Aimless Wish part 1 of 2

Aimless Wish
by Varian Milagro

This story was created with the assistance of AI. All the characters, dialog, plot and settings are mine. ChatGPT took my series of long, very detailed, rambling, stream of conscousness prompts and formatted them into something coherent and added bits of sensory detail. I also used AI to create the illustrations.

Part 1

The college library was nearly silent, hushed under the pale hum of fluorescent lights. Somewhere nearby, a printer buzzed halfheartedly. In the back corner, Chase and Riley sat together at one of the computer stations, the kind with slow processors and smudged screens. It was the kind of outdated setup that smelled faintly of disinfectant and quiet desperation.

They were hunting for something they couldn’t quite name—a fix, a shortcut, a miracle. Something that could solve problems they were tired of carrying.

Riley typed slowly, her nails clicking against the plastic keys as she searched variations of “life change spells” and “real magic that really works.” Each result led to more disappointment. Pseudoscience blogs. Clickbait crystal shops. New Age manifesting guides filled with smiling women and vague advice. Even the sketchier sites, the ones that looked promising, failed to load past their landing page.

Chase sat slouched next to her, arms folded, his foot bouncing restlessly beneath the desk. He hadn’t said much at first, but his posture spoke volumes. The last few years had worn down the casual confidence he once had. Every new filter notification on the screen chipped away at his patience.

His thoughts wandered. Mostly to Logan.

His older brother had always been the model: straight A’s, athletic, charming, effortlessly impressive. Their mother, Amy, had practically sculpted Logan out of praise and admiration, then looked at Chase like he was the discarded clay. He could still hear her voice when he dropped out of community college: “You’ll never get anywhere at this rate. Be more like your brother.”

And he wasn’t. He worked at a pizza place no one liked for minimum wage. He lived at home in the same bedroom that he used to share with his brother. He was twenty-one and could barely remember the last time his mom looked at him without disappointment.

Next to him, Riley sat with one leg curled beneath her. Her hair—long, unbrushed, and somehow always perfect—fell over her shoulder as she squinted at the screen. Her sweater sleeves covered her hands as she scrolled.

Chase glanced over at her, seeing more than just her expression. Riley had her own burdens, quieter ones. She had lost her mom years ago, and even though she never talked about it much, the absence lingered in her like an open window in winter. She had been close with her mother, forming the kind of bond Chase had never known. After she died, Riley drifted through high school in a haze of grief. Now, in her third year of college, she was still only taking one class at a time, with no clear direction or purpose.

Her father, Mitchell, had understood. He didn’t pressure her. He didn’t need to—he had enough money to support them both ten times over. But then Deborah entered the picture.

Deborah—expensive, beautiful, and calculating. She had a way of taking over space in a room, and now in Mitchell’s life. Riley saw her father changing under Deborah’s influence: fancier clothes, luxury cars, an entirely new aesthetic. Deborah had turned the warmth of their home into something colder, curated. And lately, she’d been pushing Riley to “get serious,” whispering in Mitchell’s ear about responsibility and adulthood.

Riley wasn’t afraid of Deborah taking her dad’s money. She was afraid of her taking his heart.

The search engine loaded another page of useless links.

Riley sighed, resting her forehead on her hand. “We’re not gonna find anything here,” she muttered.

Chase didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t sure there was anything out there that could fix how broken things felt—how stuck he was in Logan’s shadow, how Riley seemed to be losing the only parent she had left to a woman who saw her as excess baggage.

But deep down, he still hoped.

She stood, gathered her things and started to leave. She turned around. "Are you coming?" 

He stood up and said, "Yeah," and then hurried to join her.

Ten days later, Chase was at Riley’s house for dinner, along with his mom and brother. Riley’s soon-to-be stepmom had decided she wanted to start hosting dinner parties, and his family was part of the trial run. She’d gone all out, hiring a private chef to prepare a special meal. The dining room had been transformed into a lavish showcase of wealth—everything gleamed, from the crystal goblets catching the warm glow of the recently installed chandelier to the polished silverware. Deborah had arranged it all with meticulous care.

Chase felt like a clown at a masquerade ball.

He’d put on the nicest outfit he owned: black jeans (only a little frayed at the knee), a vintage graphic tee under an open button-down shirt, and a pair of Converse that had once been white. The shirt was his concession to his mother’s texts: “Please don’t embarrass me, Chase. Just look nice. Logan will be in a tie.” But Chase didn’t own a tie. He wouldn’t wear one if he did.

At least Riley hadn’t dressed up. She sat beside him at the long table, nestled into an oversized forest green sweater, her hair cascading in a tousled tangle down her back like early autumn leaves. Her yoga pants hugged her legs, and though she looked like she’d just rolled out of bed, Chase couldn’t help but think she looked adorably cute.

Across from them, Logan sat upright and polished in his navy blue blazer and team tie. His blond hair was gelled neatly in place, and his broad-shouldered posture made the tailored jacket look like a natural extension of his body. Amy sat beside him, wearing a modest yet elegant wine-colored blouse with a string of fake pearls that she hoped looked real enough. Her smile was tired, but earnest.

Deborah, perfectly perched at the head of the table, was dressed in head-to-toe designer labels—Chanel, Cartier, Louboutin. Her makeup was pristine, her blonde waves sculpted to a shine, her lips glossed with something that likely cost more than Chase made in a week at Pizza Haven.

Mitchell looked like a man dressed by someone else—which, of course, he was. His gold cufflinks gleamed as he sipped his wine, offering the occasional laugh or nod, careful not to rock the boat between the two women controlling opposite ends of it.

The meal was extravagant. The lobster bisque was poured with ceremony. The salad featured a poached quail egg the size of an eyeball and bacon that Deborah called “lardons,” which made Chase smirk every time someone said it. Then came the Beef Wellington—served on fine porcelain, tender and rich, smelling like browned butter, rosemary, and something deeply savory, like heaven wrapped in pastry.

Between bites, the dinner conversation twisted and turned with the grace of a snake.

“Logan just wrapped up finals. Straight A’s again,” Amy said, voice syrupy with pride. “Dean’s List for the seventh semester in a row.”

“Wow,” Deborah drawled, dabbing her mouth with a linen napkin. “That’s just amazing, Logan. You must be exhausted from all that excellence. Riley, sweetie, what’s your GPA right now?”

Riley didn’t miss a beat. “I don't know, probably somewhere between zero and four.”

Chase choked back a laugh.

Deborah tilted her head. “Oh, I see. Still finding your direction. That’s... cute.”

Amy chuckled politely, not realizing—or pretending not to—that her son’s girlfriend was under fire. “Well, I just think young people need to take things seriously. The world doesn’t hand out rewards for just showing up.”

Chase took a sip of his water, eyes narrowing. “Sometimes it hands out second chances. Or doesn’t. Depending who you ask.”

Amy’s smile didn’t falter. “Speaking of which, Chase, have you thought any more about going back to school? Maybe not something academic, but trade schools are very respectable.”

“That's a good idea. You can land a decent job that way,” Deborah said sweetly. “I’m sure Riley will be getting a job soon too.”

Riley stiffened. “I am?”

“Your father and I have been discussing it,” Deborah said. “It’s important for young adults to contribute.”

Amy sipped her wine. “Hopefully something better than minimum wage at a pizza parlor.”

Chase went silent.

Logan cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable.

Riley reached over and laced her fingers with Chase’s under the table. Her thumb traced slow, comforting circles on the back of his hand. He didn’t look at her, but he squeezed back.

“Excuse me,” Deborah said suddenly, rising gracefully from her chair. “I need a cigarette before dessert. Amy, join me?”

Amy blinked. “Oh, no thank you. I quit smoking.”

“Pity,” Deborah muttered, already halfway to the veranda, heels clacking like gunshots across the marble.

When the door shut behind her, silence wrapped the table for a moment.

Dessert was an artful masterpiece of spun sugar and imported chocolate, almost too pretty to eat. Afterward, Deborah extended an invitation for another dinner the following week, already planning the next lavish affair. 

"We'd love to have dinner with you again," Amy said, putting down her fork. "But only if you come to our house for dinner on Wednesday."

"I'll count the minutes," Deborah said through her fake smile.

Not long after, Amy and Logan made their polite exit—Amy had work in the morning, and Logan needed to be up early for school. When Mitchell disappeared into his office, mumbling about client emails, Riley took Chase’s hand and led him quietly to her bedroom.

Her bedroom was just as it had always been—warm, cluttered, and deeply lived-in. A massive gaming setup dominated one corner, half-obscured by empty latte cups and a tangle of cords. Posters of obscure anime characters and fantasy role-playing games blanketed the walls. In the desk, a lava lamp gurgled softly, like the slow pulse of a sleepy alien brain.

Riley sat down on her bed, pulling her knees up to her chest. “That sucked.”

Chase sat down next to her, knocking a couple of plushies onto the cluttered floor. “Not as bad as I thought it was going to be, actually.”

A pause. Then:

“I've got a present for you,” Chase said, voice low.

Riley turned toward him, curious. “You're so sweet. What is it?”

“Nothing much, just a magic scroll.” He pulled a long, aged scroll from the inside of his button-down, unrolling it slightly. The parchment looked fragile, the ink handwritten in some looping, impossible language. It smelled faintly of ozone and herbs.

Riley’s eyes lit up. “No way. Where’d you find one?”

“Dark web. Chat room for ‘occult enthusiasts.’” He made air quotes. “Cost me like... more than my last paycheck. They warned me not to use it without knowing the language. Said it could have... unforeseen consequences.”

“Pfft,” Riley scoffed, leaning closer. “They have to say that. Legal crap. ‘Use at your own risk’ or whatever. It’s just to cover their asses. Come on, let’s use it.”

After they read over the instructions, Riley lit a candle with a cheap blue lighter, shielding the flame with her hand as she leaned over the glass jar. The scent of sandalwood incense filled the room, swirling in lazy, hypnotic spirals around her cluttered bookshelf and up to the ceiling. With the overhead lights off, the only illumination came from flickering candlelight and the pulsing glow of her lava lamp. The room felt warmer, older, somehow removed from the rest of the house—as if magic really could happen here.

Chase sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the bed, the scroll stretched across a throw blanket covered in cat hair and snack crumbs. His brow furrowed as he squinted at the looping text, the letters curved and jagged in ways that looked vaguely like Latin, though it was clearly gibberish to him.

“Ready?” he asked, glancing up at Riley.

She grinned. “I was born ready. Let’s make some cosmic shit happen.”

Chase cleared his throat, then read the incantation aloud, his voice hesitant at first, then gaining confidence: “Vetorrum aelenti drashkal ominare… Siventor vakellium nara-frex… Hollarum emantis grollek syrenna…”

Riley joined in with the last few lines, both of them trying not to laugh at how ridiculous it sounded. The syllables echoed strangely in the small room, bouncing off the walls like half-formed thoughts.

Chase looked at Riley. “Now we say what we want, But you gotta be specific. The scroll said to use full names if it involves other people.”

He took a deep breath and began.

“I’m tired of Logan James Reed being Mr. Perfect. Seriously. Everything he does turns to gold. He’s got the grades, the muscles, the scholarships, the football trophies. Mom acts like he farts potpourri.” He glanced at Riley, who smirked. “So… I want him to be the opposite of that.”

“And?” Riley prompted.

“And I want Amy Louise Reed to treat me like an adult. No more thinking she knows better than me, especially when it comes to how I live my life.”

Riley leaned back, stretching her legs out, her oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder. “Okay, my turn.” She tilted her head, hair falling into her face. “I want Deborah Simone Langston out of my dad's life. I wish she would find someone else and not be so obsessed with money and buying things all the time.”

She stared at the candle flame, her tone softening.

“I want Mitchell Everett Bennett to be with someone who truly loves him. Someone beautiful, sure—but someone who gets him. Someone who wants him for who he is, not just for his money. I want her to make him happy.”

They sat in silence, the weight of their desires settling into the air like invisible smoke.

Chase sighed. “I guess that’s it. Kinda anticlimactic.”

“Yeah. No sparkles or booming voices. Probably just some con artist selling ‘magic scrolls’ online.” She flopped onto her back. “Figures.”

Chase rolled his eyes. “I’ll do another search online tomorrow. I'll find something that works.”

Riley turned her head to look at him. “You're really serious about this.”

He stared up at the ceiling. “I have to do something. I hate how my mom thinks Logan is perfect and that everything he does is golden. I want her to think I’m the one who’s impressive. I want her to look at me like I’ve got it all figured out.”

There was a long pause, broken only by the soft hiss of burning incense.

“You’re lucky to have a mom,” Riley said quietly. “I wish I had one.”

Chase turned to her, laid a hand on her shoulder. “I'm sorry, Riley.”

She leaned into him, but then quickly sat bolt upright. “Oh shit.”

“What is it?”

Riley scrunched her face in thought. “Wasn't there something else we were supposed to do, after we say our desires, remember?”

Chase ran a finger along the scrolls as read the instructions to himself. “Oh yeah, you're right. We were supposed to say 'Maketus Havendum'.”

The reaction was immediate.

The scroll ignited in Chase’s hands, flames racing across the parchment with unnatural speed. He yelped and dropped it, but it disintegrated into glowing ash before it touched the floor.

A gust of wind slammed the bedroom windows open with a loud CRACK. Candles flickered violently, shadows dancing in chaos across the walls. The overhead lights flickered on and off in rapid bursts, bathing the room in seizure-like pulses of brightness and darkness.

The lava lamp shattered.

Riley screamed, ducking instinctively, her arm flying up to shield her face. Chase just stared, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

And then it all stopped. Silence. Darkness. Smoke from the consumed scroll hung in the air.

Chase exhaled. “Okay… maybe it wasn’t a dud after all.”

"Woah, are you seeing this?" Riley said, pointing to the corner of her bedroom.

With a faint shimmering sound, like light scraping over glass, the shattered lava lamp slowly reassembled itself. The broken glass shards hovered in midair and reversed their destruction, slotting back into place as the waxy liquid inside settled and glowed. The base gleamed as though freshly unboxed.

Riley gasped and took a step back.

“Holy crap,” Chase breathed. “It’s happening.”

More changes followed, faster now. A stack of glossy magazines materialized out of thin air, their spines snapping into alignment on her desk beside the monitor. She bent slightly to read the titles: Modern Muse, Design Bloom, Home by Her. The top one had a sticky note in her handwriting: “Inspo for summer project”.

A moment later, the corkboard on her wall rippled like the surface of a lake—and a full vision board grew into place. Cut-out Pinterest photos pinned themselves in rapid-fire clicks. Warm fairy lights, minimalist desks, stylish pastel bedrooms, all collaged with aesthetic perfection. Even the lighting in the room seemed to shift, warming just slightly.

“Chase… look.”

Above her bed, a row of succulents blinked into being one after another—tiny ceramic pots, matte and pastel, each leaf flawless.

They turned toward each other—and then the real shock hit.

Chase’s shirt tightened against his chest. He looked down and saw the fabric morphing, the old graphic print dissolving like ink in water. It darkened into a sleek black and hugged his torso more cleanly. The texture became finer, smoother. A tingle ran along his arms.

His jeans softened into lounge pants, the denim dissolving into charcoal cotton. His sneakers flashed white, as if someone hit them with a cleaning spell.

“Riley,” he said, stunned, “I think it’s doing something to us—”

She let out a sharp breath. “Yeah, I feel it.”

Her oversized green sweater pulled inward, cinching slightly at the waist and softening to a delicate mauve. The sleeves neatened, the neckline shifting. Her yoga pants tightened into high-waisted skinny jeans, the seams forming visibly around her thighs. She ran her hands down her sides, not in panic, but awe.

Riley gave a nervous laugh, then looked at the vision board. “This wasn’t part of our wish. It was supposed to be Logan, Amy, Deborah—not us.”

“Maybe it’s adjusting our lives too,” Chase muttered. “So the new reality fits.”

There was a long silence between them. The room was still warm, the candlelight-like glow from her desk lamp lending everything a soft, dreamlike sheen. But the weight of what they’d done was starting to settle in.

They left the bedroom and padded down the stairs to check on the others. The house was quiet, golden lamplight spilling from Mitchell’s study. Inside, Mitchell sat at his desk, surrounded by files, his reading glasses perched on his nose, tapping away on a tablet. Everything about him was the same.

Deborah was on the couch in the sitting room, a glass of wine in hand, flipping through a fashion catalog. Her designer dress was flawless, her jewelry sparkling. But Riley’s eyes narrowed as she stepped closer.

One of Deborah’s fingernails was chipped—the gloss dulled at the edge. That never happened. And her heels, which were always pristine, had a slight scuff on the sides. Barely noticeable. But there.

“That’s new,” Riley whispered.

Chase shrugged. “She could’ve chipped it since dinner.”

“Deborah? She treats her nails like Fabergé eggs.”

Still, nothing else in the house had changed. The expensive art, the gleaming marble counters, the scent of Deborah’s expensive diffuser—everything else remained untouched. 

Chase glanced at the clock. “I should get home. I want to check on Logan and Mom. See if anything’s different.”

Riley nodded. “Yeah, okay. Let me know if you notice anything weird.”

On the way home, he made a pit stop for refreshments. The all-night convenience store was nearly deserted, save for a lone employee behind the counter. The only sounds were the hum of fluorescent lights, the distant pop of a cooler door, and the squeak of his shoes on the linoleum. He tossed a bag of chips and a six-pack of cheap beer onto the counter. The cashier—a woman in her early thirties with dark hair in a bun and a half-finished sleeve tattoo—looked up with a blank expression.

“I need to see some ID,” she said.

Chase grinned, pulling out his wallet. “Finally legal,” he joked, sliding over his license.

She glanced at it and handed it back with a smirk. “You’ve been legal for a while now.”

His brow furrowed. 'No… I just turned 21 in July.' He nearly said it aloud but stopped himself. He didn’t even look at the card—just tucked it back into his wallet and chalked her comment up to a mistake.

She scanned the chips twice, then fumbled with the register as she tried to void the extra charge. The screen beeped. She sighed. “Sorry. This machine’s a pain.”

"Don't worry. I'm in no hurry." 

Chase liked to cut service workers some slack over minor mistakes. Working at Pizza Haven, he knew how demanding some customers could be. He paid the corrected amount, grabbed his things, and left without a word."

He wasn’t too surprised to find the house dark when he got home—just disappointed. His mom and brother had early mornings, so they were probably already asleep. Still, he’d hoped to catch a glimpse of any change, however small, in his perfect brother or in how his mom treated him. But no luck. Maybe tomorrow night.

The moment he stepped into his room, Chase froze.

The tangled sheets and crusty pizza boxes were gone. His bed was neatly made, covered in muted gray bedding that looked straight out of a Target catalog. The air carried a faint trace of Febreze. In addition to the posters of cult horror flicks and game artwork hung a framed abstract print above his desk. A few bottles of cologne were arranged like a showroom display on his dresser. On the nightstand sat a half-used candle labeled 'Evening Focus'. He didn’t own candles. Especially not scented ones.

He turned in a slow circle, stunned. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t his room. And there was no way Amy or Logan would’ve come in and cleaned. No way they would’ve made the bed, added candles or bought cologne.

His mind flicked back to the comment from the cashier. He pulled out his wallet and unfolded his driver’s license. The birthdate had changed—three years earlier. Same month and day, July 23rd, but now it said he was 24, not 21. Why had the magic aged him? Why had it changed his room, his clothes? His wish had been about his mom and Logan, not himself. Maybe it was tied to earning his mom’s respect. At 24, he was now older than Logan. Maybe that mattered—maybe her love for Logan had always been tangled up in him being her firstborn.

He texted Riley. No reply.

He stared at his computer for a moment. Normally, he'd spend a few hours gaming before bed—it wasn’t even midnight yet. That’s why he’d grabbed chips and beer on the way home. But tonight, for some reason, the interest just wasn’t there. So instead, he went to bed. 

The sheets smelled cool and fresh, like they’d just been washed. Either his mom had done it—unlikely, since she’d stopped handling his laundry nearly four years ago—or it was the magic. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d washed them himself. Whatever the reason, he was glad they smelled good.

~~~

The following morning, Chase woke with a slow blink, a heavy moment of confusion weighing on his chest. His bedroom had changed again.

It looked more grown-up. The posters were gone, replaced by framed abstract prints—soft curves and gentle lines in muted gray and gold. At some point during the night, he’d added a gray-and-white comforter to match the sheet set. A large, woven rug now covered the center of the room, soft underfoot and warming a floor that had always felt too cold for bare feet.

The familiar twin monitors had been reduced to a single sleek screen on a black desk with no cords in sight. Everything was neatly arranged—keyboard centered, a closed notebook and gel pen beside it, a phone charger clipped cleanly to the edge. A new bookshelf stood beside the desk, with a mix of sci-fi novels and self help titles, a potted snake plant that looked suspiciously like it had never wilted a day in its life.

His closet was open. Chase walked toward it with a strange apprehension. Gone were the graphic tees with faded logos, the baggy jeans and threadbare hoodies. In their place were slim-cut joggers, a couple of sleek black button-downs, soft cotton tees in neutral tones, and even—he raised a brow at this—a pair of neatly folded chinos. It all looked like clothing Riley would approve of. Not feminine, but clearly curated, thought-through.

He pulled on a pair of soft heather-gray joggers that clung more snugly than what he was used to. The t-shirt he chose was a warm beige, smooth against his skin. On top, he added a cropped hoodie—shorter than he was used to, just brushing the waistband of his joggers. Odd, but... not bad. He slipped on a pair of ankle socks and fuzzy-lined house slippers. They were warm. Comfy.

Checking his driver’s license, he wasn’t surprised to still see the date. Twenty-four years old. It didn’t feel wrong anymore. It just was.

Downstairs, he found his mom already in the kitchen, slicing bananas and strawberries onto yogurt. She glanced up as he entered and gave a warm, casual smile.

“Morning, honey. You want some fruit too?”

Chase blinked. “Uh… sure.”

She didn’t comment on the fact that he was awake before noon, which was very out of character. Instead, she returned to slicing berries like it was completely normal. He noticed there wasn’t a pot of coffee brewed, so he filled the machine and started it.

“You look good,” she said, her eyes flicking to his outfit. “That color suits you.”

Logan was sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over a bowl of cereal. Cereal. Not a protein shake. Cereal, milk, and a slightly vacant look. He looked smaller. Not weak, but… less heroic somehow. His hoodie was nondescript gray, jeans slightly faded. A far cry from the usual fitted college hoodie and athletic joggers.

The coffee finished brewing and Chase poured a mug, adding cream and sugar before realizing what he was doing. Normally, he took it black. He turned to Amy.

“What do you want in your coffee?”

"What are you having in yours?" she asked as she picked up the bowls of yogurt and fresh fruit.

"Cream and a little sugar."

“That sounds nice. Make mine the same.” Amy sat down at the table opposite Logan.

Chase carried over their coffee and sat down next to his mom. 

She flashed him a smile as she took her first sip. "I think I'll prepare my coffee like this all the time. It's perfect."

It was the first time Chase had eaten breakfast with his mom and brother in years. He enjoyed it. There was a strange comfort in the domesticity of it all. Logan slurped the last bit of cereal and stood, leaving his bowl on the table.

“Logan,” Amy said without turning, “put your bowl in the dishwasher, please.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Logan mumbled, picking it up.

“And rinse it out first.”

He grunted in response, obeyed, and then trudged off. Amy glanced at Chase, her eyes dancing with amused exasperation, like they shared a long-suffering inside joke. Chase reached over and used his napkin to wipe the ring of milk off the table that had been left behind by Logan's cereal bowl.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Amy said gently.

After a few minutes, Amy and Logan gathered their things and prepared to leave for the day. Chase’s phone buzzed just as the front door closed behind them. It was a text from Riley. 

"Coffee shop after class? Around 11. Weird stuff happening. Wanna talk."

Chase replied with a quick text, then headed upstairs. He sat at his computer and navigated back to the dark web site where he’d purchased the scroll, hoping to uncover why he and Riley were changing too—despite only wishing for changes to his mother, brother, and her stepmom.

~~~

A couple hours later, after a quick shower, he stood in front of his closet, towel slung around his neck, and hesitated.

He used to just throw on whatever wasn’t wrinkled. But now… he thought about the day. It was warm but not hot. He’d be at a campus coffee shop—casual, but with a crowd that tried not to look casual. And Riley would be there. She always had this effortless style. He didn’t want to clash with her vibe.

He finally pulled on a pair of slim-fit black jeans, a soft teal crew neck tee that set off his eyes, and white sneakers. Over that, he shrugged into a denim jacket with brushed silver buttons—classic, clean. He gave himself a once-over in the mirror and, for the first time in a while, nodded in approval.

He threw his phone cord, power bank, sunglasses, breath mints, and a comb into a soft canvas crossbody bag that had appeared at the foot of his bed sometime during the night and then headed to his car.

When he stepped into the coffee shop, the first thing he noticed wasn’t the rich scent of espresso or the quiet buzz of college students murmuring over textbooks. It was Riley.

She stood at the counter, bathed in a shaft of golden morning light that streamed in through the front windows. Her hair was freshly trimmed, ends even and slightly curled. It was neatly brushed, parted just off-center, and tucked behind one ear. Light lip gloss shimmered on her lips, catching the light every time she moved.

Her outfit had changed—subtly, but unmistakably. The oversized cream cardigan draped softly over her shoulders, plush and cozy, giving off warmth and comfort. Beneath it, a pale blush satin cami shimmered delicately with each subtle movement, adding a layer of sophistication she rarely used to aim for. Her high-waisted jeans had a clean, structured straight-leg cut, rolled just a touch at the ankle to show off tan leather loafers that looked as comfortable as they were stylish.

But what caught Chase’s eye most was the blush pink Kate Spade handbag slung over her shoulder. He remembered her mocking it at Christmas, calling it a “Stepford purse” when Deborah had gifted it to her. But now? She carried it with casual ease, the way someone carries something they’ve owned forever.

She saw him before he could call her name, and her eyebrows lifted—mirroring his own reaction. She stepped aside as he joined her at the counter, both of them taking a second to register each other.

“Wow,” she said quietly, looking him over. “You look…”

“So do you,” Chase replied, gesturing vaguely to her ensemble. “You're carrying a purse now?”

Riley smirked and gave a single, sheepish nod. “Yeah. Weird, huh?”

"So is this," Chase pointed to the crossbody bag he was carrying. "I didn't even have one of these yesterday. Feels totally normal though."

"I know exactly what you mean," she said "I wouldn't have been caught dead with a designer bag hanging from my shoulder, but it really goes with this outfit, don't you think?"

"Are you gonna get your usual vanilla latte?" Chase said as stepped up to the counter to order.

"I already ordered," she said a little sheepishly. "I'm getting a brown sugar boba milk tea with oat milk."

"Iced caramel macchiato," he said to the cashier. To Riley he added, "I guess I'm developing a sweet tooth."

When Riley’s drink was called a minute later, Chase looked at the barista expectantly, then frowned.

“Uh, is mine ready yet?”

The barista glanced at the screen. “She ordered hers a few minutes before you. Yours is being made now.”

He blinked, a touch of irritation rising. “You don’t need to get snippy. Just asking a question.”

Once his drink was finished, they found a small two-person table tucked into the corner by a window. 

Chase reached into his bag and pulled out his driver’s license, laying it on the table between them.

“Check this out,” he said.

Riley picked it up, examining it as if it might change under her gaze. Her eyes shot up. “Wait, you're 24 now?”

"Yep, Logan is the youngest now. Not only that, but he was skinnier this morning. He had cereal for breakfast, and when he left his bowl out, Mom didn’t brush it off—she actually called him out on it. Then she looked at me like I was the adult in the room.” He paused, then added, “She had me make her coffee just like mine. Cream and sugar. But it was the way she said it, like she valued my opinion.”

Riley blinked. “I don't love that we're changing too.”

“Did you change more too?" he asked. "I mean besides the clothes and the purse?” 

She took a slow sip of her boba tea before nodding. “Yeah. Closet’s different. More fitted stuff. There’s… matching hangers now. A whole row of satiny camis and cardigans. Like someone raided a Pinterest board. And there’s a second vision board. I don't even know what to think about that.”

“We're there any changes to your dad's fiance?” Chase asked.

Riley leaned in slightly. “She and my dad were having breakfast when I came down. Normally, she’s all over him—hand on his arm, flirty little kisses, the whole domestic goddess thing. But this morning she barely looked at him. Sat across the table, no goodbye kiss when he left. He looked confused. I didn’t hate it.”

Chase tilted his head. “So, progress?”

“Sort of,” Riley said. “But I don’t understand why my clothes and bedroom are changing. I kinda get why you're older now. You wanted your mom to treat you like an adult, but what do vision boards and my wardrobe have to do with Deborah leaving my dad?”

Chase nodded slowly, then tapped his phone. “I posted on that dark web forum this morning. Some people basically just said, ‘You play with fire, you get burned.’”

“Wow. Super helpful.”

“Yeah. But one person mentioned something potentially useful. They said if I got another scroll—like, the same kind—I might be able to use it to cancel the magic of the first one. But only if I do it before the original spell finishes whatever it’s doing.”

“Cancel it?” Riley asked, eyes wide. “As in… everything goes back?”

“Maybe. But the scroll took a week to arrive last time and they don't have expedited shipping.”

“That’ll take way too long,” Riley said quickly. “We need help now. We have no idea how long it will take for the magic to finish whatever it's doing.” She took out her phone, brows furrowed. “There’s that occult store in town, remember? That weird place next to Cornerstone Antiques.”

Chase gave her a look. “You were all about staying anonymous before.”

“I was,” she said. “But that was before my wardrobe started changing and I started carrying a designer purse. The time for hiding is over. We need answers, like… yesterday.”

Chase nodded slowly. “Hopefully they'll have something that can help.”

“Never mind, they're closed on Mondays,” she said, looking up from her phone. "Maybe there's another place that can help."

Riley's phone blared an alarm—sharp, persistent, the kind she would’ve sworn she never set. At the same time, Chase's phone began buzzing with a call. He looked down at the screen, confused.

“That's weird. It says ‘Work’,” he muttered, brows furrowing. “I have Pizza Haven's number stored as 'Purgatory'.”

Riley silenced her alarm with a frown, her fingers already moving to check her calendar. “What the hell…”

Chase stood and answered the call. “Hello?”

There was a pause. Riley could hear a brisk voice chattering on the other end, tinny but clearly annoyed. Chase’s expression shifted—first surprise, then guilt.

“Sorry,” he said, a hand running through his hair. “I… I forgot I had to work today.”

Another pause. He glanced at Riley, then looked away, jaw tightening as he listened.

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a couple minutes,” he added quickly. “I promise it won’t happen again.”

He ended the call and blinked, still processing.

Riley crossed her arms. “Forget you had a shift?”

Chase looked at her, still stunned. “Not exactly. That was The Hydration Bar. It's a café inside Luna Wellness, the boutique gym on 8th Street. Apparently I work there now."

She turned her phone screen to him. “My alarm was reminding me I have a class. In fifteen minutes.”

He frowned. “Like, a lecture?”

“No,” she said. “Like a second class. I already went to one this morning. Apparently, I’m now taking two classes a day. I’m not even sure what the second one is, but it's in Schneider Hall, room 201B.”

They stared at each other, silent for a beat as the gravity of the changes settled between them.

“We need to cancel that magic,” Riley said, her voice quiet but urgent. “As soon as humanly possible.”

“Tomorrow,” Chase agreed. “First thing. Well, unless I have work.”

They stood, gathering their things in a practiced flurry—drinks first, then phones and wallets, Riley adjusting the strap of her Kate Spade purse as Chase swung his soft canvas crossbody over his shoulder.

~~~

After a frantic drive across town, Chase arrived at his new job  with a strange blend of anxiety and déjà vu. The sleek glass front of Luna Wellness gleamed in the late afternoon sun, the boutique gym’s minimalist logo etched elegantly across the door. Just past the reception desk, tucked beside a waiting area with rattan chairs and calming lavender diffusers, was The Hydration Bar—a bright, modern space with gleaming countertops, light oak cabinetry, and a refrigerated wall of supplements, pressed juices, and herbal tonics.

As soon as he stepped behind the counter, something clicked. He didn’t hesitate. Without needing to look for anything, he tucked his canvas bag inside his designated cubby, grabbed a pale green apron from the hook on the back wall, and washed his hands at the sink for employees. He moved with ease, as if he’d worked there for months.

His first customer ordered a “Glow Shot with Elderberry and Zinc,” and before she’d even finished saying the words, Chase was already reaching for the chilled ampoules on the second shelf of the mini-fridge. He popped them open, poured them over crushed ice, added a sprig of mint, and slid it across the counter like he was a natural-born hydration artisan.

Orders came and went. Matcha smoothies. Blue spirulina bowls. Adaptogenic tea flights. He rang each one up flawlessly—his fingers working the touch screen register like it was his favorite first-person shooter. He restocked the paper straws and to-go cups, then sanitized the counter with the wipes stored beneath the register, all on autopilot. His body moved faster than his brain could question why.

Just over five  hours later, he walked through the front door of his home to the scent of onions, garlic, and rosemary. His mom was at the stove, browning lamb in a skillet. Chase automatically moved into the kitchen and began peeling potatoes, grabbing the right peeler without a second thought.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “How was your shift?”

He shrugged. “Honestly? Kinda weirdly good. I mean, I liked it. A lot. But it felt like…like I’d been doing it for a year or more.”

She nodded. “Sounds like you’re a natural.”

“What about you?” he asked, chopping the potatoes into even cubes. “Work alright today?”

She groaned. “God, no. Sheila—the woman in marketing—won’t stop microwaving pork rinds. It stinks up the whole office."

Chase laughed. “Sounds like a nightmare.”

"Oh, and Hannah found out that she's pregnant, isn't that great?”

She added the meat to a baking dish, and together they layered in the potatoes, sautéed vegetables, and a quick sprinkle of cheddar before sliding the casserole into the oven. As they wiped down the counters, his mom glanced sideways and smirked.

“So… did you have any hotties today?”

Chase blinked. “Wait. What?”

She grinned. “At work. Cute customers? Come on, it’s a wellness café—you’re telling me there weren’t at least a few?”

He laughed awkwardly. “I… I mean. Maybe? I wasn’t really paying attention.”

Her question unsettled him. It wasn’t that she’d never mentioned dating or meeting a cute girl before—it was the way she said it. So casual, like a woman chatting with a friend, not a mother talking to her son. He also wasn't sure she'd meant hot women. He really hoped she didn't think he was checking out guys at work. 

Later, after dinner, Chase stood at the base of the stairs, headed for his bedroom when he saw his mom curled up on the couch in the living room, wrapped in a fleece blanket, scrolling endlessly through a streaming service menu.

“You coming to sit or just gonna hover?” she teased without looking up.

He chuckled and flopped onto the other end of the couch, still feeling oddly buzzy from the day. She scrolled past three crime dramas and a period romance before groaning.

“I can't decide,” she muttered. “You pick something.”

He turned to her, stunned. His mom had stopped letting him pick years ago, saying he always picked a superhero movie or something violent. He thought for a moment.

"How about Twisters? It’s got that guy from 'Anyone But You' and the girl from 'Where the Crawdads Sing.'”

She lit up. “I loved her in that. Perfect.”

The movie started. They got comfortable—her wrapped in a fleece throw, him sitting at the other end of the couch. Chase wasn’t usually into romantic angles in movies, but he couldn’t help thinking the two leads would make a really cute couple. About an hour in, though, something felt off.

It was just a mild discomfort at first, a subtle pressure behind his cheekbones. Then a strange tingling across his scalp. His hair—he could feel it growing, brushing past his ears in slow, unspooling waves.

Then his hips ached, shifting subtly beneath him. His chest tingled—his nipples tightening, the skin around them growing sensitive. His black jeans were gone, replaced by soft ash gray slacks. His teal crew neck had melted into a dusty rose Henley with a cream knit cardigan draped over it.

He squirmed.

His mom looked over. “You feeling alright?”

"I'll be back in a minute." On the way to the bathroom he grabbed his bag, now a soft leather messenger bag. The moment he looked in the mirror, his breath caught.

The person looking back was still him, but with a more mature, subtly feminine appearance. His cheekbones were higher, his jawline softer, tapering into a more delicate, refined curve. His lips had taken on a faint, unfamiliar fullness, and his eyes—framed by longer lashes—looked wide and startled beneath the freshly grown layers of hair that now brushed his shoulders. His hips curved more than they had earlier.

He turned to the side and saw the shape of his butt—broader, curved, not the body he remembered waking up in that morning. Even worse was the tingling, almost burning sensitivity in his chest. Lifting his soft knit cardigan and the dusty rose Henley underneath, he stared in horror at the faint but visible swelling beneath his nipples. The skin there looked flushed, and when he pressed gently with his fingertips, a jolt of discomfort—almost a spark of pain—shot through him.

He pulled out his wallet and checked his ID—28. That would explain why he looked more mature. But not the softening of his face, the curve to his hips, or the subtle ache in his chest. The direction of the changes unsettled him, and he wasn’t ready to face where they might be headed.

He fumbled for his phone and quickly tapped Riley’s contact. The phone rang once before she picked up.

“I was just about to call you,” she said. “You’re not going to believe this. I went to the bathroom and when I came out… my bedroom was gone. Just gone. I live in the college dorms now.”

Chase blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish. And even worse,” she groaned, “I have a roommate. Like, someone else's stuff is here. I even have a little dry-erase board on the door with my name and Mia’s.”

“I… I’ve changed again too,” Chase said, his voice quieter now.

“What changed this time?” she asked. "I'm wearing a crop top and my hair actually looks like it's been styled."

“I—” he hesitated. “I'm older again. I'm Twenty-eight now. And my body changed too. My face looks almost feminine. My hips are wider and my chest is…it’s sore and a little swollen. Kinda like I was stung by a bee.”

Riley paused. “Oh my god. Does that mean you're now trans, or are you turning you into a woman?”

Chase thought for a moment. "I don't have any memories of taking hormones or anything like that. Oh, God…I'm scared, Riley.”

She was quiet for a beat. “I can't even imagine what you must be going through, but we'll go to that occult shop tomorrow and get this figured out. First thing in the morning”

““It doesn’t open until eleven,” he said quietly. 

Another pause. “Fine, first thing at eleven.”

He ended the call and looked at himself again, the strange and uncertain lines of this new body. But then something else hit him—a thought that gripped his gut like ice. Twenty-eight. He was now twenty-eight. His eyes widened as it occurred to him that his mom had just turned 40 a few months ago. There was no way she could have a child that was only twelve years younger than her. He fought against the memories that tried to surface.

He opened the door and returned to the living room slowly. The movie was still paused, the TV casting a faint glow across the couch. She looked over and smiled.

“You good?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, hesitating.

Before she could reach for the remote, he blurted out, “Hey—before we start again, wanna play a quick round of ‘Two Truths and a Lie’?”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Random, but okay. You first.”

He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual. “Alright. My name is Chase. I work at The Hydration Bar. And I'm your son.”

She snorted. “Oh come on. You gotta make these harder. You’re my younger brother, duh.”

His stomach dropped. He managed a tight laugh, but the words echoed in his ears—younger brother.

Not her son. Not anymore.

He barely heard her list her own two truths and a lie. Something about high school and a summer trip and someone named Melissa. He wasn’t listening. He just mumbled, “I give up,” and stared at the paused movie screen.

His mind reeled. Since they were siblings, that made Grandma Clarke his mom too. She died almost 10 years ago, which meant that he no longer had a mom. He had to fight back the tears.

They finished the movie, though he hardly remembered the second half. Whenever she laughed he forced out a few chuckles. All he could think about was how wrong everything had become.

He discovered that his bedroom had taken another subtle but unmistakable turn. The overall layout remained tidy and deliberate, but there was a softness creeping in at the edges. The once-black desk now had a matte beige mousepad and a matching pen cup. The gel pen had been replaced with a set of pastel-hued fineliners, arranged with care beside the closed notebook—now a minimalist journal with gold-embossed edges.

The snake plant on the bookshelf was now joined by a small vase of dried lavender, and another scented candle called 'Fireside Cream' that smelled of vanilla and cedar. The book collection had shifted slightly: fewer action-heavy sci-fi titles, more introspective reads, a couple with floral covers peeking out like quiet statements. A pale throw blanket lay draped across the desk chair, and the lighting had softened, thanks to a dimmable salt lamp on the nightstand.

Inside the closet, the evolution was more pronounced. The joggers remained but had been joined by fitted trousers in earth tones. Neutral tees now included a few with delicate textures or boat necklines. A tailored cardigan hung beside the button-downs, and a lightweight, zip-up jacket in a soft blush-gray fabric caught the light with every shift of the door.

He climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling. He wasn’t just aging. He wasn’t just changing clothes or jobs. He was becoming someone else. And he had no idea how far it would go.

~~~

Chase awoke to the soft chime of his phone alarm, the kind of sound chosen more for elegance than effectiveness. He rolled over and reached for the device, still heavy with sleep, and tapped the screen to silence it.

As his eyes adjusted to the morning light filtering in through the blinds, something caught his attention.

A new icon on his home screen.

DayTrack – Personal Organizer.

It hadn’t been there yesterday. He tapped it, curiosity overriding the usual grogginess. The app opened to a clean interface in soft greys and pale greens, the fonts elegant, the design distinctly modern. A list of tasks blinked to life:

• Confirm photographer for 9AM Wed at Oak Ridge listing
• Drop off keys at 482 Sycamore – 10:30AM
• Meet with Riley – 11:00AM
• Email brochure proof to Evan before 3PM

His eyes paused on that name, Evan. A memory surged up—sharp and complete, as if it had always been there.

Evan Thornwell, his boss, was a sharply dressed real estate agent with a sleek silver beard and a Bluetooth earpiece that never left his ear. Highly successful, he was known for smooth closings and impeccable taste. Chase, his personal assistant, booked appointments, fielded calls, coordinated marketing materials, and kept Evan’s chaos in check.

Sitting up straighter, Chase glanced around, then looked down at himself. Everything appeared just as it had when he’d gone to bed. He let out a slow breath, grateful for that small bit of consistency.

He got up and went to shower, sliding open the small cabinet in the bathroom. His hand reached automatically for the shampoo—and stopped. Ouai Medium Hair Shampoo. Sleek bottle. Pale pink label. It was expensive. Too expensive for the kind of person who used to buy multipacks of off-brand at Walmart. He blinked at it, uncapped the bottle, and sniffed.

God—it smelled like a boutique salon, warm and floral, with a touch of musk. He used it anyway. The scent lingered on his skin and in the steam, making the morning feel more surreal with every minute. His hair felt softer as he rinsed it out. Smoother.

He toweled off, swiped the condensation from the mirror, and turned his attention to his hair. After a few passes with the brush, he studied how it now fell to his shoulder blades, his expression tightening. With a sigh, he gathered it back and secured it in a low ponytail—less feminine, he hoped. But the reflection staring back at him offered no such reassurance. The subtle curve of his fuller lips, the sharper cheekbones, the tapered chin—those changes were speaking for themselves.

He moved back to his bedroom and changed into a pair of tailored ash gray trousers, the hem skimming just above his ankles. His cream-colored blouse-style shirt had a narrow collar and subtle drape, just enough to soften his silhouette. He topped it with an open-front cardigan in a muted olive green, cozy but structured, the sleeves pushed slightly up to expose a rose-gold wristwatch that shimmered faintly in the light. His shoes were tan loafers.

He tucked a hairbrush, pen, small notebook, a tube of hand lotion and a travel pack of tissues into his leather messenger bag and then checked himself in the mirror.

Breakfast was already underway when he stepped into the kitchen.

His sister—once his mom—was standing by the stove, flipping something in a pan. “Morning, sunshine,” she chirped.

“Morning, Amy,” he replied, finding it weird to call his sister by her first name. It wasn't like he could call her 'Mom' anymore.

At the table, Logan hunched over a bowl of cereal. He had changed too. His charcoal joggers hung low on his hips, and a faded band tee peeked from under a worn flannel shirt. The flannel sleeves were shoved up carelessly, and the backs of his sneakers were flattened from habit. One chipped, black-painted fingernail tapped rhythmically against his phone screen as he scrolled, occasionally brushing his longer bangs behind one ear.

Chase poured coffee for both himself and his sister, adding cream and sugar—just the way she liked it. A memory surfaced: a couple of years ago, she'd accidentally taken a sip from his mug, then started preparing her coffee the exact same way ever since. Amy placed a plate in front of him without a word. The three of them ate together, as if it were a routine they'd shared for years.

After breakfast, Chase stood, grabbed his messenger bag and headed outside to go to work. Then he stopped. His car—the 2010 black Honda Civic he’d driven since high school—was gone.

In its place was a white 2016 Hyundai Elantra Hybrid, spotless, modern, with a real estate keychain hanging from the rearview mirror. His heart kicked in his chest—but even as he stared, the memory clicked into place. He’d bought the Elantra shortly after landing the job with Evan Thornwell. Got a good deal. Low mileage. Signed the paperwork himself.

He unlocked the door, slid into the driver’s seat, and took a steadying breath. The engine purred to life—a sound that was oddly familiar, like so much else lately. Then he backed out of the driveway and set off toward a job created by magic—and, later, a visit to the occult shop with Riley—in hopes of reclaiming lives that were slowly slipping away.

~~~

Several miles away, Riley awoke to soft sunlight filtering through the narrow dorm room blinds and the faint buzz of a campus lawnmower somewhere in the distance. Her bed was now a twin, dressed in a dusty rose comforter and tucked against the left wall along with a small desk. A white rolling chair sat neatly beneath it. She stretched, momentarily disoriented by the sterile ceiling above her and the unfamiliar scent of the bedding.Then it hit her again. College. Dorm. Roommate.

With a resigned groan, Riley gathered her shower caddy and towel and padded down the hallway to the communal showers. The floor tiles were cold beneath her bare feet, and the murmur of a couple of other early risers echoed off the porcelain walls. She scrubbed quickly under warm water, trying not to think too hard about how her life had been rewritten. Her shampoo was now a salon-grade volumizing blend with a subtle lavender-vanilla scent. Her razor was a rose gold Billie. Her skin felt smoother, cleaner. Maybe even glowy.

Back in her room, Riley closed the door behind her and heard an alarm blaring from the other bed. She glanced at the time—8:05 AM.

“Jesus, Mia,” she muttered, stepping over a pile of laundry as she shook her roommate's shoulder. “Turn that thing off before it kills my last brain cell.”

Mia groaned into her pillow but eventually fumbled for her phone. Riley left her to it and got dressed with habitual precision.

She pulled on a fitted ribbed mock-neck top in soft ivory, tucking it neatly into high-waisted sage trousers that moved like silk with every step. A cropped denim jacket gave the outfit a breezy confidence, while crisp white sneakers grounded the look. Gold huggie earrings and a slim gold watch added polish. She swept her loosely waved hair back with a tortoiseshell clip, checked her reflection in the long mirror by the closet, and nodded in approval.

Grabbing her blush leather handbag, she headed to the student café where she ordered her new usual—an açaí bowl topped with banana, strawberries, and chia seeds, and a Venti Pink Drink, ice cold and aesthetic.

She carried them outside to a courtyard table with perfect lighting, positioned everything just right, then snapped a selfie with a warm smile and sun-dappled skin. She uploaded it to Instagram with a caption that read: "Sunshine, smoothies, and slaying #PinkDrinkAddict #OOTD #CollegeGlowUp #BlessedButStressed #WokeUpLikeThis"

She arrived a few minutes late to her 9:00 AM class—Cultural Anthropology, though it had been Intro to Sociology just the day before. The door squeaked open and she waltzed in without apology. “Sorry I’m late!” she announced cheerfully, her voice carrying across the lecture hall.

The professor didn’t even look up. Half the class chuckled. Riley slid into a seat in the third row like she owned the place.

When class let out at 10:00, she grabbed her phone and was halfway down the steps when two familiar voices called her name.

“Riley!” Kaylee chirped, waving. She looked just as she always had in Riley's hazy, rewritten memory: Oatmeal cropped knit sweater, slouching just right over one bare shoulder, and smoky beige cargo pants hugging her hips. Chunky white platforms and a Marc Jacobs tote completed the effortless luxury look. Her gold hoops glittered in the morning sun.

Beside her, Sasha stood tall and composed. Her midnight-blue top and tailored violet wool trousers looked like something out of a fashion editorial. Glossy black ankle boots and an oxblood crossbody bag completed the look with sleek precision.

Both girls carried large Stanley tumblers in pastel tones—icy condensation already forming around the steel sides.

Riley grinned. “Heya, babes.”

They plopped onto a bench near the library, they sipped their drinks and casually scoped out the foot traffic.

“Oh, that one—third from the fountain?” Sasha said, her voice low. “His dad owns the Blakemoor Resort chain. Total legacy brat. Drives a black Mercedes.”

“And a hottie too, the total package,” Kaylee added with a smirk.

Riley leaned back, enjoying the breeze and the mild thrum of attention from a few passing guys. This world—the dorm, the friend group, the confidence—was unsettlingly easy to fall into. Even if it wasn’t hers, it kind of was too.

At 10:30, she gave her friends hugs and air kisses and then walked to the campus lot. Her eyes widened at the change. The red 2018 Prius she'd driven just yesterday had vanished. In its place was a sleek, crystal blue 2021 Mazda 3 Hatchback. The keys in her purse matched. Leather seats, tinted windows, push-button start.

Her lips pursed in mild disapproval. “Magic took my hybrid and gave me this gas guzzler? Rude.”

Still… it was hot. Sleeker. Sportier.

She drove across town to the occult shop and parked in front, tapping her foot as she waited. No Chase.

She texted: “I’m here. Where the fuck are you?”

Then, with a slight frown, she blinked. Chase wasn’t her boyfriend anymore… The thought didn’t sting as much as she’d have expected the day before.

He was now her tutor—older, refined, more polished. Something about that made him feel distant… not like the boy she’d gamed with since high school and been dating for over a year.

And besides, she thought with a smirk, her college was crawling with cute, rich boys. And she was now officially on the market. She leaned against her car, sipping her Pink Drink, sunglasses lowered just enough to scan the sidewalk for anything… or anyone… interesting.

~~~

Earlier that day, Chase arrived at the real estate office just before 8:00 a.m., the building still quiet and bathed in the soft light of early morning. As Evan Thornwell’s personal assistant, Chase had access to the office before anyone else. He swiped his keycard and entered the sleek, modern lobby of Thornwell Properties, a boutique real estate firm specializing in exclusive listings across the city. The air smelled faintly of cleaning spray and microwave popcorn.

The first thing he did was unlock Evan’s office, set the blinds half-open to let in light but reduce glare. Back at his desk, Chase opened the Daily Organizer app on his phone and synced it with the office's master calendar, checking and double-checking Evan’s appointments for the day.

By 8:20 a.m., he had already:

• Printed and bound three copies of the Oak Ridge listing portfolio
• Scheduled an HVAC inspection for 927 W Briarwood Ln.
• Ordered fresh staging florals for the Sandhill Road property
• Reviewed Evan’s emails and flagged everything that needed a response

When Evan strolled in at 8:57, Chase was waiting with a tablet in hand. His cardigan sleeves were pushed up neatly.

“Morning, Mr. Thornwell. Here’s your schedule today: Walkthrough at Marigold Ridge at eleven, lunch meeting with the Kesslers at one, and a call with marketing at three. Also, I’ve flagged a few emails that need your immediate attention.”

Evan, a handsome man in his late-forties with salt-and-pepper hair and a perfectly tailored gray suit, nodded approvingly. “Thanks, Chase. You're a machine.”

At 9:30 sharp, Chase called the photographer to confirm the Wednesday 9:00 a.m. shoot at the Oak Ridge listing. All was good on that front.

At 10:10, he grabbed the keys for house at 482 Sycamore from the office key safe, slipped them into his bag, and headed out. He hadn’t forgotten that he was supposed to meet Riley at the occult shop at 11, and he figured the key drop would only take a moment. The GPS said it was just a 25-minute drive from Sycamore to the shop.

But at 10:30, no one was there.

He stood on the porch of the newly sold Craftsman, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His phone said 10:41. No calls. No texts.

It wasn’t until 10:44 that a silver SUV pulled up erratically in front of the house and a woman tumbled out, hair escaping from a loose bun, her blouse rumpled. She looked thirty-something, overworked, and completely frazzled.

“I’m so sorry,” she panted, slamming the car door. “There was a last-minute parent-teacher meeting—”

“You’re not the only person who has commitments, you know,” Chase snapped, his voice sharp, his smile a tight, brittle line. “I have people who depend on me too. If you say you’re going to be somewhere at a certain time—be there.”

He thrust the keys into her outstretched hand and turned on his heel, marching toward the sidewalk.

Behind him, her voice rang out, “Your boss is going to hear about how rude you are!”

Chase didn’t slow down. “Go ahead, lady,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll probably be working someplace else tomorrow.”

He was halfway to the occult shop when a buzz from his phone made him glance down at the stoplight.

Riley: "I'm here, where the fuck are you?"

He rolled his eyes and thumbed back a reply. "Sorry, got held up by some bitch with no time management skills."

When he arrived at The Velvet Shroud, the occult shop with its faded green awning and clattering wind chimes, Riley was leaning against her new car—a gleaming crystal blue Mazda 3 hatchback.

"Sorry I'm late," Chase said as he stepped out of the Elantra and adjusted his bag over his shoulder.

She looked up. “Nice car, but not as nice as mine.”

Chase snorted. “At least mine's not a gas-guzzling fashion statement.”

She rolled her eyes, then added, “Oh, and FYI—you’re not my boyfriend anymore. You’re my tutor.”

Chase froze for a moment, the words hitting hard. Tutor. Not boyfriend.

Memories rearranged themselves in his head like puzzle pieces forced into new slots. He could see himself explaining papers to her, helping her prep for exams… but the late-night gaming, the hand-holding, the kisses—those memories now felt distant, like faded dreams.

As they walked to the shop's entrance, Riley said, “I could use some help with Cultural Anthropology. Are you free tonight?”

He hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

As Chase pushed open the door to The Velvet Shroud, the old iron bell above the frame let out a mournful chime, its sound too low and resonant for such a small object. The moment he and Riley stepped inside, it was as if the air changed—heavier, tingling faintly against their skin like static before a thunderstorm.

The shop smelled of old paper, dried herbs, and something bitter and metallic, like scorched pennies. The lighting was dim, filtered through stained glass lamps and a patchwork of velvet drapes that hung like forgotten theater curtains. The entire space felt out of step with time—claustrophobic, but humming with life.

Along the left wall stretched a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, packed to overflowing with leather-bound books, some with titles in languages neither Chase nor Riley recognized. Others didn’t have titles at all, just strange sigils burned into their spines.

In the center of the room, a series of glass cases ran in rows, like the jewelry counters of a very haunted department store. Inside were crystals, tarot decks, and rings that looked innocuous—but in other sections were more disturbing items. A rabbit skull dipped in gold leaf. A doll with no eyes and a mouth stitched closed. Along with what looked like a dried-out bat wing, wrapped around a locket. Each case bore small black signs: DISPLAY ONLY. ASK FOR ASSISTANCE. DO NOT TOUCH.

A palpable sensation ran beneath it all—like the building itself was holding its breath. Chase didn’t need to see magic to know it was here. He felt it. Alive. Watching.

They approached the counter in the back, where a man in his mid-twenties stood behind a glass display case. He looked wildly out of place: like he belonged in a Nike outlet or a sporting goods store. Stocky, with a buzz cut and a polo shirt, he was hunched slightly, scrolling through his phone. Behind him, rows of strange jars lined a set of narrow black shelves. Most appeared to contain dried herbs, but one held translucent worms swimming in a syrupy violet fluid, and another seemed to display fossilized human fingers in various sizes.

The guy looked up as they approached. “What can I help you with?”

Chase hesitated. His heart thudded in his chest. Using that scroll had been a reckless gamble, and part of him feared even speaking it aloud might cause something worse to happen. But there was no turning back now.

“Uh… we’re… experiencing some strange changes,” Chase began, voice low. “Due to a scroll. A magical one. We need something to cancel it. Or reverse it. Or at least contain it.”

The guy blinked once. Then again. Slowly.

He then scowled at them like they’d just announced they’d been lighting matches in a dynamite factory.

“Yeah…” he said, voice dry. “Sorry. Can’t help you.”

Riley cocked a hip, crossing her arms. “Can’t or won’t?”

The man narrowed his eyes. “Both.”

Chase felt irritation flare in his chest, but he breathed it down. He knew better than to escalate in this situation. Sometimes you catch more flies with honey.

He cleared his throat. “Please excuse my young friend,” he said with carefully measured politeness. “Are you sure there isn’t anything in this fine establishment that might help us? Even in a small way?”

The man gave a tired sigh, then leaned one arm on the counter. “Look. Even if we had something here that could help you—and I’m not saying we do—I couldn’t sell it to you. We can sell you all the poser junk you want. Sage bundles, mood rings, salt lamps. But anything with real power? Strictly regulated. If you don’t have proper credentials, we’d get hit with fines so steep the owner’s grandchildren would be paying them off.”

He pointed a thumb toward himself. “And since I’m one of them? No fucking way.”

Chase opened his mouth to argue—but a chill moved through the room. From the beaded curtain behind the counter, a woman stepped out. She looked to be in her late fifties, with silver-streaked black hair in a loose braid, eyes sharp and cold like wet stone. She wore a long skirt and a dark blouse with lace cuffs, and something about her movements—smooth and slow—felt like a warning.

She looked between Riley and Chase, lingering on each of their faces with a gaze that seemed to see too much.

“Jeremy,” she said, her voice low and crisp, “Why don’t you take a break. I’ll deal with these two.”

Jeremy shrugged. “Okay, Mom.”

He disappeared through the curtain without another word.

The woman stepped fully into the light. “My son has answered your questions,” she said. “Now, if you wish to linger here any longer, you will need to make a purchase.”

Riley scoffed. “Let’s just go. This is a waste of time.”

The woman didn’t blink. “It doesn’t need to be a large purchase. But I would suggest buying something… anything.”

Chase hesitated, then scanned the glass display beside the register. “I’ll take one of those.” He pointed to a pack of vanilla incense, its label written in looping calligraphy.

The woman rang it up in silence. She swiped his card, placed the incense and a small printed receipt into a matte black paper bag, and handed it to him. As she did, her gaze flicked briefly to the bag, and she murmured:

“Good luck in your search.”

Chase’s skin prickled as they left the store. Outside, in the warm daylight, he let out a slow breath. He looked in the bag. Tucked between the receipt and the incense was a small white card, the size of a business card. It was completely blank, except for a single handwritten word in neat black ink:

RAVI

He turned the card over. Nothing. No logo, no address, no phone number. Just that one word.

Riley frowned. “Ravi? What the hell does that mean?”

Chase shook his head. “No idea. We’ll look it up tonight during your tutoring session.”

They hugged briefly—just a bit awkward now that things between them had changed—and then each headed to their respective cars. Chase back to the office. Riley back to campus.

~~~

Later that day, Riley tapped her pen against her lips as Professor Alden launched into a breakdown of interpersonal communication models, but her thoughts were a thousand miles away. She barely registered the slideshow glowing on the screen or the murmur of students shifting in their seats. Her mind kept circling one word, over and over, like a hook caught in her subconscious.

Ravi.

Whatever it meant, it wasn’t something to be searched on a campus Wi-Fi. Not after the strange tension in The Velvet Shroud, not after the way the woman’s eyes had lingered on them as she'd handed the paper bag to Chase. Riley wasn’t about to risk leaving a digital trail. The dorm’s Wi-Fi required a login, and anything typed on a library computer was almost certainly being monitored. If “Ravi” meant something dangerous—and the vibe at that shop made it feel dangerous—then they’d need a safer place to dig.

A secure place. A quiet one. Somewhere with VPNs and no questions.

After class, she headed to the computer lab, stepping through the haze of body spray, fluorescent light, and glowing monitors. The place was a mess with cords knotted in a mess under tables, snack wrappers stuffed into the backs of PC towers, and guys in varying states of hygiene clicking furiously or hunched over screens full of code and kill streaks.

“Hey,” she said, stepping up to a nearby group. One of the guys glanced over his shoulder, sizing her up with all the maturity of a half-grown dog. “I need to run a search. Off-grid. Nothing traceable.”

One of them—broad shouldered, skin pale under a mop of greasy hair—snorted. “What, Googling your ex?”

The others laughed. Riley didn’t.

She straightened her spine, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “I’m trying to do something private. Which I guess is too advanced for a bunch of keyboard virgins.”

That got their attention, but not the kind she needed. She sighed. Time to switch tactics.

She shifted her tone, leaned in just enough to make it seem like a secret. “Look, I’m not trying to get you guys to do anything sketchy. I just need a place. One that's strictly anonymous.”

The one with the least terrible skin—tall, thin, with square glasses too big for his face—finally spoke. “BitBunker. It’s a gaming café near Grant and 8th. You pay in cash, they don’t log anything. Use the word ‘bulletproof’ at the desk and they’ll give you one of the back stations.”

Riley gave him a slow, appreciative smile. “See? Knew you weren’t all useless.”

As she turned to leave, a thought occurred to her. She looked back over her shoulder and tossed out the word, “Ravi. Ring any bells?”

The three of them blinked, looked at each other, then shrugged. One offered, “Indian food?”

Riley didn’t answer. She was already pulling out her phone. She texted Chase "Meet me at BitBunker. 7PM. And don’t be late this time!"

~~~

That night, as Riley prepared to change for her rendezvous with Chase, she opened her closet door and stumbled—not onto socks and sweaters, but into an entirely different room.

This one was smaller, messier, louder, and unfamiliar in that specific, dizzying way she was starting to recognize as reality rewriting itself. The new space still had twin beds crammed into opposite walls, but with barely enough room for a shared desk between them. Her own side was neat and controlled—soft pastels, perfectly folded bedding, string lights hung with mathematical precision. The other side was a carnival of chaos: makeup scattered across the vanity like glitter shrapnel, half-drunk iced coffees sweating onto textbooks, and clothes hanging from every available surface.

She wasn't in the dorms, she was in the Kappa Delta Omega sorority house. 

“Heyyy,” came a voice that dripped with casual entitlement. Chelsea, her roommate, breezed in with a tote bag slung over one arm and her blonde curls piled into a high, bouncy ponytail. “Hope you don’t mind, I used your primer. Yours is way better than mine.”

Riley gave her a deadpan look. “Touch my highlighter and we’re going to have problems.”

“Chill, babe,” Chelsea laughed, tossing her curling wand onto the pile of mess.

A half hour later, Riley was dressed in a burgundy ribbed bodysuit with a square neckline that framed her collarbones like art, high-waisted charcoal pleated trousers cinched to accentuate her waist, and a cropped black moto jacket whose faux fur lining brushed her wrists with just enough luxe to say, I know what I’m doing.

She stepped into pointed burgundy suede ankle boots, checked her reflection, and got to work on her face. Bold brows. Shimmery champagne lids. Flirty mascara. Rosy blush. A sweep of contour. Then, glossy pink lips—slightly overlined, just enough to blur the line between natural and intentional.

Phone, lip gloss, pepper spray, and cash went into her taupe slouchy hobo bag. She gave herself one last once-over. No notes.

“Don’t wait up,” she said, tossing her bag over her shoulder. As she headed out of the house, she dug out her keys. The FOB was now had the word 'Mini' in the center instead of 'Mazda'. She pressed the button as she walked through the parking lot. There came a double chirp from a white Mini Cooper S with a black roof, black mirrors, pristine and stylish. She smiled and climbed inside.

With Charli XCX’s “Vroom Vroom” turned all the way up, she tore through the city, windows down, hair flying, belting the lyrics without shame. Heads turned at stoplights, but she didn’t care. Quite the opposite.

When she pulled into the lot outside BitBunker, which was housed in an old industrial storefront, Chase was already there, leaning against a metallic taupe Mazda CX-30. The direction of his transformation was undeniable now.

His body had softened and reshaped subtly—a gentler curve to his hips, a slight but unmistakable swell on his chest, a delicately nipped waist that made his black mock-neck top look sculpted rather than worn. His midnight gray trousers fit snugly, cleanly, tapering just right at the ankle. Over it all, he wore a satin bomber jacket that gave him a modern edge, something between cool and untouchable. Black platform Converse grounded the look with casual confidence.

His hair was long now, soft waves that kissed the middle of his back, swaying slightly with the breeze. His face had transformed into something strikingly androgynous—smooth and radiant, with cheekbones that lifted his entire expression and lips that had just a hint of shine. The makeup was barely there, but effective. It was like he’d stepped out of a dream that couldn’t decide if he was boy or girl—and that made him all the more captivating.

She threw her arms around him in a tight hug. “Damn,” she said, pulling back, eyes roving appreciatively, “you are looking hot.”

Chase gave a shy smile, voice soft but still familiar. “You take my breath away. And… yeah. You still have a nicer car than me.”

Riley winked. “Having a rich father helps.” She extended her arm to him like they were about to step onto a red carpet. “Shall we?”

Chase hesitated for half a second, then slipped his arm through hers. Together, they walked toward the café entrance.

The moment Chase and Riley pushed through the narrow glass door of the Gaming Café, the air hit them like a glitch in reality—buzzing, fluorescent, synthetic. The inside was awash in neon pinks and acid greens, an ambient hum of outdated fans mixing with the clack of keyboards and the low mutter of tactical arguments in online raids. Every square inch of wall space was plastered in curling League of Legends, Valorant, and Cyberpunk 2077 posters, faded by time but still defiantly clinging on. Red Bull cans formed little shrines on most desks. The scent was a blend of energy drinks, instant ramen, and the faint chemical tang of electronics running hot.

This place had a reputation—'Where Hackers Hang Out' wasn’t a nickname, it was a warning. And tonight, they needed what only a place like this could offer.

Riley stepped up to the counter, one hip cocked beneath her cropped moto jacket, confidence radiating off her like static. “Bulletproof,” she said coolly, sliding three twenties across the scratched glass surface of the counter.

The guy behind the register didn’t look up. Just reached under the counter and pulled out a torn slip of paper. He passed it across with the casual smoothness of someone used to unspoken rules. The password, a mess of symbols, numbers, and alternating cases, had to be at least two dozen characters long.

Then he glanced up, finally registering them. His hoodie was half-zipped, revealing a tee with a stylized glitch skull logo, and a pair of cracked lenses balanced on the bridge of his nose. “You want anything to drink?” he asked, voice low, scratchy. “You’ve already paid for it.”

Riley glanced past the guy at the chalkboard menu. “I'll have a CTRL-Z". 

“HackShot,” Chase added.

The guy nodded and turned, reaching into a large fridge that hummed louder than it should. He pulled out two cold bottles—one matte black with glitch font, the other soft gray with a neon yuzu icon—and handed them over without another word. Then he gave a lazy wave toward the back. “Cubby four.”

The cubby was tucked behind a torn blackout curtain at the end of the row, lit only by the soft pulse of an LED strip that flickered like a dying heartbeat. Inside, the space opened slightly—just enough for a battered desk, two aging but still plush gaming chairs, and a rig that looked like it had seen serious use. Two monitors, a tower with a clear side panel glowing dull purple, and a keyboard that lit up when Riley touched it, cycling through hues as her fingers moved.

She dropped into the chair and typed in the username and the ridiculous password. The login took a few seconds to process, and then the screens blinked awake with cascading code and a custom OS someone had probably built from scratch.

Chase cracked open the HackShot and took a sip. It tasted like midnight panic and raw caffeine. “Did you bring your Cultural Anthropology book?” he asked, leaning on the back of her chair.

Riley scoffed without looking up. “Nope. I don’t even have that class anymore. I'm now an Interior Design major and I have three classes. Three! It's getting out of control."

Chase raised a brow. "Any other changes?"

Riley stopped typing and turned a little in her chair, facing him. "“I live in a Sorority house now. I guess I just got accepted. I still have a roommate and she's a total thief. Borrows my stuff without asking.”

“That is simply unacceptable,” Chase said with a snarl.

"I know, right?”

“What about your stepmom?”

Riley’s expression cooled. “Still there. Called my dad before I left. She’s still living in the house. The magic moved me out of my own home, gave me a major and two extra classes, but it didn’t get rid of her. So lame.”

She started typing again. "So, what about you? What's changed this time?"

Chase leaned against the desk. “Amy’s still my sister. We’re actually pretty close. Weirdly close, for siblings. And I’m thirty years old and working as a virtual assistant for this lifestyle blogger who thinks Pinterest is a spiritual path.”

Riley smirked.

“Logan’s changing too,” he added. “He…they…are looking very androgynous now. Both ears pierced, eyeliner, hoodies and sweats. At dinner they were wearing a sports bra under their ratty old t-shirt.”

"At least that's going to plan," Riley said.

Chase stared into his drink for a second, then added quietly, “Logan’s not the only one wearing a bra.”

She gave him a half-smile. “Welcome to the club.”

She turned back to the computer. They didn’t talk much after that—just the click of keys, the clink of bottles, and the occasional exhale of frustration as dead ends.

But then they found it. R.A.V.I.  Registry of Arcane Violations & Irregularities.

A forgotten arm of some magical oversight body, half buried under bureaucracy and semi-public access. A place where enchanted incidents were logged—usually ignored, except by the Fixers. Anonymous magic operatives who worked underground and occasionally left coded messages or cryptic tags in the system, hoping to attract the desperate.

The deeper they dug, the more strange and fragmented the data became. But there was something there. A local terminal was listed at the city archives annex. It was right next to the courthouse. Open weekdays, 8 a.m. to 4 p.m.

They looked at each other.

“Noon tomorrow?” Chase asked.

Riley nodded. “Let’s do it.”

There was a pause. That flicker of something almost like relief hung between them, tenuous and bright.

Riley leaned back and exhaled. “I mean… I’m kind of okay with parts of this life. The clothes. The car. I even like my style now. But my room? I want my room back. After I redecorate the hell out of it.”

Chase looked down at himself, then at her. “I just want to be me again. The real me. Not this thirty-year-old guy with tiny boobs and a boss who thinks crystals can cure mold exposure.”

Riley laughed gently and gave his hand a quick squeeze.

They logged off the terminal, pulled the curtain shut behind them, and stepped out into the artificial hum of the café. Progress had been made. A path had opened. And though they were still walking in the dark, at least now they knew which way to go.

~~~

The following morning unfolded like any other work-from-home day in Chase’s new reality—though what “normal” meant anymore was increasingly hard to define.

The bedroom, once cluttered with books, black tech, and unmade laundry, now looked like it belonged in a high-end productivity blog’s photo shoot. A soft, curated calm defined the space. Gone was the cluttered black desk from his old life—replaced by a modern white writing desk with rounded edges and gold hardware that gleamed faintly in the morning light. A pastel acrylic riser elevated his monitor, beneath which a wireless rose-hued keyboard and matching mouse sat neatly aligned, untouched by even a speck of dust.

To the left of the desk, a soft cork-board had become the centerpiece of his workflow. Color-coded to-do lists were pinned alongside delicate fabric swatches, printouts of Pantone palettes, and carefully selected minimalist quotes: Mood Is Everything, Align & Execute, and Beauty Can Be Built.

On the opposite wall, the cream tufted headboard framed a bed made with sage green linen and layered with plush throw pillows in tones of blush, ivory, and sand. It didn’t just look intentional—it looked editorial. A vanity mirror with gentle LED lighting doubled as his Zoom setup. The ring light in the corner stood like a quiet sentry, casting its diffuse glow when needed. A single soy candle, flickering faintly on a rounded side table, filled the air with notes of champagne peony.

Even his closet told a story—soft leather flats lined up beside minimal sneakers, delicate knits beside tailored culottes. And among it all, a few growing touches: a structured beige handbag with gold hardware, a pair of suede ankle boots with a slight heel, a cashmere wrap that hadn't seen outdoor wear yet. Not yet.

Today’s outfit was chosen for comfort and subtle control: a fitted ribbed knit top in muted olive, paired with navy pleated culottes that moved softly with every step. Underneath, a lightly lined wireless bralette in dusty olive provided gentle support, accommodating the small but undeniable curve of his A-cup breasts. Seamless boyshorts in the same tone kept everything smooth and in place, invisible under the drape of his pants.

An oatmeal cropped cardigan was draped over his shoulders, its sleeves pushed up to the forearms. On his feet: minimalist slip-on loafers in matte taupe. His hair was tied back into a low ponytail with a matte beige clip, a few carefully loosened strands framing his face. His makeup was light but effective: under-eye concealer, soft blush on the apples of his cheeks, a dusty pink lip stain, and lashes gently curled with a swipe of brown mascara.

Chase’s digital persona was curated, calm, and aligned. Internally, though, it was a different story.

His boss—a hyper-verbal lifestyle guru with a tendency to treat every Zoom call like a TED Talk—was in rare form. She complained about algorithm changes and the "violent pastel fatigue" that had overtaken Instagram, then segued into a 20-minute tangent on how “the Lunar cycle is making brands emotionally impulsive.”

She wasn't thrilled that Chase had requested the afternoon off, either.

"You do realize the social rollout for the Summer Solstice picnic board is today, right?"

“Yes,” he said smoothly, “and everything’s scheduled and QA’d. The backup thumbnails are in Drive Folder ‘Solstice_Final_Final’, and the engagement prompts are preloaded.”

She grudgingly relented. “Fine. But next time, don’t disappear mid-cycle. Your eye for aesthetic nuance is half of why people even click.”

He was out the door by 11:35 AM.

The drive to the City Archives Annex took just over twenty minutes. The structure itself was squat and utilitarian, with tired concrete walls and small barred windows, like something halfway between a DMV and an abandoned university lab. Chase parked in a cracked lot where tufts of grass poked through the asphalt.

Riley was already waiting near the front steps, leaning casually against the low wall, sipping an acai smoothie from a compostable cup with practiced grace. Her outfit was effortless power: a deep wine satin camisole tucked into high-waisted black pleated trousers that elongated her legs, a cropped slate blazer trimmed in gold buttons sharp at the shoulders. Her black patent loafers caught the fading light, and a stylish faux leather tote was slung casually over one arm. Gold hoops framed her face, and her lips were painted a luxurious plum that pulled the whole look together.

She handed Chase a lavender-honey almond milk latte the moment he approached.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he said, accepting the drink like sacred treasure.

“Who loves you, babe,” Riley replied with a wink.

Something flickered behind his eyes—an old ache. The magic had torn their lives apart at the seams. They weren’t a couple anymore, and with the new age gap, it made sense. But it hadn’t been their choice.

Riley stepped a little closer. “Sorry. I still care about you a lot, Chase.”

He nodded once, quietly. “I know.”

Inside, the bureaucratic maze began. The front desk required ID, a temporary access badge, and the filling out of two redundant forms just to access what they described as “legacy digital terminals.” After 30 minutes and a call to a supervisor who had to be pulled from his break, they were finally led into a stuffy room that reeked of disuse and old carpet glue.

A massive CRT monitor, yellowed at the edges, perched on a creaky desk like a forgotten deity from the early digital age. The CPU below it was whirring so loudly Chase half-expected it to take flight. Riley tapped the side of the mouse and the screen flickered to life.

The records interface was stark—blocky fonts, tab-separated entries, and a blinking command line prompt. But it worked. Together, they combed through the Registry of Arcane Violations & Irregularities, cross-referencing incidents, flags, and metadata tags. Each dead end felt heavier than the last.

Finally, buried in a sequence of encrypted entries linked to misclassified mirror objects and memory-loss anomalies, they found it:

[P1-E] Violation recorded. Aetheric signature echoing 7A-001 type scroll. Unregistered activation. [P3] Secondary effect ripple. Compounded time-lag artifact suspected. Observation recommended.  [R.A.V.I. ERROR FLAG]: Autonomous reroute initiated. Routing data: 77.134.66.47 // AUTH-TOKEN: “Valence”

Riley’s eyes lit up. She pulled a cheap Android phone from her hobo bag and grinned. “I picked up a burner on the way here. Couldn’t resist.”

She typed the IP into the mobile browser. The page that loaded was stripped bare: solid black with a single blinking input field. She entered the codeword: Valence. Hit Enter. Another box appeared: Enter Phone Number. She keyed in the burner’s number.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then the phone buzzed. A single message: "Bus terminal – midnight"

Chase finally exhaled. “Well… that’s ominous.”

“At least it’s progress.” Riley said, slipping the phone back into her bag. 

Chase nodded, the tension lingering in his shoulders. “So we still have the dinner party at my house tonight, but it shouldn't go past nine. Deborah confirmed this morning”

Riley raised an eyebrow. “As much as I wish she were out of my dad's life, it should be interesting to see what the magic has done to their relationship.”

Chase nodded, took a sip of his latte. “We should ride together to the bus terminal.That place is sketchy in broad daylight”

“I’ll pick you up at 11:30pm.” She smiled. “My car’s still nicer."

He gave her a look but didn’t argue. They walked out of the archives together and then Riley took off in her car, back to college. Chase called Amy and asked if she needed him to pick up anything from the store. She did, so he started his car and headed to the liquor store.

After a quick stop for two bottles of Pinot Grigio—something crisp, citrus-forward, and not too sweet—Chase headed home. The kitchen smelled of rosemary, lemon zest, and warm bread as he stepped inside. Amy was already halfway through prepping the potatoes, her sleeves rolled up, hair pinned back with a lavender clip.

They worked in practiced harmony. Chase whipped the ricotta, folding in lemon zest until it formed a silky, cloud-like texture. He carefully spooned it onto toasted crostini and drizzled the tops with wildflower honey. Amy prepped the Cornish hens, brushing the skin with olive oil and herbs before sliding them into the oven. The potatoes roasted alongside, mingling their earthy fragrance with the tang of blistering cherry tomatoes. Arugula was tossed with pine nuts and shavings of parmesan, dressed only with a final zigzag of balsamic glaze.

For dessert, they prepped affogato—glass cups of vanilla gelato waiting in the freezer for espresso to be poured over it tableside. Elegant, unfussy.

The dining table was set with cloth napkins neatly folded into minimalist fans. Handwritten menu cards—Chase’s neat cursive on thick ivory cardstock—sat atop each plate. Tall, unscented taper candles flickered between modest floral arrangements of eucalyptus and pale roses.

Logan stepped out of his bedroom, his faded knit sweater hanging loosely on his slender frame. Wrinkled khakis sagged at the knees, and the sharp lines of his jaw had softened. Shaggy hair framed a face etched with exhaustion. He wore no makeup—just the bare, unfiltered presence of someone suspended in transition, physically, emotionally, existentially.

Riley arrived first, looking editorial-perfect. Her high ponytail was sleek and sharp, and her soft blush silk blouse draped elegantly off one shoulder, just enough to feel intimate. The black pencil skirt hugged her frame, and nude stilettos added height and grace. Her makeup was luminous—cheeks kissed with highlighter, lips glossy, brows sculpted with precision. She greeted Chase with a grin.

“You look amazing,” Chase said sincerely.

“You too,” Riley replied, eyes scanning his look. “Like a page out of an interiors blog—but the fashion section.”

Moments later, the door opened again.

Mitchell and Deborah stepped inside, and the energy subtly shifted.

She looked younger—by five years, maybe more. Though her figure had shed many of its curves, she carried herself with quiet poise. Her face balanced a defined jawline with soft cheeks and smooth, makeup-free skin, giving her a striking, ambiguous allure. A crisp ivory button-up was neatly tucked into high-waisted slate-gray trousers, complemented by sleek oxford shoes. Her short, tousled hair grazed the nape of her neck.

Mitchell looked much the same—affable, tall, with that ever-comforting voice—and he greeted everyone warmly.

Dinner began with laughter and shared memories. Amy gushed over the crostini, Mitchell complimented the salad’s balance as he raised his glass to the “best home-cooked meal this side of the state.”

They were halfway through the main course when it started. Subtle at first, like déjà vu. A tilt in posture. A hesitation in tone. Someone’s voice sounding... different. Then came the shifts.

Chase blinked and was suddenly seated next to Mitchell, not Riley. Deborah was across the table, sitting beside Logan. And it wasn’t just the seating that had changed.

Chase’s body had softened again, curves more defined—breasts now a modest but undeniable B-cup. His waist nipped in, hips fuller, and his burgundy blouse clung in all the right ways. Wide-leg cream trousers elongated her legs, and block heels gave him a quiet poise. His hair fell in loose waves past his shoulders, and his makeup was polished and warm—skin dewy, lips glossed in rose, lashes curled with care.

Logan was looking more polished, if reluctantly so. Their sweater had been swapped for a lavender knit top that echoed the floral hues of the centerpiece and subtly highlighted the curve of their breasts. A cropped black jacket softened the overall silhouette. Their shoulder-length hair was loosely tucked behind one ear, revealing a single silver stud. Makeup was understated—just a sweep of mascara for lift and a tinted balm offering a trace of warmth.

Deborah looked even younger now, her frame broader and more angular. Soft curves had receded into suggestion—shoulders stood out more clearly, hips had narrowed. Her hair skimmed her earlobes. She wore a charcoal gray button-up in a fabric that looked lived-in but deliberate, the sleeves rolled just below the elbow. A sand-colored utility jacket, boxy and unshaped, hung over her frame like it had always belonged there. Her black cropped trousers revealed scuffed, lovingly-worn leather oxfords. The only adornments were a silver chain bracelet and a black watch.

Riley, meanwhile, looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine. Her hair, now a rich caramel, was pinned back with a pearl clip. She wore a cream turtleneck that hugged her body, a pleated blush skirt, and flawless pale peach heels. Her makeup was immaculate—winged liner, contoured cheekbones, glossy pink lips. She seemed hyper aware of her image, sitting straighter, laughing at all the right moments.

Conversation resumed. Logan and Deborah fell into hushed tones, leaning in close. They smiled at things no one else heard. There was a shared vulnerability in their posture, like they were seeing each other clearly for the first time.

Mitchell continued to engage with Riley and Amy, but every few minutes his hand would brush Chase’s, or his gaze would linger. “Isn’t that right, Chase?” he asked during a story, placing a warm, steadying hand on his arm. It made Chase's heart flutter.

Once they'd finished the main course, Chase excused himself to the bathroom, still adjusting to the feel of his heels on the hardwood. Mitchell stood at the same time. Riley followed.

Out of earshot, she grinned. “This is going great. Deborah and Logan are vibing, which is kind of adorable.”

Chase looked uneasy. “Yeah, but... the magic—it’s pairing me up with your dad.”

Riley didn’t miss a beat. “We’ll get the magic canceled tonight. If not...” she smirked, “...I mean, you’ll make an awesome stepmom.”

Chase groaned.

Back in the dining room, dessert was served—affogato, espresso poured lovingly over scoops of vanilla gelato. It was sweet and bitter, warm and cold. Like everything that evening. 

After dinner, Logan and Deborah hung out in the living room. In the kitchen, Mitchell had Riley help Amy with dishes while he pulled Chase aside. The back porch was quiet, bathed in soft lamplight.

“I had a really good time tonight,” he said, turning to him. “I was wondering... would you want to go out with me tomorrow night? Just us.”

It hit him like a hard but thrilling jolt. His breath caught, and he smiled without even thinking. “I’d love that.”

He nodded, pleased. “Great. I’ll pick you up at six.”

Mitchell left soon after, but Deborah stayed. In this new reality, she and Mitchell had driven separately

Riley left too, returning to her sorority house to swap her high heels for something more appropriate for a late-night trip to the city’s sketchy bus terminal.

"Where's Logan and Deborah," Chase asked as he settled onto the living room couch beside Amy.

"They're up in Logan's room. They really seem to like each other," Amy said. "So, what should we watch?"

They decided on 'Love at First Sight', a cozy romantic comedy from 2023. During the show, Amy called him her sister more than once—and each time, it bothered him a little less. He still saw himself as male, and physically he was, but with every subtle shift in reality, he felt more and more like a she.

Deborah and Logan were still deep in conversation in Logan’s room when Chase slipped into his own to change for his midnight rendezvous.

~~~

At exactly 11:30 PM, the quiet hum of an engine approached Chase’s house. The front porch light cast soft halos on the sidewalk as Riley’s glacier-white 2022 Audi A3 glided to a smooth stop in the driveway. Sleek and confident in its design, the car looked like it belonged outside a luxury townhouse.

Chase was already sitting on the front steps, posture elegant, back straight despite the hour. He wore a charcoal turtleneck bodysuit tucked into high-waisted plum cigarette pants that elongated his frame. A sharp espresso blazer added structure, its lapels crisp in the porch light. Black pointed ankle boots gave a subtle lift, while his straight, glossy hair framed a subtly contoured face. His makeup was precise—mocha eyeshadow, a rose-mauve lip, and bronzer for warmth. A slim black crossbody and silver hoops completed the look.

Riley stepped out of her car, immediately radiating a different kind of cool. She wore an oversized black wool coat, unbuttoned and windswept, over a cropped hoodie and high-waisted charcoal cargo pants with just enough slouch. Sleek black ankle boots clicked on the pavement, and a deep oxblood crossbody added a subtle pop of color. Her hair was tucked in a low bun beneath a gray knit beanie. The makeup was minimal but sharp—matte skin, smoky liner, and a sheer plum balm.

They smiled the moment they laid eyes on each other. 

“Look at us,” Riley said, smirking as her eyes flicked over his outfit. “We look like we’re about to rob a high-end fashion boutique.”

Chase laughed, nodding toward the curb. “Nice car.”

She tilted her head. “So is yours. What year’s your Q3?”

“2020. Yours?”

“2022,” she said, smug.

“Newer wins, huh?”

“Every time,” she replied, leading the way to her car.

“But mine’s an SUV,” he countered, sliding into the passenger seat. “I've got cargo space and it feels like a living room on wheels.”

“Mine is sportier, sleeker, and actually fun to drive,” Riley said. “Yours looks like something an accountant drives to Whole Foods.”

“I like Whole Foods.”

They both laughed, the tension easing as she pulled away from the curb.

They pulled into the cracked parking lot of the Downtown South Bus Terminal just before midnight. The place looked as if it had been forgotten by time—and by city funding. Flickering fluorescent lights buzzed over narrow sidewalks. The air was thick with the sharp scent of diesel, old coffee, and something sourer—unwashed clothes, maybe, or urine soaked into concrete over years of neglect.

Inside, the terminal was mostly empty. A few stragglers slumped across molded plastic benches, their belongings crammed into duffel bags or plastic grocery sacks. One man snored loudly beneath an army jacket, a newspaper crumpled under his head like a makeshift pillow. Another woman muttered to herself near the vending machines, which blinked with outdated digital displays and carried expired granola bars.

The walls were stained, smudged from years of touch and indifference. The floor tiles were uneven, the grout dark. A broken information screen hung above the ticket counter, permanently displaying “Route Error.” The men’s room door hung slightly ajar, yellow caution tape discarded on the floor nearby.

At precisely midnight, Riley’s phone buzzed. “Package under third bench from men’s room. Take it and leave.”

They walked slowly, deliberately. Chase kept his head down, eyes flicking casually toward the third bench. It was occupied only by shadows. Beneath it, wedged tightly between the metal supports, was a cardboard box, about the size of a large hardcover novel—like 'It' by Stephen King. When Chase knelt to pick it up, the weight surprised him. It was dense, unyielding. No markings. No labels. Just plain brown cardboard and mystery.

They exited quickly and returned to Riley's A3, the car’s LED lights bright against the humid dark. Chase sat with the box on his lap, the engine off, the silence between them growing sharp.

Nothing happened. No footsteps. No voices. No cars pulling up. Just silence.

Then—bzzzt. Another text from the same number. “Bring package with you to Unit B1, 102 SE Revant Rd. Tomorrow 3PM.”

They both stared at it.

“Okay,” Chase said, exhaling. “That’s… something.”

“I hope it's not some kind of a trap,” she said.

The car glided through the darkened city, both of them subdued, the gravity of what they were carrying finally sinking in.

“My last class ends at two," Riley said as she drove. "I can pick you up. Are you still working from home?”

“Yes and it's so nice,” Chase said. “I make my own hours—freelance assistant stuff. Virtual admin for small shops. Nothing glamorous, but very flexible.”

“You’re kind of thriving,” Riley said with a half-smile. “Hot girl secretary energy.”

He laughed. “I hate how accurate that is.”

Her voice turned soft. “Are we doing the right thing? We have no idea what's in that package. We could be breaking some serious laws.”

Chase looked out the window, hand resting over the weight of the box in his bag. “I don't know, but we don't have much in the way of alternatives. I need my life back. I want there to be an 'us' again.”

Riley squeezed his hand. “I want that too.”

They pulled into his driveway just before 12:40 AM. The porch light was still on. Chase unbuckled, hesitated.

Riley turned to him. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow. Okay?”

He nodded. “I hope you're right.”

They didn’t hug, didn’t need to. But their expressions said it all: cautious hope. The fragile belief that after everything—the transformations, the confusion, the rewritten relationships—might soon be at an end.

Chase got out and watched her drive away, her taillights glowing like twin red eyes fading into the night. Then he turned toward the door, the package heavy in his bag, and stepped into the quiet house. Tomorrow at 3 PM, they'd meet the person—or whatever—that would, hopefully, change everything back to normal.

~~~

It was the following day, just after 2pm and Riley’s heels clicked softly on the pavement as she crossed the sunny expanse of the nearly half-empty college lot. Her cinnamon pleated skirt caught the breeze and swayed against her legs with each step, the pleats fanning and fluttering like petals around her knees. Her ivory cropped blazer, tailored to perfection, framed the soft drape of her silk necktie blouse, which moved gently as she walked, the bow fluttering with the breeze.

Her white patent loafers gleamed in the sun. Each step looked choreographed—graceful, intentional, completely at ease. The glacier white Audi A3 reflected her like a mirror as she reached it. She smiled faintly at her reflection in the side window. Her long caramel hair styled with precision and care, parted sharply down the middle. Her winged eyeliner was flawless. The glossy pink polish on her nails shimmered as she reached into her purse.

A low, confident male voice cut across the stillness. “Nice ride. I love the A3.”

She turned with a practiced flick of her hair, prepared to brush off whoever it was—but paused.

The guy standing a few spots over leaned casually against a red Porsche 718 Boxster convertible, the top down, the tan leather interior on proud display. He was tall, with fitted jeans, clean white sneakers, and a slate-grey jacket thrown over a crisp white tee—simple, classic. His hair was neat but artfully messy, his jawline strong, smile confident without being smug.

“Thanks,” Riley said, eyebrows raised, her smile taking on a slightly flirtatious tilt. “You’ve got taste.”

“I could say the same. I thought I was the only one here not driving a Corolla.”

They chatted for a few minutes—where they were from, what they studied, how nice the weather had gotten all of a sudden. He asked for her number, and she gave it to him without hesitation, her heart skipping a little at the way he looked at her—like she was a woman in full bloom.

“I’d love to keep talking,” she said, regretfully, “but I’m picking up a friend.”

He smiled, all calm composure. “I’ll call you.”

“I hope you do.”

As she slid into her Audi and shut the door, her heart was fluttering like leaves in a storm.

Twenty minutes later, when Chase stepped out of the house, Riley couldn’t help but smile. He was stunning.

He wore a blush satin blouse tucked neatly into navy ankle-length slacks, the material gliding smoothly over his frame. The blouse had a high neckline with delicate pintuck detailing, and the sunlight turned the fabric luminous. Muted plum block heels gave him lift without sacrifice. A delicate gold chain sat just above the hollow of his throat. Thin hoop earrings framed his face.

His hair, gathered into a sleek low ponytail, curled just slightly at the ends. The effect was soft, elegant. His dewy makeup was minimal but expertly applied—gentle shimmer at the corners of his eyes, dusty rose lips, skin glowing like he'd been lit from within.

He slid into the passenger seat, buckled in, and gave Riley a small smile.

“You look amazing,” she said.

“So do you,” he replied, then added, “You look… buoyant.”

Riley laughed. “I kind of am.”

As the car cut through the afternoon light, Riley launched into the story.

“I met someone. Just now, actually. In the parking lot. His name is Tate Fairchild. He's cute, funny, confident. And he's rich—he drives a red Porsche, for God’s sake. He had this voice, like he knew you'd listen, and not in an annoying way.”

Chase smiled politely, hands folded in his lap.

“He asked for my number. Like, not in a gross way. Just… cool and confident. It made me feel—I don’t know, sparkly? Do you think he’ll call?”

There was a pause. Then Chase spoke, voice soft but steady.

“Why would you tell me that?” he said finally. His voice was soft, but it carried weight. “I used to be your boyfriend. I know I look like a woman now, and I’m older—but I still care about you, Riley. I can’t just turn that off.”

Riley’s face hardened, then cracked. “You’re going on a date with my dad tonight.”

His flinch was slight, but she saw it.

She immediately softened. “I’m sorry—I guess that was kind of mean. I didn’t tell you about Tate to hurt you. It’s just… you’re like a girlfriend to me now. I want to tell you everything.”

He nodded, eyes ahead. “It’s not your fault. The magic is doing this to us. I’m happy that we’re still close. That means a lot to me. Please, don’t hold back. I like that you can tell me anything, really. We’re not boyfriend and girlfriend, not in this reality. Never were.” He gave a dry chuckle. “So let’s be friends.”

She smiled at him, touched his hand. “Good, cause I really need your support. I'd be lost in this without you.”

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

The apartment building was forgettable—flat beige walls, iron stair railings, a crumbling parking strip with half-faded lines. Unit B1 was tucked in at the far corner, the curtains drawn shut. The front door had a scuff mark near the bottom, and the number looked like it had been glued on in a hurry.

Riley knocked twice.

The door opened. A woman stood there—early forties, shoulder-length auburn curls, eyes sharp. She wore loose black trousers and a sleeveless tunic, barefoot despite the linoleum floor. She stepped aside without a word, motioning for them to enter. Inside, the apartment was almost bare—just two folding chairs and a closed door in the back. The windows were covered in heavy blue drapes. It didn’t feel lived in. It felt… rented for this purpose.

“You brought the package?”

Riley nodded, handed it over. The woman weighed it in her hands, then set it aside. She reached out to each of them, one hand for each.

“Take my hands.”

They did.

She closed her eyes, and her lips moved quickly in a language neither of them recognized. The air shifted. The temperature dropped. Riley felt a hum in her bones; Chase felt pressure behind his eyes, like a sneeze that never came.

The woman opened her eyes and smiled faintly. “Congratulations. You passed.”

“Passed what?” Riley asked.

“As I held your hands I scryed your intent. You’re not wasting our time. That’s all that matters. Now—what do you need?”

They told her the whole story. Using the scroll and the series of weird changes to their lives. Her expression didn’t change once. She listened, nodding occasionally. No judgment, no skepticism.

When they finished, Riley leaned forward. “Can you help us?”

The woman shook her head. “I’m not the Fixer. I’m just the gatekeeper and I set up the initial meeting." She pulled out her phone and tapped an app. “How's a week from next Tuesday?”

“We need help now,” Chase said.

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Emergency appointment? Doable, but expensive.”

“How much?” Riley asked.

“Two thousand. Cash. Just to schedule it. You’ll need to bring another two grand to the Fixer. Could be more depending on what you need. But that’s between you and them.”

“Do we bring it back here?”

“I’ll be here for another thirty minutes.”

They ran to the car.

Riley’s fingers drummed anxiously on the steering wheel as the Audi peeled out of the apartment complex perking lot. The low growl of the engine echoed between the narrow lanes of the aging neighborhood. Her perfectly sculpted nails clashed with the jagged rhythm of her nerves.

"I've set a timer for twenty-nine minutes,” Chase muttered from the passenger seat, glancing at his phone, watching the seconds fly by.

"The bank's about ten minutes from here," Riley said, eyes locked on the road. 

"That's only if we make all the lights." His hands were clenched tightly, fingers twisting the delicate gold chain he wore.

"We'll make it," Riley said as she drove past a stop sign, barely slowing.

They pulled into the bank's parking lot seven and a half minutes later. Riley was stepping out the door the moment the car came to a complete stop.

“We’ve got a little over twenty minutes,” Chase reminded her, checking his phone. 

Riley rolled her eyes. “Relax. I'll be back before you know it.”

Nine minutes passed. Chase sat in the car, fidgeting. His eyes flitted to the front door of the bank and then back to the timer. Still no sign of movement of Riley.

He texted:  “All good?” No reply. “Should I come in?” No response.

Beyond frustrated, Chase exited the car and headed into the bank.

The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead, casting a sterile glow over plastic plants and laminated posters promising “a brighter financial future.” Chase’s low heels clicked like gunfire on the tile.

He spotted Riley immediately—trapped at a cubicle desk in the back corner with a man who looked like he had once dreamed of being a principal and settled instead for middle management at a credit union. His tie was printed with tiny sailboats. Riley’s smile was polite but strained, the kind that said kill me now.

"I'm kind of in a hurry," Riley said.

“I know. You said that before. And I’m just asking these questions to ensure you’re not being coerced.” The man’s voice was overly kind, almost rehearsed. “Large cash withdrawals raise flags, you understand—especially for young clients. It’s not just about the money, it’s about guidance. That’s our job here.”

Chase inhaled, smoothed his blouse, and strode up to the desk.

“Hi there. My friend is withdrawing her own money. Why is that a problem?” His tone was crisp. “It’s her money. Not yours. Not mine. Hers. So unless you’re planning to print a special edition of Forbes with her face on the cover in the next five minutes, I suggest you stop her wasting time.”

The man blinked. “I’m just following—”

“She’s twenty-one. She’s competent. She’s not asking for investment advice, she’s asking for cash. Her cash.”

“I need to make sure it’s not suspicious—”

“Oh, it’s suspicious alright,” Chase said, voice rising. “It's suspicious that you’re stalling a grown adult trying to make a legal withdrawal from her own account. Is it the amount? The nail polish? Or do you just have a thing about young women making decisions without a man present to sign for them?”

Riley stifled a laugh.

The assistant manager sputtered, but stood up, mumbling something about getting the cash from the vault.

They barely made it out of the bank by 3:23. Riley clutched the two white envelopes each stuffed with two thousand in crisp bills as she threw the car into drive, tires squealing slightly as they peeled out of the lot.

“We’ve got seven minutes,” Chase said, buckling his seatbelt like a soldier prepping for combat.

“I’m going. Hold on tight.”

The Audi darted through side streets and yellow lights, every turn feeling tighter, every tick of the clock louder.

“Okay, okay—there!” Chase shouted, spotting the apartment complex as they skidded into the gravel lot with one minute to spare.

They sprinted to Unit B1, Riley clutching the envelope to her chest, Chase’s heels digging into the dirt. Just as Riley raised her hand to knock, the door opened. The woman nodded, accepted the money.

“You’ll meet the Fixer tomorrow, 2 PM. Different address,” she said, scribbling it on a Post-it. “Don’t be late.”

Riley frowned. “I’ll have to skip my Wine Appreciation class. That’s my favorite.”

“You want help or cabernet?” the woman said, deadpan.

The car was quieter on the way home. Riley tapped the steering wheel, Chase watching the clouds shift above. At last, she pulled into his driveway.

Riley looked at him for a moment, her smile softening into something more fragile. “Hey… would you like help picking out something to wear tonight?”

He raised a brow. “Are you sure? Wouldn’t that be—awkward?”

“A little,” she admitted, brushing a hand through her long waves. “But I want to be there for you. We both made wishes that are changing us. Whatever this is—whatever it turns into—we have to stick together.”

Chase studied her for a beat, then nodded. “Okay. I’d like that.”

Inside the house, it was quiet. Amy and Logan weren't home yet They headed to his room, where soft afternoon light filtered through gauzy curtains. His space was immaculate—warm neutrals and carefully chosen decor that echoed his emerging femininity. A delicate vanity mirror reflected the slowly changing contours of a life in flux.

Riley stood by the open closet as Chase sat on the edge of the bed, watching her with amused trepidation.

“So,” she said, flipping through hangers, “I’ve seen enough of my dad’s type to know what he responds to.”

“You mean like… your mom?”

She turned, giving him a sharp, wry grin. “And his girlfriends since then. But yeah, I've seen how he responds to different outfits the women in his life have worn around him.”

Chase chuckled nervously. “I want to look nice. Classy. Appropriate for a fancy restaurant. But I don’t want to… I don’t know, invite anything.”

“Got it,” Riley said, her voice thoughtful as she shifted through a few more pieces. “Less flirty, more poised. Confident, beautiful, but reserved.”

“One dinner. That’s all. No flirting, no kiss.”

She turned toward him with a hand on her hip. “Okay, no offense, but you should at least give him a kiss goodnight. Don’t be a total bitch. If you’re gonna pull the ice-queen act, just call him and cancel.”

Chase looked away, torn. “I thought about cancelling,” he admitted. "But then I remember how I felt when he asked me to dinner. It made me feel special, desirable. Do you know what I mean?”

Riley’s expression softened. “Oh, I get it, trust me.”

He looked up. “And the idea of dining somewhere upscale?  Actually putting on nice clothes, going out, and being… seen. That’s been dancing around in my head ever since.”

Riley nodded slowly, then pulled a blouse off the rack with a little flourish. “Then this is what you’re wearing.”

She held it up: a sleek black satin blouse with sculpted shoulders and soft draping at the waist. It caught the light just enough to whisper elegance. She paired it with charcoal wide-leg trousers that had just the right amount of movement, a slim leather belt with a matte gold buckle, and polished black loafers.

“Classy. Commanding. Not trying too hard,” she said. “You’re untouchable, but warm enough to let someone try. I call it Guarded Elegance.”

He laughed as he stood. “You’re really good at this.”

She shrugged, beaming. “I’m the daughter of Mitchell Bennett. Trust me, I’ve seen what works.”

They laughed, and she turned to grab her phone when it buzzed on the bed. A notification lit the screen. Her eyes widened.

“Oh my god,” she gasped. “Tate just texted me.”

“The Porsche guy?”

She nodded, nearly breathless. “‘Hey :)’ That’s all it says. What do I say back?”

Chase stepped up beside her, grinning. “Say, ‘Hi, I’m glad you texted me.’ Keep it simple.”

They both stared at the screen. A moment later, the typing bubble popped up.

“Oh god, he’s typing.”

Chase leaned in.

"Wanna go to the Union Taproom tonight?"

Riley clapped a hand over her mouth. “He’s asking me out!”

“Say yes, genius.”

She typed: "Yes! What time?"

A beat later: "8".

She replied: "See you there".

She was glowing. Her cheeks flushed, her lips parted in that breathless sort of wonder that made everything feel like a movie.

Chase smiled, warm and genuine. “Girl, it’s okay to be happy. I’m happy for you. Really.”

She looked at him for a second, overwhelmed, then threw her arms around him in a tight hug. “You’re the best friend ever.”

“So are you,” he murmured, hugging her back.

They pulled apart, and she grabbed her bag from the chair.

“Okay,” she said, straightening. “Go wow my dad. Be elegant, be firm, and do kiss him goodnight.”

Chase rolled his eyes, grinning. “Fine. Maybe.”

She winked as she walked out the door. “Let me know if he deserves a second date.”

Later that night, Chase descended the stairs slowly, each step a mix of nerves and anticipation coiled beneath his skin. He checked the clock—Mitchell was due in five minutes. The scent of something buttery drifted from the kitchen, and as he stepped into the dining room, he found Amy, Logan, and Deborah gathered around the table, eating mac and cheese from ceramic bowls.

Amy looked up first, her eyes lighting up like candles. “Oh my God, look at you,” she said, her voice somewhere between reverence and delight.

She turned to Logan, nudging him with her elbow. “Tell your aunt how beautiful she is.”

Logan glanced up, then mumbled around the food still in their mouth, “Yeah, you look nice or whatever.”

“Mitchell’s jaw is gonna drop when he sees you,” Deborah said warmly.

Amy beamed. “Deb made dinner tonight. Isn’t that nice?”

Chase smiled politely, his hands smoothing the fabric of his blouse. “It is. Thanks, Deb.”

Just then, a knock echoed from the front door. The sound, sharp and distinct, sent Chase’s stomach leaping into his throat. He sucked in a breath, feeling the silky blouse shift with the rise of his chest, and forced his legs to carry him to the door.

When he opened it, Mitchell stood under the porch light, a dark wool suit cutting an elegant silhouette against the night. His hair was slicked back with effortless polish, and his presence was commanding without trying.

Mitchell's lips parted slightly when he saw Chase. “You look incredible.”

Chase faltered. “You… look really good too.” The words came out with surprising softness.

Mitchell stepped inside, just enough to nod a hello toward the dining room. “Evening, Amy, Logan…Deborah.”

Amy waved with mock fluster. “You two have fun now.”

Then, Mitchell turned back and extended his arm. “Shall we?”

Chase slipped his arm through Mitchell’s, the gesture almost ceremonial. Together they stepped out onto the porch, and Chase caught sight of the car parked at the curb. It was a matte grey Mercedes, low and sculpted, the surface catching the porch light like brushed stone. 

Mitchell opened the passenger door with a chivalrous air, and Chase eased in. The leather seat cradled him like a custom glove. Mitchell rounded the front and slid behind the wheel. He flashed Chase a smile and then backed out of the driveway.

The restaurant was a vision of romance and wealth—Le Papillon Noir sat on a quiet corner, framed in ivy and warm golden lighting. The maître d’ greeted Mitchell by name and led them to a small, intimate table set in a secluded corner beneath a vintage iron chandelier.

Candles flickered between them as wine was poured and appetizers delivered. Mitchell’s voice was low and calm, his gaze attentive. He asked about Chase’s life—his work, his hobbies, the books he loved. Chase’s first instinct was to reach into his old life, to speak of things from before the wish, but he talked about his life in this new reality, the words feeling natural and real. As if they’d always belonged to him.

With each answer, memories surfaced and nestled in his mind. He spoke of working as a freelance assistant, of reading poetry late at night, of hanging out with his sister.

Chase asked questions too. What was Mitchell like as a kid? What did he do when he wasn’t running boardrooms or managing contracts? His answers painted a portrait of someone unexpectedly human—he liked to skeet shooting, old movies, collecting rare maps.The conversation flowed easily, touched with laughter and surprising intimacy.

During the main course—filet de bœuf au poivre and truffled potatoes—the waiter reached between them to refill Chase’s wine. A single drop slipped from the bottle and darkened the pristine white tablecloth. Something in Chase’s stomach twisted. The urge to scold the waiter rose like a reflex. But he forced it back with effort, simply dabbing the spot with his napkin and saying nothing.

The meal ended with a shared crème brûlée, the sugar crust cracking beneath Mitchell’s spoon. As they stepped out of the restaurant, into the cool night air, Chase felt something shift deep within. The transformation wasn’t dramatic—it was graceful, seamless, like silk unfurling.

His cheekbones sharpened slightly; his lips softened and plumped as his body adjusted into a sculpted hourglass silhouette. His waist narrowed, his hips and thighs filling out with elegant curves. His breasts swelled from a modest B cup to a generous, natural C. There was a new weight to his blouse, a tension in his skirt, a sense of absolute femininity.

The black satin blouse was now a soft ivory, sleeves billowing slightly with romantic cuffs. Tucked into a high-waisted burgundy pencil skirt that hugged his body like a secret. His burgundy pumps clicked as he walked, balancing height and poise.

His hair spilled in glossy, chestnut waves down his back, kissed with caramel light. A side part with one side pinned gently behind his ear showcased his sculpted jawline. His makeup was radiant—dewy skin, soft rose lips, gold-bronze lids under fluttering lashes.

The valet jogged around the corner to retrieve the car. Minutes ticked by. Still nothing. Chase felt irritation bubbling up.

Several more minutes passed before Mitchell’s car finally pulled up to the curb. The valet jumped out and rushed over.

“How long does it take to fetch one car?” Chase asked, voice cool and clipped—though noticeably higher-pitched than before.

Mitchell raised an amused brow. “Now, be nice.” 

Chase shot the valet a look. “Nice is reserved for people who do their job competently.”

Mitchell slipped the valet a tip as he took the keys.

The valet looked at the fifty dollar bill. "Thank you very much, sir! Have a great evening."

Chase said to Mitchell, "He'll never learn to do his job properly if you reward his incompetence."

Mitchell laughed as he opened the passenger door. “You’re too much.”

Once he slid behind the wheel, he glanced over and said, “Wanna come back to my place for a nightcap, Cheryl?”

Chase hesitated. It was tempting—God, he was tempting—but even now, there were limits. The wish hadn’t finished rewriting the core of him. He was, technically, still male. And that mattered.

“I’d like to,” Chase said softly. “But not tonight.”

His name was Cheryl now. He still thought of himself as Chase—and as a man—but it was becoming harder to hold onto that identity. Especially with the weight of his full breasts shifting beneath his silk blouse every time the car took a turn.

When they pulled into the driveway, the porch light blinked on, casting a warm frame around the house.

Chase turned in his seat. “Come here,” he said softly.

Mitchell leaned in and kissed him—slow, unhurried—until Chase kissed back, deeply, passionately. It turned into a kiss that curled his toes and sent an intoxicating flush to his cheeks.

When it ended, Chase let his hand trail down the lapel of Mitchell’s suit jacket. “Let’s go out tomorrow,” he said, voice low and sultry.

Mitchell smiled, eyes still half-closed. “Where to?”

Chase stepped out, turned back over his shoulder, and said with a wink, “Pick me up at six, surprise me.”

The door shut with a soft click, and Chase sashayed to the house, heart thudding, heels echoing on the concrete beneath him.

Chase closed the front door behind him with a gentle click, locking it before slipping off his heels and carrying them in one hand. The house was quiet except for the faint murmur of a movie playing in the living room. He padded toward the sound, feet bare on the hardwood, and found Amy curled up on the couch in a cozy nest of blankets. A bowl of popcorn rested on her lap, and the flickering screen painted warm light across her face.

When she saw him, her eyes lit up.

“I swear,” she said, smiling wide, “you’re more beautiful every time I see you.”

Chase flushed slightly but smiled back. “And I have the sweetest sister in the world.”

Amy lifted the edge of the blanket invitingly. “Get over here.”

He didn’t hesitate. He set his heels neatly by the side of the couch, then slid in beside her, nestling into the plush cushions and warm flannel. She paused the movie with the remote and turned to face him, eyebrows raised with the kind of sisterly hunger for gossip that demanded immediate satisfaction.

“So,” she said, “how was your date? I want details.”

Chase let out a soft, contented sigh. “It was… lovely. Really lovely. The food was incredible, the conversation flowed so easily, and…” He gave her a little smile. “I have another date tomorrow.”

Amy’s eyes sparkled. “Ooh. Another date? Is it getting serious?”

There was a pause—only a beat, but a heavy one. Chase knew what she meant. But serious had become complicated.

He thought about the spell, the quiet transformations that continued to reshape not just his body, but his life. His feelings. His identity. The way Mitchell looked at him tonight had felt real. Like something that was slowly being written into the very fabric of who he was.

“It sure looks like it,” Chase said softly.

Amy’s expression turned tender. “I’m so happy for you, Cheryl.” Her voice was warm with genuine joy. “You deserve something good.”

They sat in silence for a few heartbeats before Amy spoke again. “Oh—by the way, don’t be surprised if you see Dan in the kitchen tomorrow morning.”

Chase blinked and looked at her. “Dan?”

Amy smirked. “Dan, Laney's boyfriend.”

He frowned for a second—then it clicked. Deborah. Just like he was now Cheryl, Deborah was becoming Dan. and that meant his former brother Logan was becoming his niece, Laney.

“They getting serious too?” Chase asked.

Amy’s smile deepened. "They’ve been spending a lot of time together. Dan really seems to help Laney come out of her shell.”

Chase rested his head against Amy’s shoulder and smiled, letting that warmth settle in his chest. She restarted the movie, and for the rest of the evening, they simply sat together—Amy snuggled under her blanket, Chase curled beside her, the popcorn between them slowly dwindling. The movie played out in soft, flickering color, but Chase hardly noticed the plot. It was the comfort of the moment—the steady companionship, the shared blanket, the gentle rhythm of a new life unfolding around him—that soothed him most.

By the time the credits rolled, Chase was fighting sleep. He kissed his sister on the temple and stood, whispering a goodnight before heading upstairs.

As soon as he stepped into his bedroom, he noticed it had changed again.

The space was now a haven of quiet femininity, wrapped in a palette of warm taupes, muted blush, and brushed gold accents. A queen-sized bed was the centerpiece, crowned by a cream velvet tufted headboard. Throw pillows in varying textures—silk, knit, and faux fur—were layered artfully, a thick knit blanket draped just-so at the foot.

To his left, floating shelves displayed neatly curated books, tiny succulents, framed photos, and softly glowing candles in glass jars. The scent of vanilla and amber lingered faintly in the air. On the opposite wall, a sleek white desk doubled as a vanity, complete with a lighted mirror and a tidy arrangement of beauty products and brushes, everything in its place.

He closed the door behind him and exhaled slowly. This room didn’t feel like a stranger’s anymore. It felt like his.

He moved to the center of the room and slowly undressed. First came the blouse, then the skirt, then the bra—unfastened with a small click. His breasts—now noticeably fuller, heavier than even that morning—shifted naturally with the loss of support. He cupped them gently, marveling at their weight, their warmth, the softness of his skin.

He had never wished for this. But now, he wasn’t sure he wanted to go back. Having breasts didn’t feel strange anymore. It felt… right. They made him feel undeniably feminine. And it was becoming harder to imagine himself without them.

From the closet, he pulled out a sleek satin nightgown in deep wine. The fabric whispered as he slipped it over his head, skimming over his body like liquid. The cowl neckline draped elegantly across his chest, and the thigh-high slit gave the gown a sensual edge without compromising its grace. The thin, crisscross straps framed his back beautifully.

He went to the vanity, pulling his hair back with a clip before gently washing off his makeup. His features remained soft, dewy, flushed with a natural beauty. He massaged lotion into his hands and arms, enjoying the small ritual, the subtle intimacy of caring for his skin.

Then he turned off the lights, climbed into the bed, and sank into the plush mattress with a contented sigh. It was softer than his old bed—more supportive, like it had been made with him in mind. The sheets were smooth against his legs, and the weight of the comforter tucked him in like a cocoon.

He closed his eyes and thought about the evening. He lay still, staring up at the ceiling. Mitchell’s kiss returned to him, unbidden—the warmth, the intent behind it. The way it had made his stomach flutter and his heart race. He wanted that again. But first, there was the appointment with the Fixer.

Then he thought of Riley. Her date with Tate had probably gone well—so well she hadn’t even texted. He smiled. They were both settling into the new lives the scroll was crafting for them. If the Fixer was another dead end, they might no longer want to return to the old ones.

With that thought, Chase closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

~~~

A few hours earlier, Riley stood in the foyer of the sorority house, one hand on her hip, her glossy pink nails drumming softly against her phone case. The shoulder-baring crop top clung in just the right places, the white high-rise jeans sculpting her figure like they’d been tailored just for her. Black pumps elongated her legs, giving her a confidence that turned heads the moment she stepped out. Her skin glowed, makeup airbrushed to perfection—subtle contouring to enhance her cheekbones, a shimmering nude gloss catching the light when she smiled, her lashes thick and flirty with every blink. The soft curl of her golden brown hair framed her face like a halo, and the warm vanilla-laced perfume she wore left an intoxicating trail.

When Tate’s red Porsche 718 Boxster pulled up, the growl of the engine made several sisters glance toward the window. Riley took her time walking out, making sure the sway of her hips and easy smile weren’t lost on anyone watching. 

Tate stepped out, rounding the car to open her door. He was dressed clean—tailored dark jeans, a fitted charcoal button-up, and a timepiece that said legacy money even if his smirk said trouble.

She slipped in smoothly, legs crossed as she nestled into the seat. The purr of the engine beneath her, the buttery leather interior, the subtle scent of cologne and luxury—it all added up. A girl could get used to this.

The bar was upscale, ambient, with low lighting and soft music that pulsed through rich wood paneling and golden fixtures. The hostess, a young woman with a sleek bun and sharp eyes, gave Riley a once-over—then nodded with a trace of envy.

As they moved through the space, a table of college-aged women near the bar whispered and giggled, glancing repeatedly at Riley and Tate. Riley didn’t miss a beat. She smiled as if she’d just remembered something delightful. Her presence floated across the room, confident and composed.

They took a booth near the back, semi-private but not hidden. Soft jazz hummed through the speakers. Riley crossed her legs and flicked her hair over her shoulder.

Tate ordered a Manhattan, his tone casual, confident. Riley raised an eyebrow. “Old money drink.”

He shrugged. “Classic.”

She ordered a cucumber-lavender martini, claiming, “Just trying something cute.” When it arrived, she sniffed it delicately, took a sip, and made an approving face.

She leaned in, nodding toward his wrist. “That’s a serious watch. Daddy’s money?”

Tate’s mouth twitched into a grin. “And someday all mine.”

She laughed, genuine and musical. “Points for honesty.”

The chemistry simmered. Their knees brushed beneath the table—once, twice. Neither moved away. Her hand lingered just a beat longer when she picked up her glass, letting her fingers graze his. The conversation was playful, full of sharp asides and subtext.

When she glanced at her phone, it was purely theater. She wasn’t distracted. She was engaged. She hadn’t felt this present in weeks. Tate spoke about law school, his aspirations to clerk for a federal judge, the cities he wanted to live in—New York, D.C., maybe even abroad. He wasn’t just a pretty face in a nice car.

Riley tilted her head, interested, but not impressed. “And here I thought you were just a trust fund in tailored pants.”

“I can be both,” he said easily.

She smiled. “Fair.”

“And you?” he asked. “What’s your major?”

“Interior design,” she replied casually. “With a minor in wine studies.”

“Wine studies? Is that real?”

She gave him a saucy smile. "We sip, swirl, and spit. Well… sometimes I swallow."

His eyes gleamed as he leaned in slowly. “This is one of the best first dates I’ve had in a while.”

“Just wait until the second date,” she replied, slow and smooth.

But even as she smiled, she felt it again—that slow, subtle stirring within her, like someone gently rearranging the shape of her from the inside out.

At first it was a warm pressure around her waist, cinching her figure tighter. Then her hips rounded more fully against the smooth leather of the seat, her bust lifting and reshaping beneath the shifting fabric of her clothes. Her outfit transformed mid-conversation: the casual crop top vanished, replaced by a ruched wine-colored satin corset that gleamed like liquid silk. Her white jeans melted into a sleek black mini skirt with a tasteful slit, her pumps becoming strappy heeled sandals that made her legs look endless.

Gold hoops now framed her face, catching the barlight as her hair lightened in a honey brown and styled itself into effortlessly tousled waves. Her makeup darkened to a smoky, sultry elegance, her lips painted in a deep rose gloss. A designer chain bag now rested at her side as if it had always been there.

Tate didn’t seem to notice the change—because to him, she had always looked this way.

"You are so beautiful, Regina," Tate said.

She blinked, startled for a moment. Regina? Then it hit her. To everyone else, that was her name now. To them Riley didn’t exist, never had.

“I want to dance,” she said suddenly, needing to move. Needing to escape her own thoughts.

Tate blinked, then grinned. “Back room?”

She nodded, taking his hand before he could ask twice. The bracelet on her wrist caught the light as she led him through the crowd, her heels clicking sharply against the tile. Heads turned as they passed—men watched with interest, women with admiration or envy—and Riley felt every gaze like a weight.

The backroom was dim and sultry, lit in pulses of crimson and amber, with music that throbbed low and slow. She led him through the crowd like a queen moving through courtiers—every step purposeful, her hips swaying in that barely exaggerated rhythm that left little room for subtlety.

They danced close. Tate’s hands hovered at her waist, then gently settled there as she gave him a smirk of permission. She moved with smooth, liquid confidence, every shift of her body expressing ownership—of herself, of him, of the room.

An hour passed like seconds.

Their bodies moved together, not in wild abandon, but in a slow-burning chemistry that had everyone glancing their way at least once. She laughed into his shoulder once, biting her lip after. She teased him with her eyes, giving just enough to keep him invested and never enough to let him win.

Eventually it was time to go. They both had classes in the morning.

Outside, the air had cooled. He offered her his jacket without hesitation. It was heavier than it looked, tailored, expensive. She accepted it and murmured “Thank you.” The drive back was quieter—comfortably so. The top was down. Cool air kissed her cheeks. His jacket kept her warm and smelled faintly of him—woodsy cologne and warmth.

When they pulled up outside the sorority, he parked and turned toward her. “I had a good time, Regina."

“So did I,” she said.

He leaned. Their kiss was slow at first—then deepened. Her hand rested on his thigh, a silent declaration of confidence and control. His breath caught when she shifted slightly closer.

As they pulled apart, she reached for the door, then paused. “Call me tomorrow?”

He gave a coy smile. “Maybe.”

She stilled. Then smiled back—but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe?” she repeated, voice velvet-wrapped steel.

Before he could answer, she stayed close, hand drifting across his thigh. Her lips brushed his ear, breath warm. “What if I gave you a blow job?”

There was a shift in energy—his body responding, his smirk faltering. She unzipped his fly, her expression unreadable. For a moment, she dipped down like she might go further… and then stopped. Her eyes met his, glinting with playful cruelty. 

She adjusted her top, sat back in her seat, and said with casual venom, “Then again, maybe not.”

He let out a frustrated breath. “Don’t be a fucking tease.”

“Doesn’t feel very nice, does it?” she said sweetly, opening the car door.

“I’ll call you. Really.”

She turned back just long enough to flip him off with a smile. “Don’t bother.”

Then she was gone—heels clicking across the driveway, hips swaying with more satisfaction than frustration. She talked briefly with a few of her sorority sisters before heading upstairs.

Her room was empty, quiet. Thanks to the magic, she had no roommate now. A private space—lit by string lights and styled with blush velvet throws, designer makeup shelf, full-length mirror with LED trim.

She stepped in front of the mirror. God, she was stunning. There was no denying that. She looked like someone who had stepped out of a fashion campaign—hair tousled to perfection, skin airbrushed, curves in all the right places. She tilted her head, admiring the perfect lines of her figure, the glint of her lip gloss in the mirror’s glow.

But the admiration felt hollow tonight.

She sat on the edge of her bed and slowly began to unhook the corset top, her breathing shallow. Her body was no longer her own—it belonged to this version of her the magic was shaping. And worse than that… her mind was starting to feel like it wasn’t her own either.

She could feel it creeping in, like fog under a locked door: the snide comments she didn’t stop herself from making, the way she casually dismissed people, the pleasure she got from being the most envied girl in the room. It wasn’t who she was—it was what she was becoming. The part of her that was still Riley hated how much she enjoyed it.

Her fingers curled into the bedspread. “I like how I look,” she whispered to herself, her voice hoarse. “But I don’t like who I’m becoming.”

She stood and walked to the window, gazing out past the quiet campus. Somewhere out there, the Fixer was waiting. Maybe they could undo all of this. Maybe they could help her go back to being Riley—sweet, kind, ordinary Riley.

She peeled off the rest of her outfit and changed into a soft robe. After washing her face and tying her hair up, she climbed into bed and pulled the covers tight around her.

She sent a quick text to Chase. "u up?" 

No reply.

She set the phone down with a sigh. Maybe he was already asleep. Maybe he was still out with her dad. She turned out the light and let the quiet settle in. Maybe tomorrow night she'd be back to sleeping in her old bedroom in her dad's house.

End of Part 1