Upstairs, the second-floor landing was warped and dimpled underfoot, with familiar dips that Jason’s own body had learned to navigate years before. Now, Christina’s borrowed hips threatened to throw him off-balance. He clutched the banister and tried not to think about the fact that he could see the edge of his own bra poking through her shirt. At the top of the stairs, he hesitated in the hallway, scanning the closed doors: bedroom, office, closet, bathroom.
Bathroom. He needed the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar—Jason’s door, really, except now it felt like he was trespassing in Christina’s body into a space never meant for her. The thought was complicated and confusing, so he ignored it and slipped inside.
The bathroom was steamy from Dad’s earlier shower, the mirror a wolf-grey blur of condensation. Jason flicked on the fan and watched it stir sluggishly in the ceiling. Water pooled around the sink, toothpaste crusted at the corners—more his own handiwork than anyone else’s. He reached for a towel, caught sight of the painted nails on Christina’s hand (his hand now, for now), and the surprise of it was like a faucet turning suddenly cold. He wiped the mirror, watched his new face emerge: pointed chin, high cheekbones, eyes that looked both angry and scared.
He stared at the face. He made it smile, then sneer, then stick out the tongue.
He stuck a finger in the mouth and pulled back a lip, inspecting the teeth. All white, a little crooked at the bottom. He wondered how much time Christina spent here, in front of the mirror.
“Hi, I’m Christina,” he tried on that voice, let it hover in the air.
It sounded ridiculous and right at the same time.
“Hi!” he repeated with a confident giggle, flicking back her hair, “I’m Christina Henderson.”
He practiced Christina’s smile: teeth bared, lips glossy and precise, a kind of suburban predatory.
Jason rolled his shoulders and, out of some impulse to prove how fine he was with all this, perched one hip against the sink. He stared at the mirror, squinting, then widened his eyes, trying on a selection of the faces he’d seen Christina wear: bored, sharp, mock-sympathetic, that half-laugh she deployed when Dad said something dumb.
He stuck his tongue out again, this time letting it droop limply. He loosened the button at his own throat, which Christina always buttoned to the top like a nun, and exhaled.
The sensation was immediately addictive: a minor release, a private rebellion. He rolled his shoulders again, breathed out, and watched the line of Christina’s collarbone appear above the open throat. He ran his finger along it, tracing the edge, daring himself to go further.
A second button, a third. With each one, the shirt loosened, the fabric pulling away from Christina’s—his—chest.
He was aware, distantly, that he was trespassing in a way even the initial swap hadn’t covered, but curiosity pushed him past embarrassment.
He let the shirt fall open another inch, exposing a triangle of skin and the edge of the lace bra nested underneath. The sight made him pause. He’d seen bras, obviously, but never like this, not on his own body. He resisted the urge to touch it, and then, after a tense second, did it anyway—just a gentle prod, almost scientific. He felt the outline of the cup, the stitching, the faint give underneath.
He held his breath and watched the mirror, searching for some sign that he was doing something wrong, but all he saw was the face of a woman who looked a little amused, a little afraid, and very much alive.
He tried the smile again, wider this time, teeth showing. The effect was uncanny: Christina’s mouth, her lips and teeth, but stretched by his own tentative effort. He watched the way the bones in her cheeks shifted, the tiny crinkle that appeared near the left eye, the strange yet familiar set of her jaw.
He pressed his finger into the dimple of her chin, then traced the outline of her lips, amazed at their softness, their pillowy give.
“I’m Christina Henderson,” he said, voice low and calm, and this time he didn’t flinch.
He waited for the mirror to correct him, to betray a weakness in his mimicry, but it only gave him back the same face, the same wary defiance. He tried it again, softer: “I’m Christina.”
He looked down at the shirt, fingers trembling only slightly now. He undid another button, then another. The shirt parted further, exposing a pale stripe of skin down the breastbone, edged with faint freckles he’d never noticed from across a breakfast table. It was hypnotic, watching the reveal, each inch of skin a reminder that this territory was both conquered and forbidden.
He ran a painted nail along the open edge, tracing the ridgeline of the sternum, feeling how delicate everything seemed compared to his old, blunt-fingered self.
He squared his—her—shoulders and finished the job, popping the last two buttons with a quick, practiced flick of the wrist. The shirt hung open, loose and helpless against the insistent shape beneath. He saw the bra, the lace cup, the soft spill of skin over the top, and he touched it—again, just a brief touch, but more assured now, less clinical.
“Look at me now,” he whispered.
He drew the shirt aside with deliberate care, and after a brief, queasy hesitation, he cupped a hand—Christina’s newly delicate, trembling hand—over the soft mass of her left breast. He watched in the mirror as her—his—fingers splayed, pink-tipped and perfect, out across the curved surface, pressing into the yielding resistance of flesh beneath the thin lace of the bra.
He flashed one of her smiles again, reassuring himself. He tried to mimic the subtle tilt of the head, the squint of the eyes, the way Christina’s lips pulled up at the edges but not always in the middle, as if she was perpetually calculating the appropriate amount of humanity to leak out.
His fingers dug into the flesh of her breasts, and tried saying, “I’m fine,” then “I’m great,” then “I’m so, so happy.”
He let his hands drop, fingers splaying wide, and then in a fit of bravado, reached behind and unclasped the bra in one smooth motion. The cup snapped loose, then sagged, then collapsed altogether, leaving a cool, tingling sensation across the skin. He shrugged out of the shirt and bra entirely, tossing them onto the closed toilet lid.
He stood naked from the waist up, watching himself—herself—unabashed. He ran both hands over the breasts, this time openly, weighing them in each palm, pressing them together, then apart, delighting in their resistance and their give. He rolled one nipple between thumb and forefinger, fascinated by the way the sensation bloomed up the spine and into the jaw, a cascade of goosebumps lighting up along both arms.
He grinned at the mirror again, wider, teeth bared, and said, “I’m Christina. I’m here. I’m alive.”
He let his hand drop to the zipper of the jeans, hesitated only a second, then tugged it down. He watched the reflection as he shimmied the snug denim over the hips, down the thighs, exposing the matching lace of Christina’s underwear. The sight was arresting, electric; he paused, stared at the landscape of the body, the smooth stomach and gentle curve, the way the underwear hugged the flesh so precisely and so unlike his own.
He pressed both hands to the belly, then lower, trailing his fingers along the waistband, daring himself to keep going, to discover just how much of Christina he could wear, how far he could take the performance.
He laughed again, almost breathless, and turned side-to-side, checking the angles, the silhouette, watching the way the skin and fabric shifted and caught the light.
He ran a hand through Christina’s hair and flicked it over one shoulder.
He shucked off the panties, feeling a hot, embarrassed thrill at the sight of his step-mother’s bare hips in the bathroom mirror. He’d never looked at a woman’s body like this before.
He could see himself as her now, all the way: the belly with its whorls and mole, the hipbones clearing the border of smooth skin, the triangle of soft, trimmed hair. He turned, inspecting all of it, the curve of the ass, the smallness and strength of the legs, the way her thighs met and parted. He ran his hands along his—her—sides, tracing ribs and waist, feeling how thin and substantial the flesh was.
“Jason,” he cooed, “Your father and I love you very much. Will you please come downstairs and eat your dinner?”
He used the voice Christina reserved for end-of-argument peacemaking, a little syrupy, a little desperate.
He tried it softer, this time curling her lips into a tiny pout, one hand on his newly bared hip: “Sweetie, I can’t do this alone. Please?”
He prodded further, fingers tracing lower, studying the unfamiliar softness and slipping inside of her…
He leaned into the mirror, lips parted, eyes blazing with hunger, and let the sensations overtake him for a moment. He didn’t care that he was sweating, hair sticking to his forehead, face twisted in what could only be described as desperate need. He looked good—better than good, he looked alive, possessed, like someone dangerous and real.
He kept going until the body tensed and then released, a shivering wave of pleasure that left him breathless and swaying against the sink. He blinked, stunned, then smiled at the aftermath, the way Christina’s face glowed pink and slightly wild, the chest heaving, the hands shaking.
He grinned, wiped the sweat from his brow, and tried out her laugh: a high, brittle giggle that sounded ridiculous and perfect. The line between Jason and Christina blurred a little more, the roles shifting, the boundaries dissolving. He watched the mirror as he practiced her voice again.
He ran a hand through Christina’s hair, smoothed it back, and said, “This is me now.”
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