Chapter 2: Aftermath
The rhythm was everything. A grinding, tectonic pulse that drove the air from Lewis’s lungs with every shift of her impossible weight. The linoleum was cold and unforgiving against his back, the peeling edges near the baseboard digging into his shoulder blades. Her shadow, thrown by the buzzing fluorescent tube, swallowed him whole—a dark, shifting mountain blotting out the light.
He couldn’t think. Could only feel. The heat of her, the smell of sweat and something sharper, like lightning-struck air. Her growls vibrated through the floor, through his bones, a sound of pure, uncomplicated need. His own fear was a bright, cold wire in his chest, but beneath it, wound tight and shameful, was a thread of something else. Awe.
Then, a hitch.
Her breath caught, stuttered. The relentless motion faltered.
A shiver racked her, a violent tremor that seemed to travel from the crown of her head down the massive column of her spine. Another followed, and another, quickening like a machine tearing itself apart. The pressure on his chest lessened, not by her choice, but by a sudden, catastrophic loss of control.
“N-no,” she grunted, the layered voice unraveling into something thin and panicked.
He watched, stunned, as the mountains receded. The cords in her neck softened, retracting. The phenomenal breadth of her shoulders slumped inward with a series of low, popping sounds, like knuckles cracking in reverse. It wasn’t a graceful fade. It was a collapse. Her muscles seemed to deflate, the solid granite of her arms and thighs dissolving into trembling, human contours.
The last of the transformation ended with a final, whole-body convulsion. She slumped forward, catching herself on hands that were once again slender, familiar. Her dark hair, damp with sweat, hung around her face.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of her ragged gasps and the insane, cheerful buzz of the kitchen light.
Lewis lay perfectly still, his own breath coming in shallow pants. The weight on him was just a woman’s weight now. It was still considerable, pinning him, but it was a weight he understood. The terrifying, magnificent creature was gone.
Slowly, she pushed herself up. She knelt over him, looking down. Her face was pale, glistening, utterly human. The mischievous glint was back, tired but unmistakable. A faint, lopsided smile touched her lips.
“So,” she said, her voice her own again, though hoarse. “That happened.”
Lewis blinked. He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
“Cat got your tongue?” She rolled off him, moving with a newfound, deliberate sluggishness, and sat against the cabinet beside the fridge. She pulled the tattered remains of her dress around her, not quite covering herself, but making a token effort. “Usually they scream. Or try to run. You just… lay there.”
He finally sat up, scooting back until he hit the cupboard under the sink. The cold handle pressed into his spine. “What,” he croaked. Cleared his throat. “What was that?”
“That,” she said, drawing her knees up and resting her chin on them, “was the big finish. Sort of. The system overloads. Always has.” She spoke like she was discussing a quirky car problem. “It’s a genetic thing. Like… a wonky thyroid, but for getting really, really turned on.” She shrugged a bare, slender shoulder. “The surge hits a peak, and then, pop. Circuit breaker trips. I come back down.”
Lewis stared at her. The casual bragging in her tone, the sheer normality she was trying to inject into the most abnormal moment of his life, was more disorienting than the transformation itself. “A wonky thyroid,” he repeated dumbly.
“A metaphor, Lewis. Don’t be literal.” She nudged his foot with her toe. “You’re not freaking out. I’m impressed.”
“I am freaking out!” The words burst from him, louder than he intended. “I am completely, totally freaking out! You… you grew! You turned into a… a superhero villain! You pinned me to the floor! I couldn’t breathe!”
“You were breathing just fine,” she said, tilting her head. “I was counting.”
“You were what?”
“Counting. Your breaths. To make sure. Fifty-two per minute. A little high, but not dangerous.” She yawned, a wide, unselfconscious gape that showed all her teeth. “Post-coital hypotension is the real risk. The sudden shift in blood pressure when the… event… concludes. Gotta make sure the participant doesn’t pass out or go into shock.”
Participant. The clinical word hung in the air between them. The citrus cleaner scent was gone, replaced by the salt of sweat and the electric, metallic aftermath.
“How many?” he heard himself ask, his voice flat.
“How many what?”
“Participants.”
Her smile softened, became something almost apologetic, but no less bold. “A few. It never ends with coffee. Usually it ends with them ghosting, or sobbing, or once, with a guy trying to submit a sample to a medical lab.” She shook her head, a loose strand of hair sticking to her cheek. “He was a biology major. Thought he’d discovered a new species.”
A weak, hysterical laugh bubbled in Lewis’s chest. He choked it down. He looked at her—small, shivering slightly in the torn dress, looking for all the world like someone who’d just been in a minor bicycle accident, not a biochemical metamorphosis. The absurdity of it crashed over him.
“So I’m just… the next one in the experiment.”
“No.” She said it quickly, firmly. She met his gaze, and the playfulness faded, leaving something more serious, more vulnerable. “You’re the first one who didn’t look at me like a monster when it was over. You’re just sitting there. Asking questions.” She hugged her knees tighter. “Also, you have really nice eyes. I noticed that before I, you know. Hulked out.”
Silence settled, filled only by the dying buzz of the light. The adrenaline was leaching from Lewis’s system, leaving a deep, aching fatigue and a whirlpool of confused thoughts. Fear was still there, yes. But so was curiosity. And a stubborn, insistent memory of the awe he’d felt looking up at her.
“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly.
“The change? Like a really deep tissue massage from a vengeful god. The coming back?” She winced. “That’s like the flu. All at once. Every muscle aches. I’ll be useless tomorrow.” She studied him. “You’re still here.”
“Where would I go?”
“Home. Calling the police. A psychiatrist.”
“I left my phone in my coat,” he said, nodding toward the living room. “And my coat’s under you.”
She looked down, shuffled, and pulled his wrinkled jacket from beneath her leg. She tossed it to him. It landed in a heap on his lap.
The offer was clear. A way out. A sane, rational exit from this madness.
He didn’t reach for the phone in the pocket. He just looked at it, then back at her. The girl with the secret. The woman who counted breaths.
“You said it’s a genetic thing,” he said finally. “Is it… just physical? Or does it… change how you think? Up there?”
Her eyes narrowed, assessing him anew. The glint returned, sharp and interested. “When I’m big? It’s… simpler. More direct. Wanting is just having. No second guesses. No apologies.” She paused, picking at a loose thread on her dress. “It’s a relief, in a way. Until the crash.”
Lewis slowly got to his feet, his body protesting. He felt bruised everywhere. He walked to the sink, ran the tap cold, and cupped water in his hands to splash his face. The reality of the kitchen—the dripping faucet, the toaster, the calendar on the wall—was a surreal contrast to the last twenty minutes.
He turned, leaning against the counter. She was still watching him, a quiet tension in her posture now.
“You need a sweatshirt or something,” he said. “You’re shivering.”
A slow, real smile spread across her face, warmer than any that had come before. “Top drawer in the hallway. Gray one.”
He fetched it. It was enormous, swallowing her when she put it on. She looked small again, drowning in fabric, just her face and her tangled hair peeking out.
“So,” she said, her voice muffled by the folds. “Are you going to run now?”
Lewis looked at the door. Then at the cracked window, the pooling rainwater on the floor. He looked at her.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. He walked back and sat on the floor, not touching her, but close enough. The linoleum was still cold. “But I’m not running yet.”
She leaned her head back against the cabinet, closing her eyes. “Good,” she murmured.