

“Tonight,” she whispered, hovering over me, her hair creating a curtain around us, “you don’t have to perform. You don’t have to be the man. You just have to feel.”

I reached up, tangling my fingers in her hair, pulling her down.

“I love you,” I whispered. It was the first time I’d said it.

Cass smiled, and the magic in her eyes flared one last time.

“I know,” she said. “Now show me.”

And in the dark, with her body pressing me into the mattress, I finally understood.

Jealousy is fear of losing something you think you own.

Love is giving someone the power to destroy you, and trusting them not to.

Or, in my case, trusting them to turn you into a knockout brunette and rock your world until you forget your own name.

I could get used to this.