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.