Plot Twist of the Year

 

I was just screwing around.

That’s the thing I always come back to when I think about how this all started. I didn’t make a deal with the devil. I didn’t get cursed by a witch. I wasn’t even drunk.

I was just… bored. Curious. Procrastinating my life like usual.

That’s when I found MorphX.

An unassuming little app with a pixelated logo, buried five pages deep in the app store under filters, body mods, and AI-generated avatars. The tagline?

“See the real you.”

I rolled my eyes, downloaded it anyway, and forgot about it for a week—until I was lying in bed, half-naked and eating cereal straight from the box. That’s when I snapped a selfie and opened the app.

It was honestly kind of fun. You upload your photo, then get sliders for everything—jawline, boobs, waist, hips, hair length, voice pitch, even stuff like fertility level (whatever that meant). It had all these pre-made presets labeled "College Girl," "Hot Mom," "CEO Baddie."

Naturally, I maxed out the boob slider first. Because of course I did.

Then I narrowed my waist, added some curves, changed the hair to a sleek blonde ponytail, adjusted skin tone, eyebrows, eyelashes... Until, after about twenty minutes of fiddling, the reflection on the screen wasn’t me anymore. It was some gorgeous, smirking, lightly flushed woman with full lips and a mischievous glint in her eyes.

She looked like someone you’d flirt with at a bar—and wake up next to the next morning, still tasting her on your lips.

I laughed, hit “Save,” and said out loud:

“Damn, she’s kinda hot.”

That’s when my phone glitched.

Like hard. It vibrated, buzzed, then made this deep, unnatural humming noise that I felt in my bones. My screen pulsed white, and suddenly I wasn’t holding the phone anymore.

I was holding myself.

But not myself as in me—I was holding my chest. My new, very real, very bouncy boobs.

“What the fuu—ooooh my god—” I gasped, stumbling backwards.

Everything felt wrong. Or rather, different. My center of gravity had shifted. My clothes hung awkwardly on my new frame. I had hips. I had butt. I had a voice that came out like a breathy whisper: high-pitched, startled, girly.

I ran to the mirror. Stared.

She stared back.

Same smirking expression. Same full lips. Same sleek ponytail.

Only now she was real. And she was me.

---

I tried everything to reverse it.

I reopened the app. No “Undo.” No “Revert.” Just a notification:

“Profile Saved Permanently. Welcome, Cassie.”

I hadn’t even named her Cassie. The app just did. Like it knew.

“Okay,” I breathed. “Okay okay okay. It’s fine. I just need to chill. I’m not stuck. This is temporary. Totally temporary. Right?”

Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

---

A week passed.

Then a month.

Eventually… I gave up. I bought clothes that fit. Got used to tampons (ugh). Figured out how to do makeup from YouTube. Learned how to walk without my boobs bouncing like crazy.

I started saying my name was Cassie. I even started to like it.

I had curves. A swaying, hourglass figure that turned heads in yoga pants. And god help me, the attention was addictive.

Guys held doors open. Girls complimented my hair. Even the barista gave me free coffee.

“Being a woman is wild,” I muttered one day while looking at my reflection. “I’ve got big ol’ milk machines for boobs and a metabolism that hates me… and I still look hot.”

---

About six months in, I ran into Nathan.

As in my old best friend. The guy I used to play co-op with until 4 a.m., who knew every dumb thing I’d ever said, who once saw me eat an entire pizza in one sitting.

He didn’t recognize me.

Why would he?

To him, I was just some cute blonde who looked vaguely familiar. He bought me a drink. We started talking. I laughed at his jokes.

And for reasons I still can’t explain… I didn’t tell him.

We hit it off.

One drink turned into dinner. Then coffee. Then hanging out at his place. Then, finally, the moment I realized I was fully, completely, and catastrophically screwed:

He kissed me.

And I liked it.

---

The first time we had sex, I thought I was going to explode.

I was straddling him, fingers digging into his shoulders as I eased down slowly—so slowly—onto him.

My mouth fell open.

“Ohhh—fuck—Nathan…”

He filled me in a way nothing ever had before. Deep and thick and stretching me just right. My breasts bounced with every motion, my nipples hard and aching as I rode him harder, faster, moaning louder than I meant to.

“Yes—yes—don’t stop—ohhh god—!”

My whole body trembled, sweat dripping between my breasts, waves of pleasure crashing over me like a storm. When I came, I screamed. Thighs shaking, hands tangled in his hair, every nerve ending on fire.

“So that’s what it feels like,” I gasped afterward, lying against his chest. “I’ve been living a lie.”

---

After that… I was hooked.

I wanted it again. And again. And again.

I started hooking up with random guys. Just to feel it. Just to be filled, stretched, pinned down and kissed like I was needed. I even joked once in the mirror:

“Cassie, you used to be a dude with commitment issues. Now you’re a girl with a vibrator and three unread DMs.”

But none of them were Nathan.

With him, it felt real.

We became friends-with-benefits. Regularly. Passionately. Secretly. One night I moaned his name so loud I swear the neighbors clapped.

And then came that night.

---

I was riding him again, back arched, hands gripping his knees.

He was deeper than ever, hitting that spot that made my eyes roll back.

I bounced faster, my thighs burning, my breasts bouncing wildly with every thrust.

“Mmmmh—Nathan—yes—don’t stop—right there—ohhh fuck—!”

He groaned, holding my waist, pumping into me hard as I gasped and came again—shuddering, soaked, mouth open in a silent scream.

But then—

“Oh shit—Cass— I think—"

Warmth.

Deep. Sudden. Real.

My eyes flew open.

“…Nathan,” I whispered, panting. “Did you just—?”

“The condom,” he said breathlessly. “It… broke.”

We both stared at each other.

Then I looked down at my soaked thighs, the wet heat still spreading inside me.

“…Well,” I muttered. “Guess someone just installed baby-making DLC.”

---

Two weeks later. Two pink lines.

Pregnant.

I sat on the toilet, holding the test, mouth hanging open.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Let’s review.”

“I downloaded a funny app. I slid some sliders. I turned into a hot girl. I banged my best friend—a lot. And now… I’m pregnant.”

I touched my flat belly and laughed softly.

“You know, I really just wanted to mess with a funny app…”

And then I grinned.

“…But now I’ve got a baby in my belly, big ol’ milk machines for boobs, and a boyfriend who accidentally knocked up his best friend.”

“Plot twist of the year.”

---

30 weeks later…

That’s the photo Nathan took of me—standing barefoot in the hallway, belly huge under my striped maternity dress, smiling like I don’t have a care in the world.

Except… I do.

I’ve got his baby inside me.

He still doesn’t know who I used to be.
And honestly? I don’t even know if I am that person anymore.

I’m Cassie. I’m pregnant. I’m in love.

And every time this baby kicks, I whisper the same thing:

“It started as a joke.
Now it’s the best accident I ever had.”

Memorable Date

I catch my reflection in the living-room window before I even reach the mirror.
Six months pregnant, belly round and high, I look like I’ve been a woman my entire life instead of… what? Half a year?

I stop next to the woven chair in the corner—right where the afternoon sun hits—and rest my hands under my belly the way I’ve seen real pregnant women do. The pose feels natural now. Instinctive. Which is wild, considering that not long ago I didn’t even have hips, let alone a uterus capable of producing this impressive curve.

The photo on my phone—taken earlier today—shows me in that model-ish side angle: long ivory dress, striped top under it, my belly pushing out like it’s proudly announcing itself to the room. My expression in the picture says it all: How the hell did I get here?

Well. I know exactly how.

And his name is Lucas.

Or as I like to call him when I’m annoyed: the reason I’m waddling.

I hear keys jingling at the door.

“Babe?” Lucas calls out.

“In here,” I say, rubbing a little circle along the side of my belly where the baby has decided to practice tiny ninja kicks.

He steps into the room, eyes going straight to my stomach—as they always do—and he lets out a low whistle.

“Wow. You look even more pregnant than you did this morning.”

I glare. “Stop saying that like I’m inflating on purpose.”

He grins, crossing the room with that smug saunter he does whenever he thinks he’s being charming. Spoiler alert: it works.

“You sure you didn’t hit the ‘enhance belly’ filter on MorphX again?” he teases, tapping my bump lightly.

I swat his hand. “Very funny. And you’re the reason MorphX got involved in the first place.”

He throws his head back dramatically. “Ah yes, the legendary bet. The bet that changed the world.”

I groan. “The bet that turned me into your very pregnant girlfriend.”

“Baby mama,” he corrects cheerfully. “Let’s be accurate.”

I want to be mad, but the truth is… I like how he says it.

Six months ago I was just a guy on a couch, talking smack during game night. He and I always did stupid challenges, but that night he got this glint in his eyes.

“Loser has to try MorphX,” he said.

MorphX—the transformation app. Hyperrealistic. Full sensory VR. I laughed it off, said sure. I lost. Obviously.

“Make me something ridiculous,” I’d told him.

He did.
He made me her.
This body. This face. This voice. Everything.

And then, because he’s Lucas and has no chill whatsoever, he said, “Your penalty isn’t done. You have to go on a date like that.”

I should’ve said no.
I should’ve deleted the app.
I should’ve punched him.

Instead I said yes.
And then the date… went very, very well.

“‘Very well’?” Lucas repeats now, reading my expression like he always can. He wraps his arms around me from behind, hands settling on the underside of my belly. “Sweetheart, it went spectacularly.”

I elbow him lightly. “Stop bragging.”

“Not bragging,” he murmurs near my ear. “Just honoring the historical accuracy. That date was… memorable.”

I blush, because even now, remembering that night sends a little warm ripple straight down my spine.

He laughs softly. “Look at you getting all shy. Come on, it’s not like you weren’t having just as much fun as I was.”

“I was a guy like a week before that!” I shoot back.

“And yet,” he says, kissing my neck, “you adapted shockingly fast. Almost suspiciously fast. Like you were born ready.”

I shove him away—but gently, because if I push too hard I lose balance. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” he asks innocently. “Reminding you how you practically climbed me in the car before we even made it to the restaurant?”

“Lucas!”

“What? I’m just saying. Every great love story has a beginning.”

“You’re impossible.”

He points at my belly. “And yet, look at the results.”

I smack him again.

I lower myself into the warm yellow armchair with an ungraceful exhale. Every movement now is a negotiation between me and the watermelon I'm smuggling.

Lucas kneels in front of me, hands on my knees. “You doing okay?”

“Yes. Just… big.”

He grins. “You are big. And adorable. And glowing. And—”

“—And about to kick you if you finish that sentence with something stupid.”

He finishes anyway.
“—and very, very knocked-up for someone who was a dude half a year ago.”

I cover my face with my hands. “Why are you like this?”

“Because your transformation story is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Lucas.”

“What? It is. Guy loses a bet, becomes a woman, goes on a single date, and boom…” He pats my belly like he’s congratulating himself. “Instant baby mama. Mythically efficient.”

“You’re awful.”

“I’m amazing.”

I try not to smile, but a grin sneaks out anyway.

He moves his hands to my belly, fingers tracing the curve.

“It still blows my mind,” he says softly. “Six months ago you had abs. Now you have… this.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He laughs. “No, I mean—look at you. You’re incredible.”

His tone softens, and my chest squeezes in that way I still haven’t totally gotten used to.

I place my hand over his. “I’m still me. Just… in a different packaging.”

“A very beautiful packaging,” he corrects. “A very pregnant packaging.”

I sigh. “Stop reminding me.”

“But it’s cute when you get flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.”

“You absolutely are.”

I pout. He kisses my pout. I fail to stay mad. As usual.

We sit like that for a while—him crouched, me sprawled, the baby occasionally tapping Morse code against my organs.

Finally he stands and stretches. “You know, my mom keeps asking when I’m making an honest woman out of you.”

“Oh my god, again?”

“Every phone call.” He nods solemnly. “She is relentless.”

“Well tell her not to hold her breath.”

He puts a hand to his chest dramatically. “Wow. Brutal. You don’t want to be Mrs. Carter?”

“Not yet.” I tilt my head. “I mean, Lucas… maybe slow down a little? We kinda skipped a few steps.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Skipped steps? Sweetheart, we skipped the entire staircase. We hit the fast-track. We’re speedrunning romance.”

“And whose fault is that?”

He gestures to me. “You. You’re the one who got pregnant on the first date.”

I cover my face again. “Why are you like this?!”

“It’s a statistical miracle. A cosmic achievement. A legendary display of—”

“If you finish that sentence, I swear—”

“—chemistry,” he concludes, very proud of himself.

I throw a pillow at him.

He dodges. Of course he does.

He sits on the arm of my chair and strokes a lock of hair behind my ear.

“You know,” he says quietly, “you don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be. A wife. A fiancée. Whatever. I’m not rushing you.”

I lean my head against him. “I know. I just… I want us to choose things on purpose. Not because we accidentally made a tiny human.”

He glances at my belly. “A very active tiny human.”

As if on cue, the baby kicks hard enough that he feels it. His eyes widen.

“Oh! Hey there!” he says to my stomach. “Already calling the shots, huh?”

I laugh. “Wonder where the baby gets that from.”

He presses a hand to his chest again. “Are you implying something?”

“Just saying. The bossiness runs in the family.”

He smirks. “Is that why you were so… enthusiastic the night of the date?”

“Lucas.”

“What? If we’re listing traits, we should be thorough.”

I stare at him. “I swear you get bolder every trimester.”

“Maybe,” he says, kissing my cheek, “but you’re the one who started this whole thing.”

“Me?! You made the bet!”

“Yes, but you accepted it. And then you got all cute and flirty and—”

“I was not flirty!”

“Oh really? You weren’t the one batting your lashes at me, tossing your hair, giggling at everything—?”

“I didn’t giggle!”

He smirks because he knows I totally did.

“And,” he adds, “you were the one who said, ‘Well… this body feels kinda fun… maybe we should go back to your place just to see how it goes.’”

I groan loudly. “Stop quoting me!”

“It’s adorable.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s how we got the peanut.” He taps my belly again. “Teamwork.”

I throw another pillow. He lets it hit him this time.

I shift in my seat again, trying to get comfortable. My belly is heavy tonight, pulling at my back.

Lucas notices instantly. “Lie down on the couch. I’ll rub your lower back.”

I give him a look. “Last time you said that, the back rub turned into… other things.”

He smiles way too innocently. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You absolutely do.”

He pats the couch anyway. “Come on. I promise not to pounce.”

“You always say that.”

“And sometimes I even mean it.”

I roll my eyes but move to the couch because my back is killing me and he knows exactly how to massage it.

He kneels beside me, warm hands pressing into the small of my back. I melt immediately.

“See?” he says. “Totally innocent.”

“Uh-huh.”

He leans down, whispers near my ear, “Though… you being all soft and round like this is very distracting.”

I elbow him again. “Stop being horny for my pregnancy.”

“I can’t help it,” he says, not even pretending. “You’re gorgeous. And the story of how you got like this is… ridiculously hot.”

“It is not!”

“Oh come on. If our friends knew the full story, they’d assume we made it up.”

“Because it sounds insane.”

“Because it sounds amazing.”

I sigh dramatically. “I swear the universe punished me for losing that bet.”

He kisses my shoulder. “Pretty sure it rewarded me.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

Unfortunately… he’s right.

A kick thumps against my belly again, making my dress jump.

Lucas lays a hand there, grinning. “This kid is going to have your attitude.”

“My attitude?!”

“Yep. Stubborn. Dramatic. Very expressive.”

I gasp, feigning offense. “I am not dramatic.”

He just raises an eyebrow.

“Okay fine,” I admit, “maybe a little.”

“And stubborn.”

“And stubborn.”

“And you’re definitely expressive.”

“Lucas.”

He laughs, kisses my forehead, and pulls me gently so my head rests on his lap.

“You know,” he says softly, running a hand through my hair, “if someone told me a year ago that I’d have a pregnant girlfriend who used to be my best friend… who used to be a guy… who turned into a woman because of a stupid bet I made… I’d say they were out of their mind.”

“Same,” I say. “I still think it sometimes.”

He smiles down at me. “But I’m glad it happened.”

I touch his hand. “Yeah. Me too.”

The baby kicks again, harder this time. I wince.

“Want me to talk to them?” he asks.

“Sure. Maybe they’ll listen to you.”

He leans in close to my belly. “Hey. Baby. Be gentle with your mom. She’s new to all of this.”

I laugh. “You’re the one who made me ‘new to all of this.’”

“That’s true,” he says. “And, for the record… best bet I ever made.”

I roll my eyes, but I kiss him anyway.

“Just promise me,” I say, “no more bets.”

He smiles. “Deal.”

“And no rushing me about anything.”

“Of course.”

“And no more jokes about me getting pregnant on the first—”

“Oh no,” he interrupts, “I absolutely will not be letting that go.”

I groan. “I knew it.”

He kisses my forehead. “You love me.”

“Yeah,” I admit softly. “I do.”

He strokes my belly gently. “And I love both of you.”

And somehow, impossibly, I’m exactly where I want to be.

Pregnant. Exhausted. Emotional.
But happy.

And wildly, ridiculously in love with the guy who won a bet… and ended up winning me too.

Just for One Night

Start at the Beginning

Ten Perfect Days

I knew I shouldn’t be taking selfies before our first official date as a couple, but the moment I caught sight of myself in the mirror — in that soft, checkered dress Ethan liked so much — I couldn’t help it. There I was, eight months pregnant, belly full and round and impossible to ignore. My hair was at its messiest, my feet were aching, and yet… there was something warm and soft in the way I looked at myself. Something glowing. Something that made me lift the phone and snap a picture.

The dress puffed around my shoulders and hugged under my chest before flaring out over my belly. My hand naturally curled underneath the bump, like my body no longer remembered how not to cradle it. My cheeks were flushed — maybe from hormones, maybe from anticipation — and my smile came a little too easily.

I sent the picture to Ethan with the caption:
Your fault.

His reply came three seconds later:
Proud of it.

I rolled my eyes so hard I worried they might get stuck.
But my cheeks warmed.
Because deep down, I kind of loved how smug he was about it.

Our date was in twenty minutes, and I still needed to waddle — gracefully, if possible — to the car. But I lingered in the mirror a moment longer. Eight months pregnant. Ten days officially together. Completely upside-down from any normal timeline. And yet… I couldn’t imagine wanting things to have gone differently.

I placed my hand on my belly again, feeling a small shifting nudge from inside.

“Okay, okay,” I whispered. “I’m coming. Your dad’s probably pacing.”

Ethan wasn’t the pacing type before, but ever since the pregnancy progressed, he hovered like it was his part-time job. I pretended it annoyed me. It didn’t. It made me feel so ridiculously cared for that sometimes I had to hide my face in pillows to keep my emotions under control.

I grabbed my purse, exhaled, and headed out.

•••

Ethan insisted on opening the car door for me. I insisted I could do it myself. My belly insisted that actually, Ethan had the right idea, and I accepted his help with as much grace as someone eight months pregnant could muster.

“You look amazing,” he said as I settled into the seat.

I waved a hand lazily. “I look like I swallowed a beach ball.”

“And you wear it better than anyone ever could.”

He always said stuff like that. Soft, earnest, a little flirty. And each time, I remembered that this was the man who met me when I was still Mark — flat-chested, lanky, and not prone to swooning whenever he smiled. Back then we were just housemates, occasionally teasing, occasionally arguing over fridge space, occasionally staying up too late talking when we should’ve gone to bed.

It was strange, thinking how normal life had been — until the potion.

I still teased him about labeling his experiments badly. He still insisted the potion bottle was labeled. In his handwriting. With giant red letters.

Either way, it didn’t matter — the result was the same.

One accidental sip.
One transformation.
One night of uncontrollable heat and hormones and emotions.
And then… everything spiraled into something neither of us planned for but both secretly wanted.

•••

The restaurant hostess looked between Ethan’s arm around me and my massive belly with polite curiosity.

“You two look adorable,” she said. “How long have you been together?”

Ethan inhaled sharply.

I smiled brightly. “Oh, forever. Like… ten days.”

The hostess blinked. Then blinked again.
The math caught up to her, and Ethan made a strangled noise behind his hand.

Pregnancy always had a way of making strangers do mental gymnastics.

As she led us to our table, I leaned toward him and whispered, “See? We look like a totally normal couple.”

“We do,” he said, “as long as they don’t ask follow-up questions.”

He pulled out my chair. I lowered myself carefully — the kind of careful that came from living with a belly that made sitting an Olympic sport. The moment I settled, the baby kicked like she was protesting the seating arrangement.

“She’s restless tonight,” Ethan said, pressing a hand gently to my bump.

“Because she’s judging our timeline,” I muttered.

“She’s proud of it,” he said. “A bit ahead of schedule, sure, but impressive.”

“You cannot call our baby ‘impressive evidence.’”

“I can,” he said, “and I will.”

I smacked his shoulder lightly. “Ethan!”

He grinned like a man who had no shame — which he didn’t. Not when it came to the night everything started.

•••

Eight months ago.
The night of the transformation.

I remembered gripping the counter as the warmth flooded my body — terrifying one second, intoxicating the next. My skin tingled, my waist cinched, my hips widened, and my entire anatomy reoriented itself with dizzying speed. When I looked up, Ethan had frozen, eyes wide, mouth open, face pale.

Then the heat hit harder.
Low, deep, impossible to ignore.
A needy, tugging pulse that made me gasp.

Ethan stepped toward me, then stopped halfway, hands hovering awkwardly in midair.

“Are you okay?” he’d asked.

“No,” I breathed, voice high and strange and electric. “Yes. I don’t know.”

He went red from ears to collar. “M-Maya?”

That name hadn’t existed until he said it.
And somehow, it felt right.

What followed wasn’t planned. Wasn’t a decision so much as a collision. I leaned forward. He caught me. His hands were warm. Mine were shaking. His breath hit my neck. My spine arched without thinking. His self-control broke second.

And then—

Heat.
Hunger.
Breathless closeness.
His lips on mine, slow at first, then deeper.
The way he held my waist — my new waist — like he was afraid I’d disappear.

The room spun.
My pulse roared.
And the moment he whispered my name again, everything inside me melted.

We didn’t talk much that night.
We didn’t need to.
Every kiss said what neither of us dared to.
Every touch made reality blur.
Every moment pushed us closer until we finally crashed, trembling, breathless, into something neither of us planned for but both of us ached for.

When he held me afterward — sheets ruined, hearts racing — he’d brushed my hair back and whispered:

“I think I’m in trouble.”

“So am I,” I’d whispered back.

But neither of us stopped.

Round two came fast.
Round three even faster.
Round four was when the sun was coming up.

I hadn’t understood then why he got so dazed afterward, why his voice got hoarse when he tried to apologize for losing control. But I understood a few months later.
When my late period turned into nausea.
And then into a test.
And then into a sonogram.

I’d remember his face forever.
The shock.
The awe.
The absolute terror.
The helpless joy.
The way his fingers shook as he touched my belly for the first time after the news.

“From one night?” he’d whispered.

“It was a very busy night,” I whispered back.

•••

Our food came. I ordered enough for three people. Ethan pretended to judge me, but then he pushed his plate closer so I could steal bites.

He watched me quietly.
That soft, stupidly affectionate stare he only did when he forgot he was doing it.

“What?” I asked around a mouthful.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

He shrugged. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“How wild this all is. How we’re here on our first date. How we have… her. And how you look at me like this is normal.”

“It is,” I said. “Normal for us.”

He laughed. “Our normal is insane.”

“It’s a good insane.”

He softened. “Yeah. It is.”

The baby kicked again — a slow, rolling push against my ribs.

I hissed. “She’s training to be a gymnast.”

“Or reminding us what we did.”

“Ethan—”

“I’m just saying,” he said smugly, “she’s the world’s most persistent souvenir.”

Heat shot up my neck.
But I didn’t deny it.

Sometimes when I woke up and looked at my belly, I did think about that night. The closeness. The warmth. The way his breath felt against my neck. The way my new body reacted to things I didn’t even understand yet. I remembered how overwhelmed I’d felt, how wanted, how intensely alive. And I remembered thinking — even then, even in the first dazed hours — that I wanted more. That I wanted everything.

And now?
Now I could barely breathe without wanting him.
Hormones weren’t subtle.

Ethan leaned forward. “You’re making that face again.”

“I’m making no face.”

“The ‘remembering something spicy’ face.”

I stabbed a piece of chicken defensively. “You’re imagining things.”

“Your cheeks are pink.”

“Pregnancy.”

“Your lips are tense.”

“Annoyance.”

“And you’re biting the fork.”

I dropped the fork immediately. “Shut up.”

He laughed, quiet and warm, and my heart did that stupid flip thing it always did around him.

•••

Dessert was unnecessary, but I ordered it anyway. Two, actually. Ethan didn’t even pretend to argue. He stole one bite. I glared at him viciously enough that he put the spoon down like it was illegal contraband.

The night air outside was cool, brushing gently against my skin as Ethan helped me into the car again. I leaned my head back as he buckled me in — yes, buckled me, because apparently he decided I wasn’t allowed to bend anymore.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Tired.”

“Happy?”

I blinked at him.
Emotion swelled in my throat before I could stop it.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Really happy.”

His smile softened. “Me too.”

The drive home was quiet, filled with the kind of silence that felt warm and shared.

When we pulled into the driveway, he rushed around to help me out again. I pretended to be annoyed. But when he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my fingers gently, I melted like butter in summer heat.

We walked inside slowly. My belly felt heavier tonight, tugging downward as the baby shifted. I paused in the hallway, exhaling, hand slipping under the bump again.

Ethan stood behind me, close but not touching. Respectful. Careful.

“You really okay?” he asked.

I nodded.

Then, softer: “She’s moving so much.”

His hand hovered again. “May I?”

I guided it to the side of my belly where a tiny foot pressed outward. Ethan’s breath caught.

“She’s strong,” he whispered.

“Well,” I said, “she got that from her dad.”

He froze.

I turned to him. “What? She did.”

His eyes softened in a way that made my knees wobble.

“You think I’m… good at this?” he asked quietly. “At being… her dad? I know we didn’t expect—”

“You’re perfect,” I said instantly. “Better than I could’ve hoped. Better than anyone else could’ve ever been. You’re here. You’re trying. You’re excited. You’re terrified. That’s… everything.”

He swallowed hard. “And you? How are you doing with all this? Really?”

I leaned my head against his chest. “Honestly? I love it. Even the swollen ankles. Even the weird cravings. Even when she lodges herself directly under my ribs. I… I like being pregnant.”

He kissed my forehead.

“And…” I added softly, “I might want more.”

His breath stopped.

“More?”

“Someday,” I whispered quickly. “Not right away. But… I’ve always wanted a big family, even before all this happened. And now that I know how it feels — the closeness, the growth, watching you prepare for her — I think… I think I want this again. With you.”

His arms went around me, holding me gently, carefully, like I was something precious.

“You have no idea,” he murmured against my hair, “how much I want that too.”

The baby kicked again — a big one — and Ethan laughed softly.

“She agrees,” he said.

“Traitor,” I muttered.

We walked toward the bedroom slowly, our hands intertwined. My belly shifted with each step, a warm, full heaviness that made me feel grounded and powerful and impossibly loved.

As we passed the mirror in the hall, I caught a glimpse of myself again — the same pregnant silhouette from the selfie earlier. The roundness. The glow. The softness in my eyes I hadn’t noticed until recently.

I wasn’t the person I used to be.
And I didn’t want to be.

Ethan brushed his lips against my cheek.

“You ready to lie down?” he murmured.

“God, yes.”

He helped me onto the bed, settling beside me as I eased my body into the pillows, belly rising like a hill between us.

He placed a hand on it again.
Warm. Gentle. Loving.

“Ten days,” I whispered.

He smiled. “Ten perfect days.”

“And eight chaotic months.”

“The best kind of chaos.”

I closed my eyes, overwhelmed with exhaustion and warmth and gratitude. Ethan whispered something soft against my temple — something I couldn’t fully hear — and I felt myself drift.

I fell asleep thinking of the future.
Of tiny hands.
Of laughter.
Of more children.
Of Ethan holding them.
Of my belly round again someday.
Of a family that started from one wild night and grew into something beautiful.

When I woke later, he was still there, hand on my bump, breathing slow and steady.

And for the first time in my life, everything felt exactly — impossibly — right.

The Potion

Pride's a Dangerous Thing

 

   

Never Knew I Wanted

Dumb Bet

Ars Fertilis

Make a Wish

Just for One Night

One Time’s Enough

 

I am Now

 

I used to be Marcus. Just a regular guy, floating through life without a plan. I had a decent job, good friends, bad habits, and a firm belief that condoms were cheaper than child support. Then the Great Shift happened, and everything I thought I knew about myself got ripped away in a single morning.

I woke up with breasts. With hips. With a body that wasn’t mine but very much alive under my skin. I screamed so loud the neighbors banged on the wall. My voice wasn’t mine either. The reflection staring back at me in the bathroom mirror wasn’t Marcus — it was Melissa.

At first, I fought it. The first time I had to wrestle into a bra, I swore it was some medieval torture device. Shaving legs? Constant, annoying, impossible. My first period? Let’s just say I cried in the pharmacy aisle, clutching a box of tampons like it was a detonator. Every little thing reminded me that I wasn’t Marcus anymore.

But months went by, and little by little, I adapted. I learned how to walk in heels without looking like a baby giraffe. I could finally do eyeliner without stabbing myself in the eye. Clothes started to feel like me instead of costumes. And the attention? Oh, I noticed it. Guys bought me drinks. Girls invited me in like I’d always been part of the circle. Somewhere along the way, Melissa stopped feeling like a mask. She just… was.

Then Ethan happened.

At first, I swore I wasn’t ready to date. I was still figuring out what the hell to do with a bra clasp, let alone a boyfriend. But Ethan was different — steady, charming, easy. The first time he kissed me, my stomach flipped so hard I nearly laughed. So this is what butterflies feel like.

The first time we had sex, I was terrified. I thought I’d just “try it” like it was some experiment. But the second his hands slid over me, my body betrayed me completely. I moaned — not a fake, not a forced one, but a raw, needy moan I didn’t even recognize as mine. And then I couldn’t stop. Every kiss, every thrust, every moment felt overwhelming and addictive. By the end, I was gasping, shaking, and grinning like an idiot.

And then came that night. The condom was on the dresser. I saw it. I thought about it. Then Ethan kissed me again, and it was game over. We were tipsy, frantic, clothes flying everywhere, and before I could stop him, he was inside me raw. Different. Riskier. More intimate.

I still remember how it felt — sharper, hotter, deeper. My legs locked around him on instinct, nails dragging down his back as I begged, don’t stop, harder, please. I knew exactly what was happening when he groaned in my ear, his pace breaking, his weight pressing me down. I didn’t care. I pulled him closer and let it happen. When he finally stilled, breathless and buried inside me, I knew. He hadn’t pulled out.

I remember thinking, Well, that was probably a mistake… a really, really good mistake.

A few weeks later, I was on the bathroom floor staring at two pink lines and whispering, “Oh crap. I’m actually pregnant.”

Fast forward: six months later, my belly’s round and impossible to hide. The baby kicks when I’m trying to sleep, kicks when I’m mid-conversation, kicks just to remind me this is real. Ethan is over the moon — he talks to my bump every morning like it can hear him, which, apparently, it can. Two months ago, he proposed after our first ultrasound. Right there in the doctor’s office, ring box shaking in his hands. I said yes, tears running down my face, clutching his hand and my belly at the same time.

Which brings me to today.

I’m standing in front of the mirror, smoothing a ribbed skirt over my bump, black tank top hugging curves I still can’t believe are mine, Converse on my feet because heels are out of the question. I lift my phone, snap a picture, smirk at the screen. Me. Melissa. Hand on my belly, diamond ring glinting, looking like I’d been born for this role when really, a year ago, I was shotgun-chugging beers with my cousins at the same reunion I’m about to walk into.

Ethan leans in the doorway, sipping his coffee. “Still taking selfies?”

“Evidence,” I tell him, striking a little pose. “In case anyone forgets that I went from your average dude to maternity chic in twelve months.”

He laughs, sets his coffee down, and comes up behind me, his hand finding my belly like it belongs there. “You look beautiful.”

I roll my eyes, though my cheeks warm anyway. “Beautiful? Babe, I look like a basketball smuggler.”

“Sexy basketball smuggler,” he corrects, kissing my cheek.

I grin, biting my lip. “You weren’t calling me that the night you knocked me up.”

His smirk widens. “You weren’t exactly complaining.”

My thighs press together at the memory. God, I wasn’t. I can still feel how raw and overwhelming that night was. His weight on me, his voice in my ear, the way my body lit up when I realized he wasn’t pulling out and I didn’t care. Even now, I catch myself thinking about it and my belly reminds me, Yep, he really didn’t pull out.

I shake my head, laughing to myself. “Do you think I should tell my family that story? Or just say it was a magical, fairytale accident?”

“Definitely fairytale,” Ethan says, chuckling. “No one needs the visual.”

I sigh, grabbing my purse. “Fair enough. Still can’t believe I’m about to walk in there like this. Last year, I was Marcus. This year? I’m Melissa, pregnant, engaged, and waddling like a penguin.”

He squeezes my hand. “And they’re going to love you.”

Maybe he’s right. Maybe they’ll see Melissa — not Marcus, not a mistake — but me, as I am now.

One year ago, I was a guy who swore he wasn’t marriage material. Today, I’m Melissa — engaged, six months pregnant, and secretly a little proud of how good I look in that mirror selfie.

And honestly? I wouldn’t change a thing.