The phone ripped through the dark like a siren. My eyes snapped open, heart hammering, and for one sick second I was back in that bathroom, Trixie's smile curling in the fluorescent light. Then Mac's arm tightened across my waist, pulling me back into the warm cage of his body, and the world reassembled itself — bed, sheets, the faint smell of sex still hanging in the air.

"Fuck," he muttered, voice gravel. "Who the hell—"

I reached for the nightstand, my hand shaking, and caught the phone on the third ring. "Hello?" My voice came out thin, still half-asleep.

"Is this Allie Chen?" A woman's voice, clipped, official. "This is Officer Reyes with the Cambridge PD. We're calling about your report on the woman who—"

"Trixie." The name was ash in my mouth. "Did you find her?"

A pause. Papers shuffling. "We picked up a trail, but we haven't located her yet. However, we do have three women in holding who match the profile of recent Bimbo Virus cases. We need you to come in and confirm whether you recognize any of them."

Three. The word landed like a punch to the sternum. Three more. Trixie had been busy.

"I'll be there," I said. "Twenty minutes."

I hung up and stared at the ceiling, the weight of Mac's arm suddenly unbearable. He was propped on one elbow now, brown eyes bleary, curls a disaster. "What's going on?"

"They found victims. Three of them. They want me to ID them."

His face went through a whole conversation in three seconds — worry, anger, then something harder. "I'm coming with you."

"Mac, you don't have to—"

"Not negotiating, Chen." He was already swinging out of bed, naked and unselfconscious, the way he'd gotten since everything changed. "You're not walking into a police station alone after what that bitch did to you."

I didn't argue. I didn't want to.

The apartment was a disaster — clothes everywhere, the good half of my red dress hanging off the closet door where I'd thrown it last night. I'd meant to wash it, meant to have something clean, but the hunger had eaten every thought that didn't have Mac's name on it. So I pulled yesterday's red dress over my head, the silk sliding down my curves like water, and I felt the fabric cling to every place the virus had made me.

No shower. No time. My hair was a mess, my makeup was gone, and I looked like exactly what I was — a woman who'd spent the night getting fucked and hadn't bothered to clean up.

Mac caught my eye in the mirror and something flickered in his. "Jesus, Allie."

"What?"

"Nothing. Just — you look..." He shook his head, yanking a shirt over his shoulders. "Never mind. Let's go."

I grabbed my purse — the little clutch I'd bought at the mall, barely big enough for a phone and lipstick — and followed him out into the cold Cambridge morning.

The precinct was a squat brick building that smelled like burnt coffee and desperation. Officer Reyes met us at the front desk, a woman with iron-gray hair and eyes that had seen too much. She looked at me the way everyone looked at me now — a beat too long, a flicker of something between pity and suspicion.

"Ms. Chen," she said, and her gaze dropped to my cleavage before she caught herself. "Thank you for coming in. The women are in holding. We're trying to get them processed, but..." She trailed off, and I heard it — the sound that had been bleeding through the walls since we walked in.

Giggling. High and breathy and wrong.

"They're like that," Reyes said, reading my face. "All three of them. Can't stop laughing, can't stop touching." She looked at me again, that same flicker. "You said in your report that you — that you were exposed."

"I was." I kept my voice level. "I got lucky."

Reyes nodded slowly, like she wasn't sure she believed me, and led us back toward the holding room.

Through the window, I saw them.

Three women, all of them young, all of them built like the virus had drawn them from the same wet dream. Huge breasts, narrow waists, hips that swayed even when they were standing still. One was a brunette with a heart-shaped face, one was a redhead with freckles splashed across her nose, and one was blonde — platinum, like Trixie, like me now.

They were giggling. Pawing at the officers like the men were candy and they'd been starved. The blonde had her hand on a cop's thigh, leaning into him, her vacant eyes half-lidded. "C'mon, officerrr," she drawled, the word stretching into three syllables. "Don't you wanna have some fun?"

The cop looked uncomfortable, his jaw tight, clearly trying to do his job while a woman with a body like that draped herself over him.

I felt it then. A pulse low in my belly. The hunger, stirring awake.

I watched the blonde's hand slide higher and my cunt clenched, and I wanted — I didn't know what I wanted. Something. Something I couldn't name and didn't want to.

"Allie." Mac's hand found the small of my back, warm and grounding. "You okay?"

"Fine." The lie came easy. "I don't recognize them. She must have found new targets."

"Dr. Hart is here," Reyes said. "She's been on site since we called her. She wants to talk to you before we transport."

Dr. Amelia Hart was exactly where Reyes said she'd be — in the corner of the precinct, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, her dark hair pulled back so tight it looked painful. She was watching the women through the window, her face unreadable, and when she turned to me, her gaze did the same thing everyone's did now.

It dropped to my cleavage first.

Then it rose to my face, and something in her eyes shifted. "Ms. Chen," she said, and her voice was clinical, detached, like she was reading a chart. "You're wearing yesterday's dress."

"It was the only clean thing I had."

"The outfit is another symptom," she said, and the words landed like a slap. "Dressing to be seen. To be desired. It's part of the behavioral package." She paused, and something almost soft flickered across her sharp features. "But as long as your mind stays sharp, you're still you. Remember that."

I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her that I'd chosen this dress because it was clean, not because I wanted anyone to look at me. But the words died in my throat, because she wasn't wrong. I'd felt the pulse when the blonde touched that cop. I'd felt the hunger stir. The dress wasn't just clean — it was red, and it was tight, and I'd worn it because some part of me wanted to be seen.

"I know," I said instead. "I know I'm still me."

Dr. Hart nodded, and I could see her filing that away, another data point in her endless study of the virus. "We need to transport them to the regional lab for full assessment. I could use your help with the loading."

"Anything," I said.

The walk to the van was the longest of my life.

The women came out in a wave of perfume and giggles, their hands everywhere, their words slurred and simple. The brunette was singing something off-key. The redhead kept asking where they were going, then forgetting the answer before anyone could give it. And the blonde — the blonde was watching me with those vacant eyes, a smile playing at the corners of her glossy lips.

"Hey," she said, and her voice was the same breathy drawl as Trixie's. "You're pretty."

"Thanks." My voice came out strangled.

She reached out and grabbed my wrist, her fingers cold and too tight. "Are you one of them now too?"

The question hit me like a truck. One of them. One of the giggling, pawing, empty-eyed things being loaded into a van like cattle.

"No," I said, and my voice was harder than I meant it to be. "I'm not."

The blonde blinked, and for a second — just a second — I thought I saw something behind the vacancy. Something sharp. Then it was gone, and she was giggling again, letting go of my wrist to paw at the orderly who was trying to guide her into the van.

I stood there, frozen, my heart hammering in my chest.

Mac was beside me, his hand on my shoulder, warm and steady. "You okay?"

"Yeah." The lie came easier this time. "Just — she reminded me of someone."

"Trixie?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

Dr. Hart's van was a white panel truck with no markings, the kind that could blend into any parking lot and be forgotten by everyone who saw it. The women were loaded in the back, still giggling, still touching, their voices a chorus of high-pitched nonsense that echoed off the metal walls.

"I need to secure them for transport," Dr. Hart said, already moving toward the back. "Ms. Chen, if you could help me get them strapped in—"

"I'll do it," Mac said. "Allie, you stay here."

But I was already following Dr. Hart, my feet moving before my brain caught up. "No. I want to help."

The back of the van was a mobile lab — medical equipment strapped to the walls, a row of gurneys with restraints. The women were climbing onto them like they were beds, still laughing, still reaching for each other and for anyone who came close.

The blonde grabbed my wrist again, her grip too strong for someone who seemed so empty. "Hey," she whispered, and her breath was hot on my ear. "You look like you need a good time."

"I'm fine." I pulled my hand free, my heart racing. "I'm not—"

"Sure you are." She winked, and there it was again — that flash of something sharp behind the vacancy. Then she giggled and flopped back on the gurney, her arms spread wide like she was offering herself to the ceiling. "You're one of us. I can tell."

The words hit me like a slap. One of us. I opened my mouth to argue, but Dr. Hart was already there, strapping the blonde down with practiced efficiency, her face unreadable.

"Don't listen to them," she said, her voice low. "Their minds are gone. They don't know what they're saying."

I wanted to believe her. I did. But as I watched the blonde's vacant eyes track me across the van, I couldn't shake the feeling that she knew exactly what she was saying.

The women were secured, their giggles fading into soft moans as the sedatives Dr. Hart had given them started to take effect. The van's back doors were still open, the Cambridge morning air cold against my skin, and I was standing there, frozen, when Mac's hand found my waist.

"Allie." His voice was low, rough. "You're shaking."

I looked down at my hands. He was right. They were trembling, my knuckles white where I'd been clenching them.

"I'm fine," I said, for the millionth time that morning.

"Bullshit." He turned me to face him, his brown eyes searching mine. "You've been lying to me all morning, and I've been letting you. But I'm done letting you."

"Mac—"

"What is it?" His hands were on my shoulders, warm and heavy. "What did that blonde say to you?"

"She said I was one of them." The words came out before I could stop them. "She said I was one of them, and I couldn't — I couldn't tell if she was wrong."

His face went through a whole conversation in three seconds — anger, then something softer, then resolve. "You're not them," he said, and his voice was a command. "You're not. You're Allie. You're the smartest person I know. You're the woman who's going to design spacecraft and go to Mars. You're not them."

"But what if—"

"No." He pulled me against him, his arms wrapping around me so tight I could barely breathe. "No what-ifs. I'm not letting you go down that road."

I buried my face in his chest, breathing him in — the warm, familiar smell of him, the steady thump of his heart against my cheek. For a moment, the hunger was quiet. For a moment, I was just Allie, held by the man who loved her.

Then the blonde moaned in the back of the van, a low, hungry sound, and I felt it again — that pulse low in my belly, that clench of my cunt, that desperate, animal wanting.

"Mac," I whispered, and my voice didn't sound like mine. "I need—"

"I know." His hands were already moving, sliding down my back, gripping my ass through the thin silk of the dress. "I know, baby. I've got you."

"Here?" The word came out breathless. "They're right there—"

"They're sedated." He backed me against the metal wall of the van, his body pressing into mine, his cock already hard against my thigh. "And I don't give a fuck who sees. I need to be inside you. I need to remind you who you belong to."

My breath caught. "I'm yours," I said, and the words came out like a prayer. "I'm yours, Mac. I'm—"

He kissed me, hard, his tongue in my mouth, and I tasted the coffee he'd grabbed on the way out, and the hunger roared up to meet him. My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, my legs already spreading, my cunt already wet.

He broke the kiss, gasping, and looked down at me with those brown eyes, dark with want. "Lift your legs, baby."

I did. I wrapped my legs around his waist, the silk of the dress riding up my thighs, and I felt him fumbling with his jeans, felt the heat of his cock against my skin.

"Fuck, Allie," he groaned, and I felt the head of his cock slide against my slick, aching cunt. "You're so fucking wet."

"For you," I gasped. "Always for you. Please, Mac, I need—"

He drove into me in one stroke, and I screamed.

It was too much and not enough, the stretch of him filling me, the heat of him buried deep, the metal wall cold against my back. He was so deep, so thick, and I could feel every inch of him as he started to move, slow and hard, grinding against my clit with every thrust.

"That's it," he growled, his mouth hot against my neck. "Take it. Take all of it."

"Yes," I sobbed, my nails raking down his back. "Yes, yes, yes—"

The van rocked with us, the metal walls groaning, and behind us I could hear the women starting to stir, their moans rising into something hungry and wrong. The blonde was saying something, her voice slurred and desperate, but I couldn't make out the words over the sound of Mac's cock slamming into me, over my own cries, over the wet, filthy sound of how much I wanted him.

"You're not them," he said, his voice a growl in my ear. "You're not them, Allie. You're mine. Say it."

"I'm yours," I gasped. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"

"Louder." He drove into me harder, his hand fisting in my hair, pulling my head back. "Let them hear it. Let them know you're not one of them."

"I'M YOURS!" I screamed, and the words echoed off the metal walls, drowning out the moans of the women behind us. "I'm yours, Mac, I'm yours, please, please—"

"Please what?" His voice was ragged, his rhythm faltering. "Tell me what you need."

"I need you to come inside me." The words tumbled out, desperate, filthy. "I need to feel it. I need to feel you filling me up, marking me, claiming me—"

He groaned, a sound torn from deep in his chest, and drove into me one last time, buried to the hilt. I felt him come — hot, thick, flooding me — and the feel of it tipped me over the edge. My cunt clenched around him, milking him, and I came with his name on my lips, a scream that was almost a prayer.

"Mac. Mac. Mac—"

He held me there, his body shuddering against mine, his forehead pressed to my shoulder. The van was quiet now, the women's moans faded to soft, drugged murmurs, and all I could hear was our breathing, ragged and raw in the cold morning air.

He pulled out slowly, and I felt the emptiness of it, the loss, the cum already starting to leak down my thigh. He gathered me in his arms, pulling me against his chest, and I buried my face in his neck, breathing him in.

"I've got you," he whispered, his hand stroking my hair. "I've got you, Allie. You're not them. You're not."

And I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe it so badly.

But as Dr. Hart's van pulled out of the precinct lot, carrying three women who had once been people like me, I couldn't shake the feeling that the blonde's words were still echoing in my head.

You're one of us. I can tell.

I closed my eyes and held onto Mac, and I tried to believe that he was right.

Dr. Hart's hand closed on my elbow before I could follow Mac out of the lot. "A moment, Ms. Chen." Her voice was low, pitched for my ears only. "Before you go."

Mac was already a few paces ahead, turning back with a question on his face. I waved him off. "Give me a minute."

He hesitated, then nodded and leaned against the brick wall of the precinct, arms crossed, close enough to see but far enough to pretend he wasn't watching.

Dr. Hart led me to the side of the building, out of the morning wind. Her coffee cup was still in her hand, the liquid gone cold. Up close, I could see the lines around her eyes, the way her jaw worked when she was deciding what to say.

"I need to ask you something," I said, and my voice came out smaller than I wanted. "Something I should have asked days ago."

She waited. That was all. Just waited, her hazel eyes fixed on mine, patient as a scalpel.

"Can I get pregnant?"

The words hung in the air between us. I watched them land, watched her face do something complicated — calculation, then confirmation, then something almost like pity.

"The virus rewires a great deal of the endocrine system," she said slowly, choosing each word like she was weighing it. "But yes. Eventually, it's possible."

The ground shifted under me. I'd been so focused on the hunger, on the body, on the way Mac looked at me — I hadn't let myself think about what this body could actually do. What it was built for.

"We've been active," I said, and the word felt clinical, wrong for what we'd done on that couch, in that bed, against the wall of this very van. "Very active. Since the night I — since the fever broke. I didn't think — I mean, I assumed the virus would —"

"Make you sterile?" Dr. Hart shook her head. "It's the opposite. The virus repurposes the reproductive system. Makes it more efficient, in some ways. Better blood flow, higher hormone sensitivity. The body becomes optimized for conception."

I felt the blood drain from my face. "But I've been taking the stabilizer. You said —"

"The stabilizer renders you non-infectious. It doesn't suppress fertility." She paused, and I saw her weighing something, deciding how much to give me. "It takes time, Ms. Chen. The virus has to fully integrate before the reproductive system becomes fertile. Your body is still settling into its new configuration."

"How long?" My voice was barely a whisper.

"Anywhere from one to six months." She said it like she was reading a weather report, but her eyes were soft. "Depending on the individual. On how quickly the virus finishes its work."

One to six months. I did the math in my head — the days since the bathroom, the nights since Mac. The hunger that never quite went away, the way my body ached for him even when my mind was exhausted.

"We haven't been careful," I said, and the words came out raw. "We haven't used anything. Not once."

Dr. Hart was quiet for a long moment. Then she set down her coffee cup on the windowsill and turned to face me fully, her voice dropping even lower.

"How active, exactly?"

The question should have felt invasive. But there was no judgment in her eyes, just the same clinical intensity she'd had when she strapped the blonde to the gurney. She was gathering data.

"Every day," I said. "Sometimes twice. Three times, if we —" I stopped, my cheeks burning. "The hunger. It's not — I can't always control it."

"I know." She said it simply, without pity. "I've seen it. The libido spike is one of the most consistent symptoms, even in lucid cases."

"So what do I do?" The question came out desperate. "I can't — I'm nineteen. I'm supposed to be designing spacecraft. I can't be —"

"You can't be what? Pregnant?" She shook her head. "Ms. Chen, this is your body now. It will do what it was built to do. The virus doesn't care about your career trajectory."

"But you said it takes time. One to six months." I latched onto the number like a lifeline. "So I have time. I can figure out — we can use protection, we can —"

"You can," she agreed. "But I'd recommend you have that conversation sooner rather than later. The hunger doesn't always leave room for planning."

The truth of that landed like a punch to the sternum. I thought about the couch, about the van, about the way Mac's hands had been on me before I even knew what I wanted. The hunger didn't ask. It just took.

"Does he know?" Dr. Hart asked. "About the fertility?"

I shook my head. "I didn't know myself until just now."

"You should tell him." Her voice was gentler than I'd ever heard it. "He's your anchor, isn't he? The one you said keeps you grounded."

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"Then he deserves to know what he's anchoring you against." She picked up her coffee cup, took a sip of the cold liquid, and grimaced. "And you deserve to make the choice together, with all the facts."

I stood there, frozen, the morning cold seeping through the thin silk of my dress. One to six months. The words echoed in my head, rearranging themselves into a countdown I hadn't asked for.

"There's one more thing," Dr. Hart said, and her voice had shifted back to clinical, which somehow made it worse. "The hunger. The way it drives you toward him."

"What about it?"

"It's not random. The virus doesn't just want sex — it wants reproduction. It will push you toward the partner it's decided is optimal. The one who's most likely to —" she paused, choosing her words carefully, "— to result in conception."

I felt the world tilt. "You're saying the hunger isn't just — it's been steering me toward Mac this whole time?"

"Possibly. Or it's simply responding to the partner you've chosen." She shrugged, a small, tired gesture. "We're still mapping the mechanisms. But the pattern is consistent. The virus is efficient. It doesn't waste energy."

I thought about the way I couldn't keep my hands off him, the way my body ached for him even when I was exhausted, the way the hunger quieted only when he was inside me. I'd thought it was love. Maybe it was. But maybe it was also biology, the virus pulling strings I couldn't see.

"I need to go," I said, my voice hollow. "Mac's waiting."

Dr. Hart nodded, and I saw something flicker in her eyes — not pity, but something close. "Ms. Chen."

I stopped.

"You're one of the lucky ones. You kept your mind. But luck doesn't mean immunity. It means you get to choose." She held my gaze. "Don't waste that."

I wanted to say something, to ask what she meant, but the words wouldn't come. So I just nodded and walked back toward Mac, my legs unsteady beneath me.

He straightened as I approached, his brown eyes searching my face. "Everything okay?"

"Fine." The lie came automatic, then I stopped. I looked at him — the curly hair, the broad shoulders, the way he was already reaching for me like it was instinct — and I felt the weight of what Dr. Hart had said pressing down on me.

"Allie?" His hand found my waist, warm and grounding. "What did she say?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. The words were there, right there, but I couldn't make them come out.

Not yet. Not here, in the cold morning air, with the memory of the blonde's vacant eyes still fresh in my mind.

"Just — checkup stuff," I said. "About the stabilizer. Side effects."

He studied me for a long moment, and I could see him deciding whether to push. Then he nodded, pulling me against his chest. "Okay. Let's get you home."

I buried my face in his shoulder, breathing him in, and I felt the hunger stir low in my belly — warm, insistent, patient.

One to six months. The countdown had already started.

The van door slammed shut and the engine coughed to life, and I sat there in the passenger seat with Dr. Hart's words still rattling around my skull. Mac's hand was on the gear shift, his other hand on the wheel, and he kept glancing over at me like he was waiting for something to crack.

"You're quiet," he said.

"Just tired."

It was true enough. The morning had been a marathon — the precinct, the holding cells, the row of vacant-eyed women who'd looked at me like I was a stranger. And then Dr. Hart, with her cold coffee and her clinical voice, handing me a countdown I hadn't asked for.

Mac didn't push. That was the thing about him — he knew when to let the silence sit. He just drove, one hand on the wheel, his knuckles loose, his jaw relaxed. The morning light caught the curve of his shoulder, and I felt the hunger stir again, that low pulse that never quite went quiet.

I thought about what Dr. Hart had said. *The virus is efficient. It doesn't waste energy.*

I thought about the way my body had known what to do before my mind had caught up. The way I'd reached for him in the dark, the way my hips had rocked against him like they'd been practicing for years. I'd told myself it was love. Maybe it was. But maybe it was also something older than love, something the virus had built into the marrow of my new bones.

The apartment building came into view, and Mac pulled into the parking lot, killing the engine. For a moment neither of us moved. The silence stretched, filled with everything I hadn't said.

"Mac."

He turned to look at me, and I saw the question in his eyes before he could voice it.

"There's something I need to tell you." My voice came out steady, which surprised me. "About what Dr. Hart said."

He waited. That was all. Just waited, the way Dr. Hart had waited, but it was different — his patience was warm, not clinical. It made the words easier.

"I can get pregnant." The words came out flat, like I was reading a textbook. "The virus — it doesn't make me sterile. It does the opposite. It makes my body — optimized, she said. For conception."

I watched his face, looking for the crack. The fear, the panic, the sudden calculation. But all I saw was him processing, his brown eyes steady on mine.

"How long?" he asked.

"One to six months. Until the virus finishes integrating." I swallowed. "We haven't been careful. Not once."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached across the console and took my hand, his fingers warm and sure around mine.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay?" I stared at him. "That's all you have to say?"

"What do you want me to say?" He shrugged, a small, tired gesture. "I knew there was a risk. I knew what we were doing. I just —" He stopped, and I saw something flicker in his eyes, something I couldn't name. "I didn't care. I still don't."

The words hit me in the chest. I felt the tears coming before I could stop them, hot and sudden, and I turned away, pressing my hand to my mouth.

"Hey. Hey." His hand was on my shoulder, turning me back toward him. "Allie. Look at me."

I looked. His face was close, his thumb brushing the tears from my cheek.

"We figure it out together," he said. "That's what we do now. That's what I promised you."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. He pulled me against his chest, and I buried my face in his shirt, breathing him in, feeling the steady thump of his heart under my cheek.

The hunger stirred again, low and warm, but this time it felt different. Less like a command, more like a promise. Less like the virus pulling strings, more like something I'd chosen.

I pulled back, looking at him. His eyes were soft, his hand still on my cheek.

"I love you," I said. "I know the virus — I know it's steering me. But that part is real. That part is mine."

He smiled, that crooked grin that made my chest ache. "I know."

He leaned in and kissed me, soft and slow, and I felt the hunger rise to meet him, but I didn't let it take over. I kissed him back, my hand on his jaw, and when we broke apart, I was breathing hard, but I was still me.

"Let's go inside," I said. "I need to sit down. And I think we need to have a conversation about — about what we're going to do."

He nodded, and we got out of the van, his hand finding mine as we walked toward the building. The morning sun was warm on my skin, and I could feel the future stretching out ahead of us, uncertain and terrifying and somehow, impossibly, full of light.

One to six months. The countdown was still running.

But for the first time, it didn't feel like a deadline.

It felt like a beginning.

The apartment swallowed us whole the moment the door clicked shut. Mac's hand was still on my lower back, a warm brand through the thin silk, and I could feel the conversation pressing up against my ribs like something alive. The kitchen was still a wreck from this morning — two coffee mugs, a plate with toast crumbs, the good half of my red dress draped over the back of a chair like a shed skin.

"Sit down," I said. "Please. I need to — we need to talk about what happens next."

Mac's brow furrowed, but he didn't argue. He lowered himself onto the couch, the springs groaning under his weight, and I watched his hands land on his thighs — palms flat, fingers spread, like he was bracing for impact. I sat down across from him on the coffee table, close enough that our knees almost touched, and I felt the hunger stir in my belly, that low pulse that never quite went quiet.

I ignored it. This was too important to let the virus steer.

"I've been thinking," I said, "about what Dr. Hart told us. About the — about my body being optimized for conception."

Mac nodded slowly. "I figured that was coming."

"We haven't been careful. Not once." I watched his face, looking for the crack, the panic, the sudden retreat. But his brown eyes stayed steady on mine. "And I can't keep pretending that's not a choice we're making every time we — every time the hunger takes over."

"It's not just the hunger," he said, and his voice was quiet, almost careful. "I know you think it's the virus steering me, but it's not. I want you. All of you. I've wanted you since before —" He stopped, his jaw working. "Since before everything changed."

The words landed in my chest like a fist. I'd heard him say it before, but it still hit me every time — that he'd loved me when I was Avery. That he'd loved me before I had this body, before the virus had remade me into something the world couldn't stop staring at.

"Then this is real," I said. "What we're doing. It's not just the virus."

"It's real." He reached out and took my hand, his fingers warm and rough around mine. "It's the most real thing I've ever had."

I squeezed his hand, hard, and I felt the tears prickling behind my eyes. I blinked them back. There was too much to say, and I couldn't afford to fall apart before I said it.

"So if I get pregnant," I said, and the word felt huge in my mouth, "what do we do?"

Mac was quiet for a long moment. I watched him process, his brown eyes going somewhere I couldn't follow, and I felt the weight of the question settling between us like a stone.

"I've thought about it," he said finally. "Lying awake last night, after you fell asleep. I was thinking about what I'd do if — if it happened."

"And?"

"I can't — I can't do the abortion thing." His voice came out raw, scraped. "I know it's not my call, I know it's your body, but I can't — I can't wrap my head around ending a life that didn't ask to exist. That didn't have a choice in any of this." He looked up at me, and there was something naked in his eyes, something I'd never seen before. "It didn't choose to be made. It didn't choose the virus. It didn't choose any of this. And I can't — I can't condemn it for that."

The words hit me in the chest. I'd been bracing for him to panic, to back away, to tell me we'd figure something out that didn't involve a baby. But instead he was sitting here, his hand in mine, telling me he couldn't end a life that hadn't asked to exist.

"I feel the same way," I said, and my voice cracked on the last word. "I've been thinking about it too. And I can't — I can't do it either. It's not — it's not the baby's fault. Any of it."

He nodded, and I saw the tension in his shoulders loosen, just a fraction. "So what do we do?"

"I don't know." The admission came out small. "I don't know what we do. But I know we can't — we can't just pretend it's not going to happen. We have to have a plan."

We sat there in the silence, the hunger pulsing low in my belly, and I felt the weight of everything we weren't saying pressing down on us. The future stretched out ahead of us, uncertain and terrifying, and I didn't know how to bridge the gap between who I was and who I was becoming.

"Adoption," Mac said finally, and the word landed like a stone in still water.

I looked at him. "Adoption?"

"I've been thinking about it. If — if it happens, and we can't —" He stopped, running a hand through his curls. "There are people who can't have kids. People who would give anything for a baby. And we're — we're nineteen. We're in college. We don't have anything to give a child except —" He gestured vaguely, at the apartment, at us. "Except each other."

I felt something twist in my chest. "You think we should give it away?"

"I don't know what I think." His voice was raw. "I'm just — I'm trying to figure out what the right thing is. And I keep coming back to the same place. There are people who would love that baby more than we could. People who are ready for it."

I opened my mouth to argue, and then I stopped. Because I could feel it — the twist in my chest, the ache behind my ribs. The thought of carrying a life inside me, of feeling it grow, of knowing it was a part of me and Mac — and then handing it to a stranger. Letting someone else raise our child.

"I can't," I said, and the words came out before I could stop them. "I can't give it away. I know it's selfish, I know we're not ready, but I can't — I can't carry a baby for nine months and then just — hand it over. I can't."

Mac's eyes met mine, and I saw something flicker in them — relief, maybe, or recognition. "I can't either," he said quietly. "I was trying to be practical. I was trying to think about what's best for the kid. But the thought of — of someone else holding our baby, someone else getting to watch it grow up —" He shook his head. "I can't do it."

The silence stretched between us, filled with everything we'd just admitted. We couldn't abort. We couldn't adopt out. Which meant we were going to keep it. Which meant we were going to be parents.

"We're nineteen," I said, and the words came out hollow. "I'm supposed to be designing spacecraft. You're supposed to be — I don't know — building bridges or whatever mechanical engineers do."

Mac laughed, a short, broken sound. "I was supposed to be doing a lot of things."

"What do we do?" I asked, and my voice was small. "What do we actually do?"

Mac was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached out and took my other hand, so we were sitting there, holding both of each other's hands, like we were about to pray.

"We tell our parents," he said.

The words hit me like a wall. "What?"

"We tell them. All of it. The virus, the — the baby, the fact that we're going to be a family." He held my gaze, steady, unflinching. "They deserve to know. And we're going to need help. We can't do this alone."

I felt the blood drain from my face. "Mac, my parents — they don't even know I'm — they don't know about any of this. They think I'm still Avery. They think I'm a boy who's at MIT studying aerospace engineering."

"I know." His voice was gentle. "But they're going to find out eventually. And I'd rather they hear it from you — from us — than from a phone call that starts with 'your daughter is pregnant.'"

The word — daughter — landed like a punch. I hadn't thought about it that way. I'd been so focused on the body, on the hunger, on Mac, that I hadn't let myself think about what this meant for the people who'd raised me. The people who'd sent a boy to MIT with a full scholarship and dreams of Mars.

"They're going to be so confused," I said, and my voice cracked. "They're going to be so — I don't even know what they're going to be. I don't even know how to explain this to them."

"We'll figure it out together." Mac squeezed my hands. "That's what we do now. That's what I promised you. We figure it out together."

I looked at him — the curly hair, the broad shoulders, the steady brown eyes that had seen me at my worst and stayed anyway — and I felt something settle in my chest. Not the hunger. Something else. Something that felt like faith.

"Okay," I said. "Okay. We tell them."

Mac nodded. "My mom's going to lose her mind. In a good way. She's been asking when I'm going to settle down since I was seventeen."

A laugh escaped me, surprised and wet. "Your mom's been asking you to settle down since you were seventeen?"

"She's traditional. Puerto Rican mom, you know how it is. She wants grandkids." He grinned, and for a second he looked like the Mac I'd met at that party — loud, easy, full of light. "She's going to be thrilled. Probably start knitting a blanket before we even finish explaining."

"My parents are going to be —" I stopped, trying to find the word. "They're going to be something. I don't know what. They're going to be something."

Mac's grin softened. "We'll handle it. Together. That's the deal, right?"

I nodded, and I felt the tears threatening again. "That's the deal."

We sat there for a long moment, holding hands across the coffee table, the morning light slanting through the blinds and catching the dust motes in the air. And I felt the hunger stir, low and warm, but I didn't let it take over. This was bigger than the hunger. This was the future, stretching out ahead of us, uncertain and terrifying and somehow, impossibly, full of light.

"So when do we tell them?" I asked.

Mac's hand tightened around mine. "How fast can you pack?"

"That fast, huh?" I laughed, but there was a nervous edge to it. "We haven't even figured out what we're going to say yet."

"We'll figure it out on the drive." Mac stood, pulling me up with him. "My mom's in Lawrence. Three hours. That's plenty of time to rehearse."

I felt the floor tilt under me. "Your mom first?"

"She's closer. And she's —" He stopped, searching for the word. "She's easier. She's going to cry and hug you and probably feed you three meals before we even get to the explaining part. It'll be good practice for your parents."

Practice. Like this was a presentation I could rehearse until the terror wore off. Like I was about to give a talk on orbital mechanics instead of telling a woman I'd never met that I used to be a boy and I was carrying her future grandchild.

"I don't have anything to wear," I said, and the words came out before I could stop them — a strange, feminine instinct I didn't know I had.

Mac's eyes swept over me — the silk dress, the makeup I'd learned from Maya, the body that still surprised me every time I caught my reflection. "You look perfect. You always look perfect."

"This is a — a red silk dress. It's a going-out dress. I can't meet your mother in a going-out dress."

"My mother's going to love it. She's going to love you." He said it so simply, so sure, like it was a law of physics. "Come on. Pack. We'll stop for coffee on the way."

I stood there for a moment, my bare feet on the cold floor, and I felt the weight of everything pressing down on me. The hunger was there too, that low pulse in my belly, but it was quieter now — drowned out by something bigger, something that felt like fear and hope and a love so fierce it scared me.

I turned and walked to the bedroom, and I heard Mac moving behind me — the clink of his keys, the rustle of him grabbing his jacket. I stood in front of the closet, staring at the clothes I'd bought just days ago — the crop tops, the short skirts, the dresses that left nothing to the imagination. None of it was right for meeting a mother. None of it was right for the girl I used to be.

But I wasn't that girl anymore. I was Allie. And Allie wore what Allie wore.

I pulled out a pair of jeans — the tight ones that made my hips look like they'd been drawn — and a soft sweater that dipped low in the front. It was the most modest thing I owned. I slipped them on, and I caught my reflection in the mirror: the long dark hair, the almond eyes, the full lips that still surprised me every time I saw them. I looked like a girl getting ready to meet her boyfriend's mother. I looked like a girl who belonged in this world.

I grabbed my bag and walked back out. Mac was waiting by the door, his keys in his hand, his flannel shirt already on. He looked at me, and something crossed his face — something soft, almost reverent.

"You ready?" he asked.

I took a breath. "No. But let's go anyway."

The drive to Lawrence was three hours of highway and cornfields, and I spent most of it with my hands in my lap, watching the world blur past the window. Mac talked — about his mom, about his childhood, about the way she'd always known what he was thinking before he said it. I listened, but I was thinking about my own parents. The way my mother's voice had sounded on the phone last week, bright and proud, telling me she'd bragged about me to her mahjong group. The way my father had grunted his approval when I'd gotten the MIT scholarship, the closest thing to a celebration he'd ever shown.

They'd sent a boy to MIT. They were going to meet a daughter.

"We're close," Mac said, and I realized I'd been quiet for a long time. "You okay?"

"I'm terrified," I said, and the words came out honest. "What if she doesn't — what if she can't understand?"

"She will." He reached over and took my hand, his fingers warm and steady around mine. "She's my mom. She's raised me through everything. And she's going to see what I see — a woman who's brave and brilliant and carrying my child. That's all she needs to know."

I squeezed his hand, and I felt the tears threatening again. "I love you," I said, and the words came out small and fierce.

"I love you too." He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it, a soft, warm press. "Now let's go meet my mom."

The house was a modest two-story on a quiet street, with a porch swing and a garden full of marigolds. Mac parked in the driveway, and I sat there for a moment, staring at the front door, feeling my heart hammer against my ribs.

"She's going to cry," Mac said. "Fair warning. She cries at everything."

"Great," I said, and my voice came out thin. "I'll probably cry too. We'll be a mess together."

He laughed, and the sound loosened something in my chest. He got out, came around to my side, and opened the door for me — a small gesture, but it felt huge. I took his hand and stepped out, and the afternoon sun hit my face, warm and golden.

The front door swung open before we reached the porch, and a woman appeared — short, with Mac's curly hair and his warm brown eyes, wearing a floral apron over a bright yellow blouse. She took one look at us, and her face split into a grin so wide it seemed to take up her whole face.

"Marcus!" she cried, and she was already moving toward us, arms outstretched. "You didn't tell me you were coming! And you brought —" She stopped, her eyes landing on me, and I watched her take me in — the long hair, the curves, the way I was holding Mac's hand like it was the only thing keeping me upright. "Oh," she said, and her voice went soft. "Oh, honey. Look at you."

She pulled me into a hug before I could say anything, and I felt the warmth of her — the smell of cooking oil and lavender — and I felt something in my chest crack open. I hugged her back, hard, and I felt her hand pat my back, gentle and sure.

"Come in, come in," she said, pulling back and looking at me with those warm brown eyes. "I just made arroz con pollo. You're going to eat, and then you're going to tell me everything."

Mac looked at me, a grin on his face. "Told you," he said.

I followed them inside, and the door closed behind me, and I felt the future pressing in on all sides — warm and terrifying and full of light.

The kitchen smelled like onions and garlic and something warm that made my stomach turn over. Señora Delgado — Rosa, she'd told me to call her Rosa, as if that were a normal thing to say to a stranger who'd just shown up on her porch holding her son's hand — was bustling around the stove, lifting the lid off a pot and filling the whole room with steam. She talked while she cooked, a stream of Spanish and English mixed together, and I caught maybe half of it. Something about Mac's cousin, something about the price of plantains, something about how thin I was and how I needed to eat.

I sat at the kitchen table with my hands wrapped around a glass of water, watching her move, and I felt the hunger stir low in my belly. Not for food. For Mac. He was leaning against the counter, his arms crossed, watching his mother with an easy affection that made my chest ache. He caught my eye and winked, and I felt the heat rise up my neck.

"So," Rosa said, setting a plate of rice and chicken in front of me with the authority of someone who would not accept a refusal. "You two. How long have you been together?"

Mac opened his mouth, but I got there first. "We need to tell you something." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "About me. About us. About — everything."

Rosa's hands stilled on the pot lid. She looked at me, then at Mac, and I watched her face shift — the warmth still there, but a new alertness underneath it. She set the lid down and pulled out a chair, sitting across from me, her brown eyes fixed on mine.

"Okay," she said. "Tell me."

I looked at Mac. He nodded, a small, encouraging movement, and I felt his hand find my knee under the table, warm and grounding.

"I wasn't always —" I stopped. Started again. "My name was Avery. Avery Chen. I was a boy. I was a boy who went to MIT on a scholarship, who studied aerospace engineering, who wanted to design spacecraft and go to Mars." The words came out in a rush, like if I stopped I'd lose my nerve. "And then I met a woman at a bar. And she — she gave me something. A virus. It's called the Bimbo Virus. It's sexually transmitted, and it — it changes people. It changes their bodies. And their minds."

Rosa's face was very still. She didn't interrupt, didn't gasp, didn't reach for the cross around her neck. She just sat there, her hands folded on the table, and waited.

"Most people who get it," I said, "they lose themselves. Their intelligence, their personality, everything. They become —" I couldn't say it. Couldn't say what I'd seen in that holding cell, those giggling, pawing, empty-eyed women. "But I got lucky. I kept my mind. I kept everything that made me me. But my body —" I gestured at myself, at the curves, the long hair, the narrow waist. "My body changed. It made me this."

The silence stretched. I could hear the clock on the wall, ticking. I could hear my own heart, hammering against my ribs. And I could hear Rosa's breath, slow and even, as she processed what I'd just told her.

"And Marcus?" she said finally. "He knew?"

"He was there." Mac's voice was quiet, careful. "He helped me through it. He's been — he's been everything."

Rosa looked at her son for a long moment. Then she looked back at me, and something in her eyes shifted — not pity, not horror, but something closer to understanding.

"And you love him?" she asked.

The question hit me in the chest. "Yes," I said, and my voice cracked on the word. "More than anything."

"And you, Marcus?" She turned to him. "You love her?"

"Yes, Mami." His voice was steady, sure. "I love her. I've loved her since before — since before everything changed. I love her now. I'll love her always."

Rosa sat back in her chair, and I watched her face go through a whole conversation — the shock, the confusion, the slow dawning of something that looked like acceptance. She reached across the table and took my hand, her fingers warm and rough from a lifetime of cooking and cleaning and loving.

"You're shaking," she said softly.

I looked down. She was right. My hand was trembling in hers, my knuckles white.

"I'm scared," I admitted. "I'm scared you'll look at me and see — see something wrong. See the thing I used to be."

"I don't see a thing wrong," Rosa said, and her voice was firm. "I see a woman who loves my son. I see a woman who was brave enough to tell me the truth, even when it was hard. That's not wrong. That's —" She paused, searching for the word. "That's brave."

I felt the tears coming before I could stop them. I blinked, hard, and one escaped, trailing down my cheek. Rosa reached out and caught it with her thumb, a gesture so gentle it made my chest ache.

"Now," she said, her voice shifting back to business. "There's more, isn't there? You didn't drive three hours just to tell me about a virus."

I looked at Mac. He nodded again, and I felt his hand tighten on my knee.

"There's more," I said. "Dr. Hart — she's the CDC doctor who's been treating me — she told me something this morning. About the virus. About what it does to my body." I took a breath. "It's — it's geared towards reproduction. It makes my body — optimized, she said. For conception. And Mac and I — we haven't been careful. Not once. And she said it's only a matter of time before — before I get pregnant."

Rosa's face went through a whole conversation in three seconds — the shock, the processing, the slow dawning of something I couldn't name. She looked at Mac, then back at me, then at Mac again.

"Pregnant?" she said. "You're going to — you're going to have a baby?"

"Not just one," Mac said, and his voice was quiet, almost reverent. "Dr. Hart said the virus — it makes the body more fertile. More efficient. She said it's likely we'll have —" He paused, searching for the words. "A large family."

The silence that followed was so thick I could have choked on it. Rosa sat there, her hands folded on the table, her eyes fixed on some middle distance I couldn't see. I watched her process, watched the gears turn behind her face, and I felt my heart hammering so hard I was sure she could hear it.

"A large family," she repeated, and her voice was strange — not angry, not scared, but something I couldn't quite place.

"Mami," Mac started, "I know it's a lot. I know it's not what you expected. But we've talked about it, and we — we can't — we can't not have them. We can't end a life that didn't ask to exist. And we can't give them away. They're ours. They're going to be ours, and we're going to love them, and we're going to figure it out."

Rosa was quiet for a long moment. Then she pushed back from the table, stood, and walked to the window that looked out over the garden. She stood there with her back to us, her shoulders rigid, and I felt the tears threatening again.

"Mami," Mac said again, and his voice was raw. "Please. Say something."

She turned. And I saw it — the glint of tears in her eyes, the trembling of her lips. But she was smiling. Smiling like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

"I'm going to be a grandmother," she said, and her voice broke on the word. "I'm going to be a grandmother."

I felt the breath leave my body in a rush. "You're not — you're not angry?"

"Angry?" She crossed the kitchen in three strides and pulled me into a hug so fierce I could barely breathe. "I've been praying for this since Marcus was seventeen. I've been praying for a daughter, for grandchildren, for a house full of noise and love. And now —" She pulled back, her hands on my shoulders, her eyes shining. "Now I get all of it. A daughter. Grandchildren. A large family." She laughed, a wet, joyful sound. "Do you know how long I've waited for this?"

I stared at her, my mouth open, the tears streaming down my face. "But I used to be — I was a boy. I was Avery. I'm not — I'm not what you expected."

"I didn't expect anything," Rosa said, and her voice was fierce. "I expected my son to find someone who loves him. I expected him to find someone he loves. The rest —" She gestured at me, at my body, at everything I was. "The rest is just details. You love my son. He loves you. You're going to give me grandchildren. That's all I ever wanted."

I felt the sobs building in my chest, and I couldn't stop them. I buried my face in her shoulder, breathing in the smell of cooking oil and lavender, and I felt her hand pat my back, gentle and sure.

"There, there," she murmured. "There, there, mija. It's okay. It's all going to be okay."

I cried until I had nothing left, and Rosa held me the whole time, and when I finally pulled back, sniffling, Mac was standing there with a look on his face I'd never seen before — something soft, something reverent, something that made my chest ache.

"I told you," he said, his voice rough. "I told you she'd love you."

"I didn't believe you," I said, and my voice came out watery. "I didn't think anyone could —"

"Anyone can," Rosa said firmly. "Anyone who's not a fool. And I'm not a fool." She turned to Mac, her eyes sharp. "You. Sit. You're going to eat, and then you're going to tell me everything — the virus, the doctor, the babies, all of it. I want to know everything."

Mac grinned, that crooked grin that made my heart skip. "Yes, Mami."

We ate. The arroz con pollo was the best thing I'd ever tasted, or maybe I was just starving for something that felt like home. Rosa asked questions — a hundred of them, maybe a thousand — and we answered them together, Mac's hand finding mine under the table whenever the questions got too hard.

She asked about the virus. I told her about Trixie, about the condom with the hole, about the bathroom in that bar. She asked about Dr. Hart, and I told her about the stabilizer, about the lab, about the other women I'd seen that morning. She asked about the babies, and I told her about the countdown, about the one to six months, about the way the hunger never quite went quiet.

And through all of it, she listened. She didn't flinch. She didn't look away. She just sat there, her hands wrapped around her coffee cup, and took it all in.

"You're brave," she said finally, when the plates were empty and the coffee was cold. "Both of you. Braver than you know."

"I don't feel brave," I admitted. "I feel scared. All the time. I feel like I'm one wrong step away from falling apart."

"That's what brave feels like," Rosa said. "Being scared and doing it anyway. That's the only kind of brave there is."

The afternoon sun was slanting through the kitchen window when she stood and started clearing the plates. I moved to help, but she waved me off. "No, no. You're a guest. Sit. Let me take care of you."

I sat back down, and Mac's hand found mine again, warm and sure. He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. "You okay?"

I nodded, and I felt the truth of it in my chest. "I think I am. For the first time in a long time, I think I am."

He kissed my temple, soft and warm, and I felt the hunger stir — but it was quieter now, gentler, like it knew it didn't have to fight for my attention. I had room for other things. I had room for this.

Rosa came back from the kitchen with a photo album, thick and worn at the edges, and she set it on the table in front of me. "This is Marcus when he was little," she said, flipping it open. "Look at those cheeks. Look at that face."

I looked. A chubby toddler with a shock of black curls, grinning at the camera with a gap-toothed smile. My heart squeezed.

"He was adorable," I said.

"He was a terror," Rosa corrected, but she was smiling. "Climbing everything. Breaking everything. But adorable. Always adorable.”

Mac groaned. "Mami, please. Don't show her the embarrassing ones."

"There are no embarrassing ones," Rosa said. "There's only the truth. And the truth is that you were a beautiful, wild, impossible child, and now you're a beautiful, wild, impossible man, and you've brought me a daughter and a future full of grandchildren." She reached across the table and took my hand, her eyes shining. "I couldn't ask for anything more."

I felt the tears threatening again, and I blinked them back. "I don't know what I did to deserve this," I said. "To deserve any of this."

"You loved my son," Rosa said simply. "That's enough. That's everything."

The light was fading to gold when the conversation finally wound down. Mac's hand was heavy on my shoulder, his thumb tracing lazy circles on my collarbone, and I felt the hunger stirring again — but it was different now. Softer. Like it knew it had all the time in the world.

"You two should stay the night," Rosa said, already moving toward the hallway. "The guest room's made up. You can drive back in the morning."

Mac looked at me, a question in his eyes. I nodded, and I felt the relief wash over his face.

"Thanks, Mami," he said.

"Thank me by giving me grandchildren," she called over her shoulder, and I heard the laughter in her voice. "Lots of them. A whole house full."

The guest room was small and warm, with a quilt on the bed that smelled like lavender and a window that looked out over the garden. I stood in the middle of it, my hands at my sides, and I felt the weight of the day pressing down on me — the precinct, the holding cells, the van, the conversation, the future.

Mac closed the door behind us, and I heard the click of the lock. He crossed the room and took my face in his hands, his brown eyes searching mine.

"You did good today," he said. "You were so brave."

"I was terrified," I said. "The whole time. I was terrified she'd look at me and see —"

"She saw you," Mac said. "She saw exactly who you are. That's all that matters."

His thumbs traced my cheekbones, and I leaned into his touch, letting myself be held by the weight of his hands. The room was quiet except for the distant sound of Rosa humming in the kitchen, running water, the clink of dishes. I could smell lavender from the quilt and the faint musk of Mac's skin, and underneath it all, the smell of the garden through the open window — earth and cut grass and something sweet.

"You want to know the worst part?" I said. "I spent the whole drive here convinced she'd take one look at me and know. That she'd see some — some imposter. Some boy wearing a girl's skin."

"And instead she showed you baby pictures."

I laughed, a wet, surprised sound. "She showed me baby pictures. She fed me arroz con pollo. She hugged me like I was already her daughter."

"You are," Mac said. "Already. She's not the kind of woman who does things halfway. She decided the second you walked in holding my hand."

I thought about that. About the way Rosa had looked at me across the kitchen table, the way she'd listened without flinching, the way she'd said *you're brave* like it was a fact, like it was something she'd known all along.

"She asked about the babies," I said. "She asked about the countdown. She didn't — she didn't flinch. She just —" I shook my head. "I don't understand how she can be so calm about it. I've had weeks to get used to the idea, and I still wake up some mornings and forget, and then I look down and —"

"And you're you," Mac finished. "And that's terrifying and wonderful and you don't know which one to feel."

"Yes." The word came out small. "That's exactly it."

I stood there in the middle of that lavender-scented room with his hands on my face and his eyes searching mine, and I felt something crack open in my chest. Not the hunger — that was still there, humming its low and patient song — but something else. Something that had been wound tight since the moment I'd woken up in this body, since the moment I'd looked in the mirror and seen a stranger looking back.

"I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop," I said. "All day. In the car. At the precinct. Watching her flip through those baby pictures. I kept waiting for her to realize she'd made a mistake. That she'd welcomed a lie into her house."

"She didn't make a mistake." His thumbs traced the hollows under my eyes, gentle, insistent. "She saw you. The real you. And she chose you anyway."

"But that's the thing," I said, and my voice came out thin. "I don't know if I know who the real me is anymore. I was Avery for nineteen years. I knew exactly who that was. I knew what he wanted, what he was afraid of, what he was working toward. And then one night in a bar bathroom, and now I'm —" I gestured at myself, at the body that still surprised me every time I caught my reflection. "I'm this. And I don't know if I'm Allie who used to be Avery, or Avery who's pretending to be Allie, or some third thing that hasn't figured itself out yet."

Mac was quiet for a moment. Then he took my hand and led me to the edge of the bed, sitting down and pulling me beside him. The quilt rustled under us, that lavender smell rising up, and through the window the garden was going soft and blue in the dusk.

"Can I tell you something?" he said. "Something I've never told anyone?"

I nodded, my throat tight.

"When I was fifteen," he said, "I thought I was broken. I didn't know why. I just knew that every time I looked at the other guys in my class, I felt like I was on the outside of something. Like everyone else had been handed a script and I'd been given a different one. I didn't have words for it then. I just knew I felt wrong in my own skin, and I thought that meant something was wrong with me."

He paused, his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand. "I figured it out eventually. It wasn't about being broken. It was about being different, and not having the words yet. But I remember what it felt like — that feeling of waking up every day in a body that didn't quite fit, a life that didn't quite fit, and not knowing if it would ever get better."

He looked at me, and his eyes were steady. "So when I say I see you, Allie — I mean it. I know what it's like to feel like you're wearing a skin that doesn't belong to you. I know what it's like to wonder if the person you're becoming is someone you'd recognize. And I know that it gets better. Not because the feeling goes away, but because you find people who see the real you underneath it. People who love you for who you are, not who you used to be."

The tears came then, hot and sudden, and I couldn't stop them. I buried my face in his shoulder and let myself be held, his arms wrapping around me, his hand cradling the back of my head.

"I love you," I said into his shirt, my voice muffled and wet. "I love you so much it scares me."

"I know," he said, and there was a smile in his voice. "I love you too. And it scares me too. But that's okay. We can be scared together."

I laughed, a watery, broken sound, and pulled back to look at him. His face was soft in the dim light, his eyes shining, and I felt the hunger stir again — but it was different now. It wasn't the desperate, clawing thing that had driven me to ruin a dress on his living room floor. It was something quieter. Something that knew it could wait.

We stayed like that for a long moment, his hands on my face, my hands on his wrists, the sound of Rosa's humming drifting through the walls. And then I heard it — a soft knock at the door, and Rosa's voice, muffled through the wood.

"Marcus? Mija? I made tea. There's a pot in the kitchen if you want it."

Mac looked at me, a question in his eyes. I nodded, and he called out, "Thanks, Mami. We'll be out in a minute."

We heard her footsteps retreating down the hall, and Mac let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "She's going to be insufferable about this, you know. The grandchildren thing. She's probably already planning the nursery."

"Let her plan," I said, and the words surprised me even as I said them. "Let her plan a whole house full. It's —" I paused, feeling the shape of the words in my mouth. "It's nice. To have someone who's excited about the future. Who isn't scared of it."

Mac's eyes softened. "You're not scared?"

"I'm terrified," I said. "But I'm also — I don't know. Hopeful? For the first time since this started, I feel like I can see a version of the future that isn't just — just surviving. And it's because of her. Because of you. Because of this." I gestured at the room, at the house, at everything that had happened in the last few hours.

He kissed me then, soft and slow, his lips warm against mine. And I felt the hunger rise — but I let it. I let it wash over me, let it fill me, because for the first time it didn't feel like something that was going to consume me. It felt like something I could hold. Something I could share.