Look at this. Just look at this.

I’m standing in front of my bathroom mirror—the same mirror I’ve looked into for twenty-three years—and I’m staring at a person I didn't know existed until twenty-one days ago. My hair is a dark, silken curtain that falls past my shoulders now, and my eyes… they’re still green, but they’re wider, framed by lashes so thick I keep thinking I’ve got spiders on my face. Every morning, I wake up and for a split second, I expect to feel the weight of a man’s body, the scratch of stubble, the familiar, boxy geometry of being Andrew.

But no. Reality had other plans.

Or rather, that absolute idiot Leo had other plans.

I reached for the moisturizer—a lavender-scented cream that costs thirty dollars and smells like a dream I’m too embarrassed to admit I’m having. My fingers are so small now. My hands are dainty, for god’s sake. I hate it. I absolutely loathe how soft my skin is. I spent ten minutes this morning watching a YouTube tutorial on “clean girl aesthetic” makeup just so I could figure out how to cover a tiny blemish on my chin, and honestly? The sheer amount of labor involved in being a woman is a systemic prank.

And yet, as I rubbed the cream into my cheeks, watching the way my reflection mimicked me with those big, doe-like eyes, I couldn't stop. It felt… right. It felt disgustingly, annoyingly correct. Like my soul had been wearing a suit three sizes too big for two decades and finally found something tailored.

I hate it. I really, really hate him.

Three weeks. That’s how long it’s been since the "Incident." We were in his basement, surrounded by half-eaten pizza boxes and stacks of old RPG books. Leo—bless his clumsy, brilliant, socially inept heart—had found that "antique" scroll at a flea market. He thought it was a prop. He thought it would be funny to read the Latin aloud while we were mid-campaign.

"I just want a girlfriend who actually gets me, Andy," he’d complained five minutes before. "Is that too much to ask? Someone who knows their way around a Linux terminal and doesn't mind me talking about lore for six hours?"

Then he read it.

I can still feel the heat. It wasn't a glow; it was a goddamn supernova inside my ribcage. I remember falling off the beanbag chair, my scream coming out in a register I didn't recognize. It felt like my entire skeleton was being melted down and recast in a smaller, more delicate mold.

The worst part? The middle. Imagine someone taking a hot poker and—how do I put this delicately?—tearing open a new reality where there used to be solid ground. It was a searing, sharp, intrusive agony that made my vision go white. It felt like being ripped apart and stitched back together with silk thread while the needle was still red-hot.

And Leo? That moron just stood there with his mouth open, watching the light show. When it finished, and I was lying there, panting, shivering in clothes that were suddenly four sizes too big, he didn't even apologize. He just looked at me—at this—and whispered, "Whoa. It worked.I didn't think it would change you..... Whoops"

"It worked?" I’d squeaked. My voice was so high, so melodic, it sounded like a flute playing a minor key. I tried to shout, to curse him out, but it just came out as this pathetic, breathless chirp.

He didn't check the fine print. He didn't check to see if the scroll was reversible. He just… changed me. Because he was lonely.

And now? Now everyone thinks I’ve always been Amelia. My parents called me last week to ask if "their favorite daughter" was coming home for Easter. My HR file at the IT firm where I work—the same firm where I was a Senior Dev named Andrew—now says Amelia. My desk is the same, my code is the same, but the framed photo of me on my graduation day shows a girl in a gown with dark hair and a shy smile.

Why Amelia? Why couldn't it have been Andrea? I could have kept going by Andy. Or Andi. It’s the same sound! But no, the universe, or the scroll, or Leo’s subconscious decided I needed a soft, flowery name to match this soft, flowery body.

I turned away from the mirror and struggled into my bra. God, these things are a structural nightmare. It’s like a suspension bridge for your chest. But I have to wear them. Because, despite my absolute fury at the situation, I’m… well, I’m gifted. I’m tiny, barely five-foot-two, with a waist I can almost fit my own hands around, and then there’s these. I caught a glimpse of myself as I clipped the lace. They’re perfect. Rounded, heavy, and honestly, the best part of this whole disaster. I spent twenty minutes yesterday just… appreciating them. For science.

"I hate him," I muttered to the empty bathroom.

The doorbell rang. I knew who it was. I checked my reflection one last time, making sure my eyeliner was sharp enough to kill a man. I wasn't doing it for him. I was doing it because… because I have a reputation to uphold. Even if that reputation didn't exist twenty-two days ago.

I opened the door, and there he was. Leo. He was wearing that stupid "The Cake is a Lie" t-shirt that should have been retired in 2012. He had a bag of Thai takeout and that look on his face—that hopeful, puppy-dog squint that always makes my heart do a weird, fluttering somersault that I choose to interpret as a minor cardiac event.

"Hey, Amy," he said, grinning.

"Don't call me that!" I snapped, my voice hitting a high, indignant note that I knew he found adorable. "It’s Amelia. Or Andrew. Call me Andrew!"

"Everyone calls you Amy now, Ames," he said, stepping inside like he owned the place. "Even your boss. Besides, look at you. You’re definitely an Amy."

"I am a victim of magical negligence!" I stomped my foot, and to my horror, it felt satisfyingly dramatic. My hips swayed naturally as I walked past him toward the kitchen. I hate that, too. The way I move now. It’s like my center of gravity shifted three inches down and turned me into some kind of walking invitation.

"You look nice today," he added, setting the food on the counter. "Is that a new top? It brings out your eyes."

"It’s a top I found in my closet that apparently I’ve owned for three years because reality is a lie, Leo!" I hissed, though I secretly loved the way the emerald silk clung to my curves. "And stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I’m… like I’m something you ordered off a menu!"

He had the audacity to chuckle. "Technically, I didn't order you. I just made a wish. I didn't think the scroll would actually rewrite the fabric of time. I thought it would just, you know, find me a girl. I didn't realize it would turn my best friend into the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen."

My face went hot. Not just warm—blazing. I turned away quickly, pretending to be very interested in the napkins. "Shut up. You’re such a dork. I hate you so much."

"Yeah, yeah. You hate me. That’s why you’re wearing the earrings I got you for 'Amelia’s' birthday last year," he teased.

I touched my ears. I hadn't even realized I put them on. My fingers traced the small silver studs. "I… they were just on the vanity. It was a matter of convenience."

We sat down to eat. This is our routine now. He comes over, we eat, we talk about code, we play games. And the whole time, I’m hyper-aware of him. I’m aware of how much bigger he is than me now. I used to be his height. Now, I have to crane my neck to look him in the eye. I feel so small next to him, so fragile, and there’s a part of my brain—the old Andrew part—that wants to tackle him into a headlock. But then there’s the Amy part, the part that feels a weird, electric tingle every time his hand brushes mine when we reach for the pad thai.

"So," he said, his voice dropping a register. "I saw your latest post."

I froze, a noodle halfway to my mouth. "dammit.... I mean.... My what?"

"Your Instagram. The cosplay."

I wanted to die. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Two days ago, I’d been poking around in the back of my closet and found a trunk. In it was a full, professional-grade cosplay of a character from Final Fantasy. Apparently, in this reality, Amelia is a semi-famous cosplayer. I’d tried it on—purely out of curiosity!—and it fit like a second skin. The corset, the thigh-high boots, the wig… I looked incredible. I looked like a literal goddess. I’d taken a photo and posted it before I could talk myself out of it.

"I was just testing the integrity of the fabric," I mumbled, my face buried in my bowl.

"You looked amazing, Ames. Seriously. The fans were losing it. You’ve got like, ten thousand followers I didn't know about."

"I hate you," I whispered, though there was no heat in it.

"You keep saying that," he said, leaning closer. Then he quoted my favorite movie even with the bad accent "keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

I choked back a giggle.

The smell of him—cedarwood and old paper and something uniquely Leo—swirled around me. "But you’re still here. You haven't kicked me out. You haven't tried to find a counter-spell. Honestly, I looked for one, and you told me to stop because you were 'busy' that day."

"I was busy! I had a hair appointment!" I defended myself, even though we both knew that was the weakest excuse in history. The truth was… I didn't want him to find a counter-spell. The thought of going back to being Andrew felt… cold. It felt gray. Being Amelia was exhausting and expensive and confusing, but it was also vibrant. It was like I’d been colorblind my whole life and someone had finally flipped the switch.

And then there was the way Leo looked at me. He’d never looked at Andrew like that.

"Amy," he said, his voice soft now. He reached out and tucked a stray strand of dark hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my skin, and a jolt of pure, unadulterated arousal shot through me. I tried to hide it, tensing my legs under the table, gripping my chopsticks until my knuckles went white. "I know you’re mad. And I know I messed up with the scroll. But… you have to know I’m not sorry. Not anymore."

"You’re a selfish prick," I said, but my voice was trembling. My heart was thudding against my ribs, those new, wonderful ribs, and I felt a warmth spreading through me that had nothing to do with the spicy food.

"I am," he admitted. "I wanted someone who knew me. Someone I could talk to. I didn't realize that person was already my best friend. I just needed to see you differently."

"You turned me into a girl, Leo! I have to buy tampons now! Do you have any idea how much those cost?"

"I'll pay for them," he laughed, but his eyes were serious. "I'll pay for everything. I just… I want to be with you. Not as Andrew’s buddy. As Amelia’s… whatever you’ll let me be."

I looked at him, really looked at him. He was a nerd. He was a disaster. He was the reason my life had been turned upside down. And I realized, with a sinking, terrifying clarity, that I didn't want to be anywhere else. I liked the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. I liked that he knew my favorite obscure Linux distros. I liked that he was the only person in the world who knew who I really was, and he loved me anyway.

I set my chopsticks down. My hands were shaking. "You’re so annoying."

"I know."

"And you’re still calling me Amy."

"and I probably won't stop Ames, It suits you."

I leaned across the table, my tiny, curvy body feeling heavy and light all at once. I could feel the heat of him, the gravity of him. "If we do this… if I let you… you have to promise me one thing."

"Anything," he whispered.

"No more magic scrolls. Ever."

He grinned, that lopsided, beautiful grin. "Deal."

He stood up and walked around the table. I stood too, realizing once again how small I was. He put his hands on my waist, and I instinctively arched into him. My breath hitched. My voice, when it came out, was a tiny, broken thing. "I still hate you."

"Liars don't get dessert," he teased, his face inches from mine.

"Shut up," I said, and then I closed the gap.

The kiss wasn't like anything I’d experienced as Andrew. It was softer, more intense, a total sensory overload. I felt his hands slide down to the curve of my hips, pulling me flush against him. I was so tiny, so perfectly molded to fit into the space he provided. I could feel his heart racing against mine, and for the first time in three weeks, the conflict in my chest died down to a dull hum.

He pulled back, breathless. "Amy?"

I looked up at him, my green eyes probably shining with all the things I wasn't ready to say out loud yet. I thought about the IT job, the beauty videos, the cosplay in the closet, and the searing pain of the transformation that had led me here. It had hurt. It had been the most painful thing I’d ever endured. But standing here, in his arms, feeling the way my new body hummed with a life I’d never known…

“Fine,” I breathed, the word vibrating in my chest—a chest that was now so soft and sensitive it felt like a constant provocation. “You win. You got your girlfriend. I hope you’re happy with the wreckage you’ve made of my life.”

I meant it to sound like a death sentence, a heavy weight I was dropping around his neck. But my voice, this traitorous, flute-like Amelia-voice, made it sound like an invitation. I watched his eyes darken, that nerdy, intellectual light being replaced by something much more primal. It sent a shiver down my spine that I immediately told myself was a symptom of a localized nervous system failure.

He didn't say a word. He just reached out, his hands—so much larger and calloused than my new, porcelain ones—sliding under my thighs. He hoisted me up like I weighed nothing. I used to be a guy; I knew what it felt like to lift things. But being the thing being lifted? It was a dizzying rush of vulnerability that I decided to weaponize.

If he wants a girlfriend, I’ll give him one, I thought, wrapping my legs around his waist, feeling the friction of my tight jeans against his hips. I’ll be so perfect at this that he’ll realize he’s completely out of his league. I’ll make him so dependent on me that his life will be a hollow shell without my presence. That’ll show him.

He carried me into the bedroom, the room where Andrew used to sleep in boxers and dream of hardware upgrades. Now, it was a sanctuary of silk pillows and the faint scent of my expensive floral perfume. He laid me back onto the mattress, and I felt the air leave my lungs. I was so small on this bed now, so lithe and curvy. I looked up at him, my dark hair splayed across the pillow like a trap, my green eyes wide with what I told myself was calculated malice.

He started to pull my shirt off, and for a second, I thought about stopping him. I thought about the searing, white-hot agony of that scroll—the way it felt like my soul was being put through a pencil sharpener. I should hate him. I do hate him.

But then his skin touched mine.

I didn't stop him. I didn't even try. In fact, when he fumbled with the clasp of my bra—that structural masterpiece I’d spent twenty minutes appreciating earlier—I reached back and did it for him.

“You’re useless,” I whispered, my voice a melodic taunt. “Can’t even manage a simple hook. Typical.”

He didn't care about the insult. He was staring at me, at the body he’d literally conjured into existence. I felt a surge of smug satisfaction. I was beautiful. I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever touched, and I was going to use that to destroy his sanity.

I pulled him down to me. When our lips met, it wasn't the tentative kiss from the kitchen. It was an occupation. I kissed him back with a ferocity that I rationalized as an act of war. I wanted to overwhelm him. I wanted to drown him in the sensation of me.

Then, I decided to really up the stakes.

I pushed him back, making him sit on the edge of the bed. He looked confused, breathless. I knelt between his legs, my tiny frame feeling powerful in its daintiness. I looked up at him, letting my hair fall over one eye.

“I’m only doing this because I’m a perfectionist,” I muttered, though my heart was hammering against my ribs so hard I thought he might see it. “I don't want you thinking I’m bad at this just because I’m new to the equipment.”

I took my time. I wanted him to feel every second of his debt to me. I used everything I knew—all the theory I’d gathered in my previous life and all the new, hyper-sensitive intuition of my current one. I listened to the way his breath hitched, the way he groaned my name—Amy, Amy, Amy—and every time he said it, I felt a spark of anger that I translated into more effort.

Yes, look at what you’ve done, I thought, watching him come apart. Look at the creature you’ve made. You’re never going to find another woman who understands your pathetic nerdy heart and can do this to you. You’re trapped, Leo. You’re mine.

When I finally let him move me back onto the bed, I was trembling. My body was humming, a deep, resonant ache centered in that place where the magic had been the most violent. I watched him move over me, his shadow looming large.

Then he was inside me.

The sensation was… it was an invasion of the best kind. It was the opposite of the scroll’s pain. Where the magic had felt like tearing, this felt like being filled, like a missing piece of a puzzle was finally being slammed into place. I let out a high, sharp cry that I tried to stifle by biting my lip.

I hate him, I screamed internally, even as my hips bucked upward to meet him. I hate how this feels. I hate that he knows exactly where to touch. I hate that I’m so tight and he’s so… perfect.

He was moving with a desperate kind of reverence, his hands gripping my waist as if he were afraid I’d vanish back into a cloud of Latin incantations. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him down so I could whisper in his ear.

“Is this what you wanted?” I gasped, my voice breaking. “You wanted a girl to play with? You’re so selfish.”

“Amy, please,” he choked out, his forehead pressed against mine.

“I’m going to make you regret this,” I promised, even as I felt the first waves of a massive, life-altering orgasm starting to build in the pit of my stomach. “I’m going to be the best thing that ever happened to you. I’m going to make you the most amazing meals. I’m going to keep this house so clean you could perform surgery in it. I’m even going to have your stupid, nerdy kids, and they’re all going to look just like me, and you’re going to spend every single day for the rest of your life realizing that you don’t deserve a second of it.”

I was babbling now, the pleasure washing away my filter. My body was a live wire. Every thrust felt like he was rewriting my DNA all over again, but this time, I was the one holding the pen.

“I’ll break you,” I moaned, my legs locking around his back, pulling him deeper. “I’ll be so submissive and sweet and perfect that you’ll never be able to leave. You’ll be my prisoner, Leo. Do you hear me? My prisoner.”

He didn't answer with words. He answered with a final, desperate surge that sent me over the edge. I saw stars. I saw the Latin symbols from the scroll. I saw a future of lace and laundry and love that I absolutely refused to admit I wanted. I clung to him, sobbing into his shoulder—not because I was sad, but because my new body didn't know how else to handle that much input.

He stayed there for a long time, holding me, whispering that he was sorry and that he loved me. I just narrowed my eyes into the dark, thinking about how easy it was going to be to rule his world.

The next morning, the sun was far too bright. I woke up feeling… incredible. My skin felt like it was glowing, my hair was a soft mess on the pillow, and my body felt limber and satisfied.

Then I remembered.

I looked over at Leo, who was snoring softly, looking like a complete dork with his mouth slightly open. The anger returned, but it was a warm, fuzzy kind of anger. It was the anger of a woman who had realized she was in a competition she intended to win.

Oh, you think you’re the one who got what he wanted? I thought, sliding out from under the covers. Think again, buddy. This is a war of attrition now.

I stood up, feeling the slight ache in my thighs—a reminder of my "victory" last night. I walked over to the mirror. I looked like a dream. I looked like the kind of girl men write poetry about. I smirked at my reflection.

“Time for phase two,” I whispered.

I didn't go make coffee. I didn't go jump in the shower. Instead, I crawled back into bed. Very slowly. Very quietly.

I slipped under the duvet, my small, lithe body moving with a grace that still felt like a cheat code. I positioned myself, my heart racing not with fear, but with the thrill of the hunt. I was going to wake him up in a way that would ensure he didn't think about another woman—or his Xbox—for the rest of the week.

As I started, I watched his face. I watched the way his eyebrows twitched, the way his breathing hitched before he even opened his eyes.

He woke up with a gasp, his eyes flying open to see me hovering over him, a look of pure, focused intensity on my face.

“Amy?” he rasped, his voice thick with sleep and sudden, overwhelming pleasure. “What are you…?”

“Shut up,” I snapped, though I was moving with a rhythm that suggested anything but hostility. “I’m just practicing. I told you, I’m a perfectionist. I can’t have you thinking last night was a fluke. I need to establish a baseline of excellence.”

“You’re… you’re amazing,” he groaned, his hands reaching for my hips.

“I’m a nightmare,” I corrected him, leaning down to bite his earlobe. “I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you. And you’re going to love every second of it because I’m winning, Leo. I’m winning so hard right now.”

He surged up to kiss me, and I let him, but only because it made it easier to keep him pinned to the mattress. As the morning progressed into a second, even more intense round of "competition," I kept a running tally in my head.

Breakfast in bed: Point for Amelia. Making him cry out my name like a prayer: Point for Amelia. Wearing that ridiculous cosplay later tonight just to see his brain melt: Ten points for Amelia.

By the time we actually got out of bed, it was nearly noon. I was wearing one of his oversized t-shirts—which, on me, looked like a mini-dress—and I was humming a tune I didn't recognize.

“What’s for breakfast?” he asked, looking dazed and blissfully happy as he followed me into the kitchen.

I spun around, pointing a wooden spoon at him like a weapon.

“First of all, it’s lunch. Second of all, you’re making it. I’ve exhausted myself proving my dominance this morning. And third… don't you dare look at me with those heart-eyes. I still haven't forgiven you for the scroll.”

“Right,” he said, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around my tiny waist, pulling my back against his chest. “Total hatred. I get it.”

I leaned my head back against his shoulder, closing my eyes and enjoying the way he fit around me. “Total. I’m only staying because I have nowhere else to go and because I need to make sure you don't accidentally turn the cat into a toaster.”

“Sure, Ames. Whatever you say.”

“I like when you call me Ames!” I chirped, my voice sounding like sunshine even as I tried to make it sound like thunder.

I was going to break him. It was going to take years. Decades, maybe. I’d have to be the most loving, supportive, beautiful wife in the history of the world just to make sure the weight of his guilt and devotion was heavy enough to keep him pinned to my side forever.

It was a tough job. But someone had to do it.