Chapter 1: The Speakeasy and a Spiked Drink
The speakeasy smelled of cedar and smoke and something floral that clung to the velvet booths like a secret. Marcus traced the rim of his whiskey glass, watching the way the amber liquid caught the dim light, and tried very hard not to stare at Ella's mouth as she laughed.
"You're not even listening to me," she said, pointing a fry at him accusingly. "I just told you that Karen from the boutique down the street tried to return a wedding dress that was literally stained with red wine, and she had the audacity to argue that it was 'part of the design aesthetic.'"
"I heard you," Marcus said, finally looking up from his glass. "You told her the only aesthetic she was rocking was 'hot mess realness.'"
Ella's grin split her face wide, those green eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that made his chest ache. She threw her head back and laughed, the sound cutting through the low jazz like a bright ribbon. "God, I love you. You're the only person in this city who actually listens to my rants."
I love you. She said it so easily, so casually, like it meant nothing. Like it was just a thing friends said to each other between bites of truffle fries and sips of expensive cocktails they couldn't really afford.
Marcus ran a hand through his sandy brown hair, a nervous habit he'd never managed to shake. "That's what I'm here for. Free therapy and questionable life advice."
"Questionable? My life is a masterpiece." Ella winked, reaching for her drink, a concoction of gin and elderflower that Danny the bartender had insisted she try. "Speaking of masterpieces, this cocktail is dangerous. What did he say was in it?"
"Something about a secret ingredient. He was very mysterious about it." Marcus watched her take another long sip, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. She'd worn that red top tonight, the one with the neckline that dipped just low enough to make him forget his own name. She'd been wearing it when he'd accidentally confessed—drunk, at a party, three years ago—that he thought she was beautiful. She'd laughed it off, called him a sweet drunk, and he'd never tried again.
"You know," she said, setting down her glass with a satisfied sigh, "I think this is exactly what I needed. The shop has been chaos all week, and my mother called me yesterday to ask when I'm going to 'settle down and give her grandchildren.'"
Marcus choked on his whiskey. "Your mom asked you that?"
"Every single phone call. It's like she has a checklist." Ella counted on her fingers. "One, am I eating enough? Two, do I have a boyfriend? Three, when am I going to have babies? Four, why am I not married yet? It's exhausting."
"You could always tell her you're married to your work."
"I've tried. She tells me my work can't give her grandchildren." Ella rolled her eyes, but her smile softened. "Anyway, enough about my maternal pressure. How's the graphic design world treating you? Land any big accounts?"
Marcus launched into a story about a client who'd wanted him to make their logo "pop more" without being able to articulate what that meant, and Ella laughed in all the right places. This was easy. This was comfortable. This was the script he'd been following for ten years now, ever since they'd met in a disastrous freshman art class where she'd accidentally spilled paint all over his project and he'd somehow ended up helping her redo hers.
Eight hours. They'd stayed up until four in the morning, and he'd fallen in love with her somewhere between the third cup of cheap coffee and her impression of their professor's combover.
He'd never told her. He'd come close—so many times, he'd come so close—but every time he opened his mouth to say the words, he imagined her face contorting with pity, imagined her saying "I'm so sorry, Marcus, I just don't see you that way." And so he kept his secret locked tight, buried beneath years of "I'm fine" and "No, I'm happy being single" and "We're just friends, that's what we are."
The only thing worse than wanting Ella was wanting her the way he did.
Marcus shifted on the velvet booth, adjusting his jeans under the table. His attraction to her was one thing—anyone would be attracted to Ella, with her fiery curls and her sharp wit and her laugh that sounded like church bells. But the other thing, the thing he'd never told anyone, the thing that made him feel like a deviant every time he thought about it too long...
He couldn't go there. Not now. Not with her sitting right in front of him, looking at him with those trusting green eyes.
"You okay?" Ella tilted her head, studying him. "You look a little... flushed."
"Fine," Marcus said too quickly. "Just warm in here. You know how these places get."
She hummed, clearly not convinced, but she let it drop. That was another thing he loved about her—she always knew when to push and when to let him breathe.
The jazz band slid into a slower number, and Ella's foot tapped against the floor in time with the bass. She closed her eyes, swaying slightly in her seat, and Marcus let himself watch her without her knowing. The freckles dusted across her nose like constellations. The slight curve of her smile as she lost herself in the music.
I love you. I've always loved you. I don't know how to be in this world without you, and I'm terrified that if I tell you the truth, I'll lose you forever.
"Okay, weird question," Ella said, opening her eyes abruptly. "Do you feel that?"
Marcus blinked, reality crashing back down. "Feel what?"
"The floor. It's like... vibrating?" She pressed her palm flat against the table, furrowing her brow. "Or maybe I'm just more tipsy than I thought. That cocktail went down awfully smooth."
"Excuse me," Marcus called to Danny, who was polishing glasses behind the bar. The bartender ambled over, dark hair slicked back, a perpetual smirk playing at his lips. "What exactly did you put in her drink?"
Danny's grin widened. "Trade secret, my friend. Let's just say it's something special." He winked at Ella. "You like it?"
"It's delicious," Ella said, "but I'm feeling a little... light-headed."
"Give it a few minutes," Danny said. "The good ones sneak up on you."
He disappeared before Marcus could ask any more questions, and Ella laughed, reaching for her glass again. "What a character. We should come here more often."
"Definitely." Marcus watched her take another sip, then checked his phone out of habit. "It's getting late. Should I call us a cab?"
"In a minute." Ella set down her glass and pressed her fingers to her temple. "Actually, can we wait a minute? The room is spinning a little."
Concern prickled at the back of Marcus's neck. "Ella, are you okay? You look really pale."
"I'm fine. Just—" She sucked in a sharp breath, her hand flying to her stomach. "Whoa. Cramps. Did that drink have dairy in it? I told him I was lactose intolerant."
Marcus slid out of the booth, moving to her side. "Do you need to sit down? I mean, you're already sitting down. Do you need air? Let's get you some air."
"No, I just—" Her face went white, and she clutched at his arm with surprising strength. "Marcus, something's wrong. I feel really weird. Like, not drunk-weird, but—" She doubled over, gasping. "Shit. Oh shit. My stomach."
Panic seized his chest. "Okay, okay, we're going to get you to a hospital. Let me—"
"No, just get me outside. I need air." She swayed as she stood, and Marcus caught her, one arm wrapped tight around her waist. She was trembling, her skin clammy against his. "I think I just need to throw up or something. It'll pass."
They stumbled through the bar, past the curious looks of other patrons, out through the heavy door and into the cool night air. Ella gasped, leaning against the brick wall, and Marcus held her steady.
"Deep breaths," he said. "You're okay. You're going to be okay."
"I feel insane." She laughed weakly, but there was no humor in it. "My body is doing something really weird. Do you think I'm having an allergic reaction? Should I be worried?"
"I don't know, but I'm taking you to a doctor."
"Just give me a second." She pressed her hands flat against her stomach, and Marcus watched the life drain from her face. "Marcus. Marcus, I need you to look at me."
"Look at you? Why? Are you okay?"
"Just look at me." Her voice was urgent, trembling. Her hand moved down to her abdomen, where her shirt had ridden up just slightly. "Tell me if you see what I think I'm seeing."
Marcus looked at her face, confused, then followed her gaze down to her stomach. For a moment, his brain refused to process what he was seeing. It was impossible. It made no sense. Maybe he was the one who'd had too much to drink.
But there it was. Beneath her red top, where her stomach had been flat just moments ago, there was now a distinct, unmistakable roundness. A bump. Not a beer belly. Not bloating. A bump.
"What the fuck," Marcus breathed.
"I told you something was wrong!" Ella's voice pitched upward. "What is happening to me?"
"Okay, okay, don't panic—"
"Don't panic? My stomach is inflating like a balloon and you're telling me not to panic?"
As if responding to her distress, the bump grew visibly larger, straining against her shirt. Ella let out a strangled sob, her hands flying to her abdomen, and then her knees buckled.
Marcus caught her before she hit the pavement, scooping her up into his arms. She was shaking violently, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. "Get me to my apartment," she managed. "Please. I need to lie down. I need to figure out what's happening."
"Should I take you to a hospital? This might be serious—"
"Hospital is four miles away and I don't want to spend the night in an ER having a panic attack. My apartment is two blocks. Just get me there. Please."
Marcus flagged down a cab, bundling her into the backseat with as much care as he could manage. The driver's eyes widened in the rearview mirror as he caught sight of Ella's condition, but Marcus thrust a twenty at him before he could ask any questions.
"Just drive."
The cab lurched forward, and Marcus turned to Ella, who had pressed her back against the seat, her eyes squeezed shut. Her hands were still wrapped protectively around her stomach, and even in the dim light of the passing streetlamps, he could see that the bump had grown again. It was the size of a pregnancy at six or seven months now, impossibly large beneath her stretched shirt.
"Ella." His voice was shaking. "Ella, listen to me. We're going to figure this out. Okay? We're going to figure this out."
She opened her eyes, and they were wet with tears. "How is this happening? I haven't had sex in months. I'm a business owner with a cat. I can't be pregnant."
"You're not pregnant," Marcus said firmly, though he wasn't sure he believed it. "This is something else. Something caused by... something. We'll figure it out."
"You don't know that." Her voice was barely a whisper. "You don't know anything. We're just sitting here, and I'm getting bigger, and no one can explain it, and I don't— I'm scared."
Marcus reached out without thinking, wrapping his hand around hers. "I've got you. Whatever happens, I've got you."
Ella looked up at him with those green eyes, full of fear and confusion and something else—something he couldn't quite name. And then she bit her lip, her gaze flickering down his body for just a moment, and her cheeks flushed.
"Marcus... your pants."
He had been so focused on her, so consumed by panic and worry, that he hadn't noticed the growing tightness in his jeans. But now, as he followed her gaze, he felt the flush of heat creeping up his neck.
Pinned against his thigh, straining obscenely against the fabric of his jeans, was an erection so prominent that there was no way she hadn't seen it.
"I'm—" He scrambled for words. "I'm sorry. This isn't—"
"Oh my God." Ella's voice was high and strangled. "My stomach is literally growing and you're getting turned on? That's not— Were you turned on before? At the bar? Is that why you were flushed?"
"No, I—I mean, yes, but not because—" Marcus scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm not turned on right now because of this. That would be really messed up."
"Then why?" Ella gestured wildly at his lap. "Because you're definitely turned on. I've known you for ten years, Marcus. I know what that looks like."
The cab driver cleared his throat from the front seat. "Uh, folks, we're here."
Ella didn't wait for Marcus to help her out. She shoved open the door, clutching her stomach, and stumbled up the steps to her brownstone. Marcus followed, his brain screaming at him, his body betraying him at every turn. He caught up to her at her apartment door, watching as her hands shook too badly to get the key in the lock.
"Let me," he said softly, reaching out.
But when his hand closed over hers, Ella flinched, yanking back. "Don't touch me right now. I can't handle that right now."
"Ella—"
"Just get the fucking door open." Her voice cracked. "Please."
He unlocked the door and they stumbled inside. The apartment was dark except for the city light filtering through the windows. Ella's cat wound around her ankles as she moved through the living room, flipping on a lamp, sinking onto the couch with a groan.
He watched her in the soft yellow light. In just a few minutes, the both of them had crossed some invisible threshold. Her belly was full and high now, round as a cantaloupe, straining against the fabric of her top. She pressed her hands against it, which was an intimate gesture, a look of pure shock on her face, and her eyes were wet when they met his.
"Is it still growing?" he took a step closer, his voice low.
"I think so." She laughed, but it was a hollow sound. "I think it's almost done. Like a goddamn water balloon filling up."
The words made his knees feel weak. He swallowed. The air in the room had shifted, grown thick and heavy. The sight of her, standing there in her small apartment with this impossible, bulbous weight pressing low at her front, her small frame suddenly curved and heavy, her hand pressed against the underside in a way that he found himself unable to look away from....
And the shame burned in his gut, because the fear in her eyes was real, but his own body didn't seem to care. This wasn't supposed to be something he ever saw. It was a terror that lived in the dark privacy of his mind. And here she was, in a red top that was riding up to reveal her bare, distended stomach. It didn't look real. It looked like his dreams, and his nightmares, all at once. Bulging, heavy, and her navel poking against the fabric as it stretched tight.
Stop it, he told himself savagely. She is scared. This is your best friend. Stop looking at her like she's a piece of meat.
"Can you just say something?" Ella looked up at him from the couch, waiting.
"You’re beautiful," is what he said.
The words hung, heavy, in the air like a physical weight between them. Ella's cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and her eyes widened. He could see her processing that. The absurdity of it. And the flicker of something deeper, that he was sure he wasn't imagining. Her lip trembled.
"What?" she asked, shaking her head.
Marcus stepped towards her, stopping right in front of the couch where she leaned back, one hand resting protectively over the underside of her new fullness. He ran his hand through his hair and looked down at her. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his neck. "I said you're beautiful. I've always thought so, Ella. Even before tonight."
"Marcus, we— This isn't— There's something wrong with me!" Her voice pitched upward again, but she didn't move. "Why would you say that now?"
"Because I don't think I can pretend anymore." He crouched down, resting his forearms on his knees, bringing himself closer to her eye level. He was inches away from that swell of her stomach, so close he could see the tiny stretch marks appearing on her skin, the way her belly rose and fell with her panicked breathing. "I've been pretending for ten years, El. Ten years of pretending I didn't want you. That you were just my friend. That spending every day with you was enough."
"Marcus," she whispered. A warning.
"Wait. Let me say this." He swallowed, trying to find the words. "Since college, my biggest secret isn't just that I love you. It's that I have these... I have these desires. Things I've never told anyone. Things that make me feel like a monster. And I've been so scared you'd find out and be disgusted, that I've kept everyone at arm's length. I've been so, so lonely." He took a ragged breath. "But now you're sitting here, scared and confused. And all I want to do is hold you and tell you everything's going to be okay. And I know that's selfish of me to say, at a moment like this. I know that."
Ella was staring at him, her eyes wide and glistening. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the hum of her refrigerator and the distant wail of a siren outside.
"I don't know what I am right now," Ella finally said, her voice trembling. "I don't know what my body is doing. And I don't know what I am to you anymore." She paused, biting her lip. "But I'm not scared of you."
"You're not?"
"No." She let out a shaky breath. "I'm scared of this." She placed her hands back on her belly, cradling the weight. "I'm scared it's not going to go away. I'm scared of what my life is going to look like tomorrow. But I'm not scared of you, Marcus. I've never been scared of you."
He reached out, his hand hovering over hers, asking silent permission. She responded by letting him take her hand. The warmth of her skin felt like a brand on his palm.
"I'll figure this out with you," he said. "Whatever it takes. I'm not leaving you to face this alone."
And as he looked into her eyes—green and bright, even in the darkness—Marcus felt a glimmer of something he hadn't felt in years. Not just the familiar ache of love, but something new. A seedling. A possibility.
Outside, the city hummed on, oblivious to the strange and terrifying miracle unfolding in a small apartment on a quiet street. Inside, Marcus held Ella's hand and wondered if the life he'd been too afraid to want might be waiting for him, just on the other side of this chaos.
Ella's hand trembled in his, but slowly, gradually, the shaking eased. She let out a long, shuddering breath, her shoulders dropping from where they'd been hunched up near her ears. Her fingers uncurled from his grip, moving instead to rest on the curve of her belly, tracing the taut skin almost curiously.
"This is insane," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "This is actually, genuinely insane."
"I know."
"I should be losing my mind right now. I should be calling 911 or a scientist or a priest or something." A wet laugh escaped her. "Instead, I just feel... tired. Really, really tired."
Marcus watched her hands move over her stomach, slow and soothing, and something in his chest loosened. The panic in the air had dissipated, replaced by a strange, fragile calm. The kind of quiet that settles after a storm passes, leaving everything wet and glistening and new.
Ella shifted on the couch, trying to get comfortable, and then she froze. Her breath caught in her throat.
"Marcus."
"What? What's wrong?"
"Look." Her voice was barely a whisper, tinged with something he couldn't quite identify. She looked down at her belly and her eyes were wide. "It's growing again."
He followed her gaze, and sure enough, the swell of her stomach was slowly expanding, rounding out even further beneath her red top. The fabric strained, riding up to reveal more of her skin, and Marcus watched in horrified fascination as the curve pushed outward, heavy and full.
"Oh god," Ella breathed. "Oh god, oh god—" But her voice didn't carry the same edge of terror as before. Instead, it broke on something softer, something almost like wonder.
Her hands pressed flat against the growing mound, and then her back arched slightly, a low moan escaping her lips. Her eyes fluttered shut.
"Ella? Ella, are you okay?"
"I don't—" She gasped, her fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt. "It feels good. Why does it feel good?"
Marcus's mouth went dry. He watched as her belly swelled, impossibly, the curve growing fuller and rounder beneath her palms. And then her breasts began to change too, filling out, straining against the neckline of her top, the fabric pulling tight across her chest in a way that made his throat close up.
Ella's breath came in short, stuttering gasps. Her cheeks flushed a deep pink, spreading down her neck and across her chest. She bit her lip, hard, as if trying to contain the sounds escaping her, but they kept slipping out—soft, breathy whimpers that made Marcus's head spin.
"Stop," she said, though she didn't sound like she meant it. "Oh god, this is so embarrassing. I can't—I can't control it. It's like—"
"Like your body is doing something it wants to do," Marcus finished, his voice coming out rougher than he intended.
Her eyes flew open, meeting his. There was something raw in her gaze, something the green depths desperately tried to hide. Her belly had settled now, round and full and heavy, and her hands were pressed against it like she was cradling something precious. But her chest was heaving, her nipples visible through the thin fabric of her top, hard and prominent.
"I'm a mess," she whispered. "Look at me. I'm literally swelling up like a balloon and I'm—" She cut herself off, shame flooding her features. "God, Marcus, this is so fucked up. Why is my body reacting like this? Why am I reacting like this?"
"You don't have to explain yourself to me."
"But I do." Her voice cracked. "Because I know what you're thinking, and this isn't— This isn't something I normally—"
"Ella." He said her name softly, firmly, and she fell silent. "You don't owe me any explanations. None of this is your fault."
She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face for something. Whatever she found there made her shoulders relax, just slightly. She let out a shaky breath, then pressed her palms against her eyes.
"Can you just give me a minute? Alone? I need to— I need to get my head around this without anyone watching me fall apart."
"No."
The word came out before he could stop it. He knew he should give her space, knew that was what a good friend would do. But he couldn't. The thought of leaving her alone, of closing that door and walking away while she sat there in this impossible, terrifying, beautiful state—it made something in his chest seize up.
Marcus forced himself to breathe, to search for a semblance of control. He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze flicking down her body involuntarily. The way she was sitting—her back arched, her hands still pressed to her stomach—it pushed her breasts higher, and her swollen belly looked so full, so heavy, and his jeans were so painfully tight.
"No," he repeated, his voice steadier. "I'm not leaving. I know you want to be alone, and I know this is overwhelming, but I'm right here. I'm staying."
"Marcus—"
"I love you." The words tumbled out, clumsy and desperate. "I love you, Ella, and I have for years. And right now, you're sitting on this couch, going through something that I don't understand, and all I want is to be here with you. To help you. To hold you. And I know that might not be what you want to hear right now, but I can't pretend anymore. I can't just walk away."
She stared at him, disbelief warring with something softer in her eyes. Her lips parted, then closed, then parted again. "I don't even know what to say to that."
"You don't have to say anything." He took a step closer, his legs brushing against the edge of the coffee table. "I just needed you to know."
Ella's gaze dropped, traveling down his body slowly. Her breath caught. Her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of crimson.
"Marcus... you're—" She swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on the prominent bulge straining against his jeans. "You're actually aroused. Right now. Looking at me like this."
It wasn't a question. It was an observation, tinged with disbelief and something else he couldn't name. He didn't need to look down to confirm what he already felt—the aching tightness straining against his zipper, the damp spot spreading on the fabric, the desperate, pounding need that made his thoughts scattered.
"Yes."
She blinked, seeming startled by his honesty. "Why? I'm not— This isn't—"
"You're beautiful." His voice was barely a whisper. "You've always been beautiful. And right now, sitting there like that, carrying something I can't even begin to understand—you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
Ella's mouth fell open. Her hands trembled where they rested on her stomach. And then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, her lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Shit," she said softly. "Shit, Marcus. What are we doing?"