The fever broke sometime in the gray hours before dawn. I remember the cool of Mac's hand on my forehead, the way he kept saying my name like a question I was too heavy to answer. Then the light changed and the smell of eggs and butter and something toasted pulled me up out of the dark.

"Hey. Hey, easy."

Mac's face swam into focus, all worry and stubble, his curly black hair a disaster. He was crouched beside the bed with a tray in his hands, steam rising off scrambled eggs, two slices of toast buttered to a golden shine.

"What time is it?" My voice came out rough, scraped raw by the fever.

"Almost noon. You've been out for—" He stopped, swallowed. "A while."

The mattress springs creaked as I pushed myself up against the faded comforter. The dorm room smelled like cheap laundry soap and the sharp ghost of spilled beer from the party, but underneath it all, eggs. Real food. Mac had made me real food.

"You didn't have to—"

"Shut up and eat." He set the tray on my lap, and the warmth of it seeped through the blanket. "You scared the shit out of me, Avery. The whole drive back you were burning up, and then you just—you went limp in the parking lot and I had to carry you up three flights of stairs."

I remembered fragments. The heat crashing over me in the CDC parking lot, my vision going white at the edges. Mac's hand gripping mine, his thumb tracing circles over my knuckles the whole drive. The feeling of being lifted, cradled against his chest like I weighed nothing.

"Sorry." I picked up the fork. The eggs were perfect, soft and buttery. "I didn't mean to—"

"Stop apologizing." He sat on the edge of the bed, making the springs groan under his weight. "Just eat. Doctor said the fever would break, right? That it was normal?"

I nodded, chewing. Dr. Hart's voice echoed in my head: *The stabilizer can cause a fever response in some patients. It should pass within twelve hours.* It had passed. I was here, I was eating eggs Mac had made me, and for the first time in two days, I wasn't terrified.

"She gave me a card," I said around a mouthful of toast. "Said if anything changes, I can call her directly."

"Changes like what?"

I shrugged, buying time with another bite. The truth sat heavy in my chest — the body I was in, the virus that had done this to me, the fact that I was one of the lucky ones. But the words came easier than they ever had. There was no more guarding, no more fear of spreading this thing. The stabilizer had made me safe. Safe to be around. Safe to touch.

"She said I'm one of the rare cases. I kept my brain. Most people who get this—" I set the fork down. "They don't."

Mac's jaw tightened. He'd seen the news reports, the same as everyone. The women who showed up at ERs with empty eyes and too-bright smiles, their minds gone soft and sweet as cotton candy.

"But you're not like that." It wasn't a question.

"No." I reached for the orange juice. "I'm still me. Just... different packaging."

The laugh that burst out of him was loud and sudden, filling the small room. "Different packaging. Jesus Christ, Avery. You get turned into a hot girl and your first joke is about packaging?"

"I'm an engineer. We joke about what we know."

He was still laughing, shaking his head, and something in my chest loosened. This was Mac. My roommate, my best friend, the guy who'd dragged me to that party in the first place. He was still here. He still looked at me like I was the same person he'd known since freshman year, because I was.

The orange juice glass was cold in my hand. I brought it to my lips, and Mac said something — I don't remember what, something dumb and funny — and I laughed, and the laugh was still coming out of my mouth when his hand closed over mine on the glass.

His thumb traced the same circles it had traced on my knuckles in the car, slow and deliberate.

And then his mouth was on mine.

I didn't pull away. I didn't even think about pulling away. My body leaned into him like it had been waiting for this, my lips parting under his, the orange juice glass tilting forgotten in my grip. He tasted like coffee and something sweet, and his hand came up to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair.

When we broke apart, we were both breathing hard.

"Mac—"

"I've wanted to do that since I carried you up the stairs." His voice was rough. "Maybe before. I don't know. I just—"

"Since before the party?"

"Since the first time you fell asleep on my shoulder during that thermodynamics study session and drooled on my favorite flannel." He grinned, but his eyes were serious. "I didn't do anything about it because I figured you were straight, and then you were a girl, and then you were a girl who was dying in my passenger seat, and I couldn't—"

"Couldn't what?"

"Couldn't lose you before I ever got to tell you."

I kissed him again because I didn't know what to say and my body knew what it wanted even if my brain was still catching up. His hands found my waist, sliding under the borrowed tank top — his tank top, I realized, one of his old MIT ones that hung loose on my new body. His palms were warm on my skin, calloused from working on engines, and when they slid up my sides I shivered.

"Is this okay?" he asked against my mouth. "Tell me this is okay."

"It's okay." My voice came out breathy, strange. "It's more than okay. It's—"

"It's what?"

"It's everything I didn't know I wanted."

He kissed the word out of my mouth, and I felt him smile against my lips.

The tray was forgotten, shoved to the foot of the bed. I was on my back, the faded comforter bunched under me, and Mac was above me, his weight warm and solid, his thigh pressing between my legs. The heat that had been building all morning — the easy conversation, the laughter, the way he kept looking at me — it all coalesced into something sharper. Something that made my hips roll up against him without my permission.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Avery—"

"Allie." The name came out of me like it had been waiting. "I think I want to be called Allie now."

He looked at me, really looked, his brown eyes dark and soft at the same time. "Allie." He said it like he was tasting it. "Okay. Allie."

"Does it feel weird? Calling me that?"

"A little." He brushed his thumb along my jaw. "But so is everything else about the last two days. And you're still you. That's what matters."

He kissed me again, slower this time, and his hand slid down my stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of the shorts I was wearing — his shorts, everything I had on was his, and somehow that made it hotter. His fingers brushed over the cotton of my underwear and I gasped against his mouth.

"You're so wet," he murmured. "Jesus, Allie, you're soaking through."

"I can't help it." My face burned. "Every time you touch me, it's like my body just—reacts."

"React how?"

"Like it's been waiting for you too."

I couldn't answer. His fingers were pressing against me through the fabric, finding the shape of my cunt, and my hips were moving on their own, grinding into his hand. The pleasure was sharp and new, a body I was still learning, and Mac was learning it with me.

"I want to feel you," he said. "I want to feel your pussy on my fingers. Is that okay?"

"Yes. God, yes."

He pushed my underwear aside, and his fingers found me slick and hot, sliding through my folds, circling my clit until I was arching off the bed. The sounds I was making — I didn't recognize them. High and breathy, falling out of my mouth without permission.

"That's it," Mac said. "Let go. I've got you."

"Mac—"

"I know. I know. You feel so good, Allie. So fucking wet for me."

He pushed two fingers inside me, slow, and I felt myself clench around them, felt how wet I was, how ready. He worked them in and out, curling against a spot that made my vision go white, and I heard myself say his name like a prayer.

"Mac. Please."

"Please what?"

"I need you inside me. I need your cock."

The words sounded alien in my mouth but they were true, truer than anything I'd ever said. Mac's eyes went dark and he pulled his fingers out, fumbling with his belt, and I watched him free his cock — thick and hard, the head flushed red. I reached for him, wrapped my hand around the shaft, and he groaned, his head dropping forward.

"Fuck, Allie. Your hands."

"Is this okay?" I stroked him slow, learning the weight of him. "Tell me this is okay."

"It's more than okay. It's—" He laughed, breathless. "You're going to kill me."

I stroked him, learning the weight of him, the heat. He was bigger than I'd expected, and a small part of me — the part that was still Avery, still an anxious engineering student — did the math. But the rest of me just wanted him inside me.

"You're big," I said. "I don't know if I can—"

"We'll go slow. I won't hurt you."

"I know you won't." I squeezed him gently, watching his eyes flutter. "I trust you."

"I'm on the stabilizer," I said. "I can't—I can't spread it anymore."

"I know. I trust you." He guided my hand away, positioning himself between my legs. "Look at me."

I did. His face was open, raw, nothing hidden. "Tell me you want this."

"I want this." My voice shook. "I want you. I want to feel you inside me."

"Tell me you want me."

"I want you, Mac. I want your cock inside me. I want to feel every inch of you."

He pushed in slow, and I felt every inch of him stretching me open. My nails dug into his shoulders and I gasped, the sensation overwhelming — full, so full, his cock sliding deeper until his hips were flush against mine.

"Oh my God." The words came out broken. "Mac—"

"I know." His voice was rough. "I know. Just breathe."

"You're so deep."

"You're so tight. Fuck, Allie. You feel like heaven."

He stayed still for a moment, letting me adjust, his forehead pressed to mine. I could feel his heart pounding, or maybe that was mine. The room smelled like eggs and sex and the ghost of spilled beer, and I was full of him, stretched around him, and I had never felt so alive.

"Move," I whispered. "Please."

He pulled out slow and pushed back in, and the sound I made was swallowed by his mouth. He kissed me as he fucked me, deep and slow, each thrust a revelation. My legs wrapped around his waist and I held on, my body learning this new rhythm, this new pleasure.

"You feel incredible," he said against my neck. "So tight. So wet."

"More." I was begging now, I didn't care. "Harder. Please, Mac—"

"You like that?" He snapped his hips harder, and I cried out. "You like my cock inside you?"

"Yes. God, yes. Don't stop."

"Never. I'm never going to stop."

He gave me what I asked for, his hips snapping against mine, the bed springs creaking beneath us. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, wet and obscene, and I was climbing toward something I couldn't name, a pressure building in my core.

"I'm close," I gasped. "I'm going to—"

"Come for me." His hand found my clit, rubbing in circles. "Come on my cock, Allie. Let me feel you."

"Mac—"

"That's it. Let go. I've got you. I've always got you."

I came apart. My cunt clenched around him, wave after wave, and I heard myself moan his name, muffled against his shoulder as he kept thrusting through it. He followed a moment later, his cock twitching inside me as he came with a groan, his body shuddering against mine.

We stayed like that for a long moment, tangled together, breathing hard. The room was quiet except for our ragged breath and the distant sound of someone's music through the wall.

"Hey," Mac said finally, his voice soft. "You okay?"

I nodded against his chest. "Yeah. I'm okay."

"Good." He kissed the top of my head. "Because I'm not letting you go anywhere."

I laughed, and it came out watery, and I felt something in me settle. The fear that had been riding me since the bar bathroom — it was still there, somewhere, but it was quiet now. Mac's arms were around me, his weight warm and steady, and for the first time since I'd become Allie, I felt like maybe I could figure this out.

The orange juice sat forgotten on the nightstand, growing warm. The eggs had gone cold. None of it mattered.

I didn't want to let go of the feeling. The weight of him still inside me, the warmth of his body against mine — it was like a secret I'd just discovered, and I wanted to turn it over in my hands until I knew every edge of it.

So I moved.

Mac made a sound low in his throat as I shifted, my knees finding purchase on either side of his hips. His hands went to my waist, steadying me, and I saw the question in his eyes before he asked it.

"What are you—"

I pushed up, and his cock slid out of me with a wet sound that made my cheeks burn. But I didn't stop. I straddled him, my thighs trembling with the effort, and I reached down and wrapped my hand around him. He was slick with me, hot and hard, and I guided him back to my entrance.

"Allie." His voice was rough. "You don't have to—"

"I want to." I met his eyes. "I want to ride you. I want to watch your face while I do it."

His breath caught. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I sank down onto him, slow, feeling every inch of him stretch me open again. The angle was different like this — deeper, somehow, the weight of me pressing him in until I was seated flush against his hips. I gasped, my hands braced on his chest, and I felt him twitch inside me.

"Fuck." His head fell back against the pillow. "Allie. You feel so good."

I started to move. Slow, just a roll of my hips, learning the rhythm of it. His hands gripped my waist, not guiding me, just holding on, and I watched his face — the way his jaw went slack, the way his eyes fluttered shut, the way his fingers dug into my skin.

"Look at me," I said.

His eyes opened. Dark and blown wide, fixed on mine.

"I want to see you," I told him. "I want to see what I do to you."

He groaned. "You're going to kill me, Allie."

I rode him slow, the way I wanted to. Each roll of my hips drew him out of me until just the head caught on my rim, then I sank back down and took all of him again. The sound of it — wet and obscene — filled the quiet room, and I felt myself clench around him with every inch.

"God," I breathed. "You feel so deep like this."

"You feel like heaven." His voice was wrecked. "So tight. So wet. I can feel every part of you clenching around me."

I shifted my angle, leaning forward, and the new position made me cry out. His cock hit something inside me that sent sparks up my spine, and I did it again, chasing it, my hands flat on his chest.

"There," I gasped. "Right there."

"Yeah?" His hips bucked up to meet me, and I moaned. "You like that, baby? You like the way I fill you up?"

"Yes. God, yes." I rode him harder, my thighs burning, my body finding its own rhythm. "I love the way you feel inside me. I love the way you stretch me."

"Fuck, Allie." His hands slid up my sides, over my ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts. "You're so beautiful. Do you know that? You're so fucking beautiful like this."

Something in my chest tightened. Not pain — something rawer. No one had ever looked at me like this. No one had ever said my name like it was a prayer. I was still getting used to this body, still learning its curves and its heat, but the way Mac looked at me made me feel like I'd been beautiful all along and just hadn't known it yet.

I leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, my hips still rolling against his. He groaned into my mouth, his hands tangling in my hair, and I felt his cock twitch inside me.

"You close?" I asked against his lips.

"Yeah." His voice was strangled. "Fuck, Allie, I'm so close. You feel too good. I can't—"

"Not yet." I slowed, almost to a stop, and he made a sound of protest. "I want to watch you. I want to see your face when you come."

"Allie—"

"Please." I kissed the corner of his mouth. "I want to remember this."

He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine. Then he nodded, his hands settling on my hips.

"Okay." His voice was rough. "Okay. But I'm not going to last long. Not with the way you're squeezing me."

I smiled — I could feel it, the curve of my lips, the way it softened my face. "Then make it count."

I rode him slow, my hips rolling in a figure eight that made both of us gasp. His hands were everywhere — my waist, my thighs, the undersides of my breasts. I watched his face contort with pleasure, watched the way his brow furrowed and his lips parted, and I felt powerful in a way I'd never felt before. This body I'd been given, this curse I'd been handed — right now, it was a gift. Right now, it was mine.

"You're so deep," I whispered. "I can feel you in my throat."

He laughed, breathless and broken. "That's not—that's not how anatomy works."

"Shut up." I clenched around him, hard, and watched his eyes roll back. "Just feel it."

"Fuck." His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise. "Allie. Allie, I'm—"

"I know." I rode him faster, my thighs screaming, my body chasing the crest I could feel building in my core. "Come for me, Mac. I want to feel you come inside me."

"You first." His thumb found my clit, rubbing in tight circles, and I cried out. "Come on, baby. Come with me. I want to feel you squeeze me while I fill you up."

The combination of his thumb and his cock and the way he was looking at me — like I was the only thing in the world that mattered — pushed me over the edge. I came with a cry, my cunt clenching around him in wave after wave, and I felt him follow a heartbeat later, his cock pulsing inside me as he came with a groan that sounded like my name.

I collapsed onto his chest, spent, my face buried in the crook of his neck. His arms came around me, holding me close, and I felt his heart pounding against my ribs. Or maybe that was mine. It was hard to tell anymore.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft and rough at the same time. "You okay?"

I nodded against his neck, not trusting my voice yet. The word "okay" didn't even begin to cover it. I felt like I'd been taken apart and put back together wrong — or maybe right, maybe for the first time in my life.

"More than okay," I managed, my voice muffled against his skin. "That was — I don't have words for that."

His laugh rumbled through his chest, vibrating against my cheek. "That's a first. You always have words."

I lifted my head to look at him, and there it was again — that look. The one that made my chest do something complicated. His eyes were soft now, the hunger banked but not gone, and his hand came up to push a strand of hair off my face. The gesture was so gentle it hurt.

"What?" he asked, catching me staring.

"Nothing." I traced the line of his jaw with my fingertips. "Just — I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to look at me and see —" I stopped, not sure how to finish the sentence.

"See what?"

"A mistake." The word came out smaller than I meant it to. "Someone you're going to regret this with."

His hand stilled on my hip. "Allie."

"I'm serious. I'm —" I gestured at myself, at this body I still didn't fully recognize, at the curves and the softness and everything that used to be someone else's. "This isn't what you signed up for. You knew me as Avery. You knew —"

"I knew you as my best friend." His voice was quiet, but it cut through me anyway. "And I told you I wanted you before any of this happened. I meant it then. I mean it now."

I swallowed. "But—"

"No buts." His hand slid to the back of my neck, warm and steady. "You're still you. You're still the guy who explains orbital mechanics at parties until everyone's eyes glaze over. You're still the one who stays up till four AM working on a problem set because you can't let it go. You're still the person I'd trust with my life."

His thumb traced the curve of my cheek. "You're just also the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, and I got to watch you come on my cock. So forgive me if I'm not exactly feeling regretful right now."

A laugh bubbled out of me, wet and surprised. "That's — that's a hell of a way to put it."

"I aim to please." He grinned, and for a second he was just Mac again, my roommate, the guy who dragged me to parties and made me try his protein shakes and called me out when I was being an idiot. The familiarity of it steadied me.

I shifted, and his cock slid out of me with a slick sound that made us both wince. The warmth of him left me feeling suddenly empty, and I watched the cum leak out of me and spread across his stomach, mixing with the sheen of sweat. I should have felt embarrassed. Instead I just felt — raw. Real.

"Messy," I observed.

"Worth it." He reached for the box of tissues on his nightstand, and I watched him clean up with the unselfconscious ease of someone who'd done this a hundred times. I'd never been this close to it before, never seen the mechanics of after — the cleanup, the softness, the way his shoulders relaxed and his breathing slowed.

I was still learning what intimacy looked like. I wanted to learn all of it.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, catching my gaze.

"That I've never done this before." I said it plainly, without shame. "The — the after. The talking. I don't know what I'm supposed to do now."

"There's no supposed to." He tossed the tissues aside and pulled me back down against him, so my cheek was against his chest again, his heart a steady drum under my ear. "You just — stay. As long as you want."

I stayed.

The room was quiet around us, the only sound our breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. The bandage on my arm had peeled at one corner, and I pressed it flat, feeling the small sting of the injection site beneath. Dr. Hart's card was still in my jacket pocket, a promise of questions I wasn't ready to answer.

But not now. Not yet. Right now, there was just this — Mac's arms around me, his heartbeat under my ear, the slow drift of his fingertips down my spine.

"Hey," he said after a long moment. "You know I've got you, right? Whatever comes next. Whatever —" he hesitated. "Whatever that doctor said. Whatever's happening with your body. I'm here."

I closed my eyes. "I know."

"Good." His arms tightened around me. "Then stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'm not going anywhere."

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to let myself sink into the warmth of him and believe that this could be real, that I could have this — this body, this person, this strange new life. But I'd spent nineteen years being the smartest person in every room, and smart people knew better than to trust happy endings.

Still, I let myself hold on a little longer.

Outside, the city hummed on, indifferent. Inside, I memorized the weight of him, the smell of his skin, the way his breathing evened out as he drifted toward sleep. I'd figure out the rest in the morning.

For now, this was enough.

The morning came anyway, all gray light and the distant sound of someone's alarm through the wall. Mac was still asleep beside me, one arm thrown across my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck. I lay there for a long moment, memorizing the shape of him against me, the way his fingers curled into the borrowed tank top like he was afraid I'd slip away.

I didn't want to move. Every instinct I had screamed at me to stay, to burrow back into the heat of him and pretend the world outside this room didn't exist. But the card in my jacket pocket was a weight I couldn't ignore. Dr. Hart's direct line. A promise of questions I wasn't ready to answer but had to ask anyway.

I slid out from under his arm, careful not to wake him. The floor was cold under my bare feet, and I grabbed his flannel from the chair where he'd tossed it last night, wrapping it around myself like armor. The sleeves hung past my fingertips. I rolled them up.

My phone was on the desk, dead. I found the charger, plugged it in, waited for the screen to blink to life. The notifications flooded in—group chat messages from people I hadn't talked to since the party, a reminder about a problem set due Friday, three missed calls from a number I didn't recognize.

I ignored all of it. I opened my contacts and found the number Dr. Hart had given me, the one she'd written on the back of her card in precise, clinical handwriting. My thumb hovered over the call button.

What was I supposed to say? *Hi, I'm the guy who got turned into a girl at a bar, and I need you to tell the university that I'm not actually dead?*

I called anyway.

The phone rang twice before a voice answered—sharp, efficient, exactly what I expected from a woman who spent her days tracking a virus that turned people into sex dolls.

"Dr. Hart."

"It's—" I swallowed. "It's Avery. Allie. The—the one you gave the stabilizer to."

"Allie. Good." There was a pause, the click of a keyboard. "How are you feeling? Any residual fever?"

"No. I feel fine. Normal." I hesitated. "Well. As normal as I can feel in this body."

"The stabilizer should prevent any further physical changes. You're one of the lucky ones, Allie—your cognitive function is intact, and the injection means you're no longer infectious. You can live a normal life." She paused. "As normal as possible, given the circumstances."

I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. "That's actually why I'm calling. I need to—" I stopped, trying to find the words. "I need to tell people. The school. I can't just disappear. I have classes, a scholarship, a—" I thought of Mac, still asleep in the other room. "A life. I need to figure out how to keep it."

"I understand." Another keyboard click. "I can provide documentation. A letter confirming your medical status, explaining that you've undergone a—" she paused, choosing her words carefully, "—a gender transition and are legally changing your name. It won't cover the full truth, but it will be enough for the administration to update your records."

I blinked. "You can do that?"

"I've done it before. For the other lucid cases." Her voice softened, just slightly. "You're not alone in this, Allie. There are others like you. I can't tell you who they are—patient confidentiality—but you're not the first person to have to rebuild a life from the wreckage."

The words landed somewhere in my chest, unexpected and warm. I hadn't realized how alone I'd felt until she said that. "Thank you."

"I'll have the letter sent to your email by end of day. Contact the registrar's office. They'll know what to do." A pause. "And Allie? If you need anything else—anything at all—you have my number."

I hung up, staring at the screen for a long moment. One down. One to go.

The police were harder.

I dialed the non-emergency line first, got transferred three times, and finally ended up on hold with someone who sounded like they'd rather be anywhere else. I sat on the edge of Mac's bed, the flannel pulled tight around me, and tried to figure out how to explain what had happened without sounding insane.

"Cambridge Police Department, how can I direct your call?"

"I need to report a—" I hesitated. "A crime. A deliberate infection."

"An infection?" The voice sharpened. "Are you talking about the—"

"The Bimbo Virus. Yes." I gripped the phone tighter. "My name is Allie Chen. I was infected two days ago at a bar in Cambridge. The woman who did it—her name is Trixie. She gave me a condom that had been deliberately cut."

Silence on the other end. Then: "Ma'am, are you saying someone intentionally gave you a sexually transmitted disease?"

"Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying." I forced my voice to stay steady. "She's spreading it deliberately. I don't know how many people she's infected, but I'm not the first, and I won't be the last if someone doesn't stop her."

"Do you have any proof of this?"

"I have a doctor. Dr. Amelia Hart, CDC. She's tracking the virus. She can confirm my case, and she can give you information about others." I found the card on the nightstand, read off the number. "If you find anyone else who's been infected, she's the one to call. She's trying to stop this."

A long pause. I could hear the officer's breathing, the faint click of a keyboard. "We'll look into it, ma'am. Can you give me a description of the woman?"

I closed my eyes, and Trixie's face swam up out of the dark—the platinum hair, the baby-blue eyes, the practiced smile. "Platinum blonde. Early twenties. Wearing a tight red dress. She moves like she owns whatever room she's in." My voice came out bitter. "She'll be hard to miss."

"And you're certain she deliberately infected you?"

"I watched her hand me a condom with a hole in it." The words came out flat, dead. "I didn't notice until it was too late. But she knew. She planned it."

Silence. Then: "We'll be in touch, Ms. Chen. Thank you for reporting this."

The line went dead.

I sat there for a long moment, the phone cold in my hand, the silence of the room pressing in around me. I'd done it. I'd told someone. The police knew about Trixie now, knew what she was doing, had Dr. Hart's number in case they found other victims. It wasn't justice—nothing could give me back my old body, my old life—but it was something. A crack in the silence.

Behind me, the bed creaked.

"Hey." Mac's voice was rough with sleep. "You're up early."

I turned. He was propped on one elbow, his hair a disaster, his eyes still half-lidded. He looked at me, then at the phone in my hand, and something in his face shifted.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." I set the phone down. "I just—I made some calls. To Dr. Hart. And the police."

He sat up fully now, the blanket pooling around his waist. "The police? Allie, what—"

"I told them about Trixie." The words came out before I could stop them. "About what she did. How she gave me that condom, how she infected me on purpose. I gave them Dr. Hart's contact info in case they find other victims."

Mac stared at me. Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed, crossing the room in two steps, and pulled me into his arms. I buried my face in his chest, breathing him in, letting the solid warmth of him steady me.

"I'm proud of you," he said quietly. "That took guts."

"I just—I couldn't let her keep doing it. To other people. I couldn't just—"

"I know." His hand came up to cup the back of my head. "You did the right thing. The brave thing." He pulled back, looking down at me, his brown eyes soft. "Now, you said something about the school?"

I laughed, watery. "Dr. Hart's sending a letter. To the registrar. Explaining that I'm transitioning and changing my name. It's not the whole truth, but it's enough for them to update my records."

"So you're really going to do it. You're really going to stay."

"I'm going to try." I looked up at him. "I don't know how to be Allie yet. I don't know how to be a woman, or how to walk into a lecture hall and have everyone look at me like I'm—" I gestured at myself, at the curves and the softness. "This. But I'm not going to let it stop me. I didn't survive this thing just to hide from it."

Mac grinned, that familiar, crooked grin that made his whole face light up. "That's my aerospace whiz. All brains, no quit."

"Shut up." I shoved him, but I was smiling too. "I need to get dressed. Figure out what I'm going to wear to the registrar's office that doesn't scream 'I just got transformed by a sex virus.'"

He looked me over, the flannel hanging off my shoulders, the mess of my hair. "Honestly? You look like you just rolled out of bed after a very good night." He winked. "Which, technically, you did."

"Mac."

"What? I'm being supportive."

I rolled my eyes, but the warmth in my chest was real. I grabbed a pair of his sweatpants from the floor, rolled the waistband until they fit, and pulled on one of his old MIT hoodies. The sleeves swallowed my hands. The whole outfit drowned me, but it was soft and it smelled like him, and right now that was enough.

"You look like you're going to a pajama party," he observed.

"I look like I'm going to survive a crisis." I pulled the hood up over my hair. "There's a difference."

He laughed, and for a moment we were just us again—two idiots in a dorm room, the world outside waiting to be faced. Then he sobered, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face.

"You've got this," he said. "Whatever happens today, whatever the registrar says, whatever the police find—you've got this. And I've got you."

I looked at him, this boy who'd known me as Avery and stayed when I became Allie, who'd carried me up three flights of stairs and made me eggs and told me he wanted me before any of this happened. I didn't know what I'd done to deserve him. I didn't know if I'd ever be able to repay him.

But I was going to try.

"Okay," I said. "Let's go."

Mac grabbed his keys from the nightstand, then paused, looking at me with that familiar, assessing gaze. "You sure you don't want me to come in with you?"

"I think I need to do this one alone." I tugged the hood lower over my face. "The registrar's going to have questions. I'd rather not have an audience for the part where I explain why my legal name doesn't match my face."

"Fair." He stepped closer, and before I could brace myself, he kissed me—quick, warm, his hand on the side of my jaw. "Text me when you're done. I'll be in the library pretending to study."

"You mean actually studying."

"Don't ruin my reputation." He grinned and was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

The walk across campus felt like running a gauntlet. Every pair of eyes that landed on me made my skin prickle. A group of guys on the steps of the student center watched me pass, and one of them whistled. I kept my head down and my hands in the kangaroo pouch of the hoodie, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

The registrar's office was a fluorescent-lit cave of filing cabinets and tired-looking staff. A woman with gray-streaked hair and reading glasses perched on her nose looked up as I approached the counter.

"Can I help you?"

"I need to update my records." I pulled Dr. Hart's letter from my pocket, unfolded it, and slid it across the counter. "My name and—and my gender marker."

She took the letter, read it, then read it again. Her eyes moved from the page to my face and back. "This is from the CDC?"

"Yes. I have a medical condition that requires—" I swallowed. "It's all in the letter."

She studied me for a long moment—the borrowed hoodie, the mess of hair, the way I was gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing holding me up. Then her expression softened, just slightly. "Let me pull up your file, Mr.—" She glanced at the letter. "Ms. Chen."

The correction stung, but I forced a smile. "Thank you."

It took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of form after form, of the woman's fingers clicking away at a keyboard, of me answering questions I'd never imagined having to answer. *Date of birth. Preferred name. Emergency contact.* I put Mac's name and number down without hesitating.

"Your ID will take a few weeks to process," she said, handing me a temporary card with my new name on it. ALLIE CHEN. The letters felt foreign and right at the same time. "Your access to campus systems should update within forty-eight hours. If there are any issues, call this number."

I took the card, ran my thumb over the embossed letters. "That's it?"

"That's it." She smiled, the first real smile she'd given me. "Welcome to MIT, Ms. Chen."

I walked out of the building into the gray afternoon light, the temporary ID burning a hole in my pocket. I'd done it. I was still enrolled. Still a student. Still—somehow—me.

My phone buzzed. A text from Mac: *How'd it go?*

I typed back: *I'm still a student. Allie Chen, aerospace engineering, class of—* I paused, calculating. *—the same year as me. I'll tell you all about it over dinner.*

*Dinner it is. Proud of you, whiz.*

The warmth in my chest was real, steady. I tucked the phone away and looked out across the quad, at the students streaming between buildings, at the late-afternoon sun breaking through the clouds. I didn't know what came next. I didn't know how to be Allie in this world, in this body, in this life that I'd fought so hard to build.

But I was still here. Still standing. Still fighting.

And for the first time since I'd woken up in this body, I thought maybe—just maybe—I was going to be okay.

Dinner was Mac's idea. Some hole-in-the-wall Thai place off Mass Ave that he swore had the best pad see ew in the city, and he was right, and it was good, and I barely tasted any of it. Because all through the meal, through the noodles and the laughter and the way his knee kept brushing mine under the table, there was this hum under my skin. This low, constant thrum that had been building since we left the dorm room.

I thought it was just the excitement of the day. The registrar, the new ID, the fact that I'd walked across campus and survived. But by the time we were walking back through the cold evening air, my hand in his, I couldn't pretend anymore.

It wasn't excitement. It was hunger.

Not for food. I'd eaten. It was a different kind of hunger, one that had been gnawing at me since the morning, since Mac's hands had been on me, since I'd felt him inside me. And now, walking beside him in the dark, his thumb tracing circles on my knuckles, I could feel the heat pooling low in my belly all over again.

"You're quiet," Mac said, glancing over at me.

"Just thinking."

"About what?"

"About how I want you to fuck me again." The words came out before I could stop them, blunt and raw, and I felt my cheeks burn even as the hunger in my stomach sharpened. "Sorry. I don't know where that came from."

Mac stopped walking. Turned to face me, his brown eyes dark in the streetlight. "You don't have to apologize for that."

"It's just—" I shook my head, trying to find the words. "I can't stop thinking about it. About you. About how it felt. It's like my body is—" I gestured vaguely at myself. "It's like it's starving."

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he reached out and pulled me into the shadow of a closed bookstore, his back against the brick, his hands settling on my waist. "Then let's feed you."

His mouth found mine, and the hunger roared to life. I pressed into him, my hands fisting in his flannel, and I could feel him hard against my thigh through his jeans. The street was empty, the city humming around us, and I didn't care. I wanted him right there, against the wall, in the dark—

He broke the kiss first, breathing hard. "Not here." His voice was rough. "Let's get home. I want to take my time with you."

The walk back to the dorm was a blur. I don't remember the streets or the cold or the way my feet found the pavement. I just remember the heat of his hand in mine, the way he kept looking at me, the promise in his eyes. And the hunger, coiling tighter and tighter in my belly, until I thought I might burn from the inside out.

The room was dark when we got in, the only light from the streetlamp outside the window. Mac locked the door behind us, and I heard the click of the deadbolt, and then his hands were on me, pulling at the borrowed hoodie, finding skin beneath.

"Mac—" I started, but he kissed me quiet, his tongue sliding against mine, and I felt his hands work the hoodie up over my head. The cold air hit my bare skin, and I shivered, but his mouth was hot on my neck, his hands on my breasts, and the shiver turned into something else entirely.

"I want to taste you," he said against my skin, his hands sliding down my sides, over the curve of my hips. "I want to be inside your mouth."

And the hunger surged, so sharp it stole my breath. "Yes." My voice came out wrecked. "Yes, please."

He pulled back, looking at me, and something in his face shifted—softer, hungrier. He reached for the button of his jeans, undid it, and pushed them down just enough to free his cock. It was already hard, thick, the head flushed dark, and I watched it rise toward me with a pulse of want that made my mouth water.

"Allie." His hand came up to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. "You don't have to—"

"I want to." I dropped to my knees on the worn carpet, the roughness of it biting into my shins. "I've been thinking about this all day. About how you taste. About how it would feel to have you in my mouth."

He groaned, his head falling back. "Fuck, Allie. You can't just say things like that."

"Why not?" I wrapped my hand around the base of his cock, feeling the heat of him, the weight. "It's true. I want to swallow every drop of you."

I leaned in and took him into my mouth.

He was salty on my tongue, warm and thick, and I had to stretch to take him, my jaw already aching. But the ache was good. The ache was everything I'd been craving. I closed my eyes and focused on the feel of him, the texture of his skin against my lips, the way his breath hitched when I moved.

"Oh, fuck." His hand tightened in my hair. "Allie. Your mouth. Jesus."

I pulled back, just enough to look up at him, my lips slick and swollen. "You like it?"

"I love it. I love—" He stopped, swallowed. "I love watching you like this. On your knees for me."

The words sent a thrill through me, and I took him deeper, my throat opening for him, and I heard the sound he made—low and guttural, almost pained. I wanted to make him make that sound again. I wanted to make him fall apart.

I learned him with my mouth. The way he filled me, the way his hips twitched when I found a spot he liked, the way his breath stuttered when I hummed around him. I took him as deep as I could, my nose brushing the coarse hair at his base, and I held there, breathing through it, until my eyes watered.

"Easy," he gasped, his hands gentle in my hair, not pushing, just holding. "Easy, baby. You don't have to—"

But I wanted to. I pulled back, gasping for air, and looked up at him. "I want to swallow you." My voice was hoarse. "I want to feel you come down my throat."

His eyes went dark. "Allie—"

"Please." I wrapped my hand around him again, stroking slow, feeling the heat of him. "I need it. I need to taste you."

He didn't answer with words. He just guided me back down, his hand gentle on the back of my head, and I took him again, deeper this time, my throat stretching to accommodate him. I felt him hit the back of my throat, felt the involuntary gag reflex rise, and I pushed through it, breathing through my nose, taking him deeper still.

"That's it," he groaned. "Fuck, Allie. That's so good. You're so good for me."

I was drowning in him, in the taste and the smell and the feel, and I didn't want to surface. I bobbed my head, finding a rhythm, my hand working the base of him in time with my mouth. I could feel him swelling, could feel the tension building in his hips, and I knew he was close.

"I'm gonna come," he warned, his voice strained. "Allie, I'm gonna—you don't have to—"

I looked up at him, held his gaze, and took him all the way down my throat.

He came with a sound that was almost a sob, his hips jerking, and I felt him pulse against my tongue, hot and thick, flooding my mouth. I swallowed around him, and swallowed again, and I felt him twitch with every constriction of my throat. I held him there until he was spent, until his hand fell away from my head and he sagged against the wall, breathing hard.

I pulled off him slowly, my lips swollen, my chin slick. "There," I said, my voice rough. "That's what I needed."

He looked down at me, his eyes dark and dazed, and then he laughed—low and disbelieving. "You're going to kill me."

"Maybe." I pushed myself to my feet, my knees aching, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "But what a way to go."

He caught me, his arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me against him. "I love you." The words came out rough, raw, like they'd been torn from him. "I know it's fast. I know everything's insane. But I love you, Allie. I've loved you since before I knew your name."

I went still in his arms. The words echoed in my chest, settling into a place I hadn't known was empty. "Mac—"

"You don't have to say it back." His hand came up to cup my face, his thumb tracing the curve of my cheek. "I just needed you to know. Whatever happens with this—" he gestured vaguely, at the body, at the virus, at everything— "I'm in. I'm all in."

I kissed him, slow and trembling, my heart pounding against my ribs. I didn't have the words yet. But I could feel them, building like a tide, waiting to break.

Later, after we'd cleaned up and Mac had fallen asleep with his arm thrown across my waist, I lay awake in the dark. The hunger was banked, for now, but I could feel it still humming beneath my skin, waiting. It was more than it had been before. More than it should have been.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand. The screen glowed to life, casting a pale light across the room. I opened my texts and found Dr. Hart's number, still there, still waiting.

My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. I didn't know how to ask. I didn't know how to say: *I think my libido is a symptom. I think the virus is making me want him more than I should. I think I'm losing control.*

But I had to ask. I had to know.

I typed: *Dr. Hart, this is Allie Chen. I have a question about the virus. Is increased libido a known symptom? I'm asking because I think I might be experiencing something like that. I feel like I can't stop thinking about sex. Like my body is demanding it. Is this normal? Is it going to get worse?*

I hit send before I could second-guess myself. The message whooshed into the dark, and I stared at the screen, waiting for a response that didn't come.

Beside me, Mac shifted in his sleep, pulling me closer. I let the warmth of him seep into me, let the steady rhythm of his breathing slow my own. The hunger was still there, coiled in my belly, waiting for the next time his hands found me.

But for now, it was quiet. For now, I could breathe.

My phone buzzed. A reply.

*Allie. Yes, increased libido is a documented symptom of the Bimbo Virus, even in lucid cases. The physical changes often come with heightened sexual responsiveness and drive. It can be managed with medication if it becomes disruptive, but it is not dangerous. I'll send you more information in the morning. In the meantime, try not to worry. You're not alone in this.*

I read the message twice, then a third time. The words settled into me, heavy and strange. Not dangerous. Manageable. But the hunger I'd felt today—the way I'd dropped to my knees without a second thought, the way I'd taken him into my throat like I'd been born for it—that didn't feel like a symptom. It felt like me.

Or maybe that was the point. Maybe the virus didn't just change the body. Maybe it changed what the body wanted. And maybe I was okay with that.

I set the phone down and turned into Mac's warmth, pressing my face into the curve of his shoulder. He murmured something in his sleep, his arm tightening around me, and I let myself close my eyes.

The hunger was still there, humming beneath my skin. But it could wait until morning.

For now, this was enough.