The morning light filtered through the blinds, striping the empty half of the bed beside him. James groaned, reaching a hand out to the cool sheets where Jennifer should have been. Her flight to Singapore had left yesterday afternoon, and the silence in the apartment was a low hum he couldn’t quite ignore.

A text from her, sent from some airport lounge, glowed on his phone screen: Thinking of you. Go show Dr. Mercer your excellent progress! Xo.

He smiled, a little sadly. Excellent progress. Right.

With a sigh, he swung his legs out of bed, the familiar ache in his chest a dull throb that barely registered anymore. He had his second monthly check-up with Dr. Mercer in an hour. Time to get moving.

He stumbled toward the bathroom, peeling off his t-shirt as he went, ready to hop in the shower. And that’s when he saw it. Not in a direct, confrontational way, but a sideways glance in the full-length mirror propped against the wall. He stopped dead, the shirt dangling from his hand.

It wasn’t just the sensitive, slightly swollen nipples anymore. He’d gotten used to those, had even found a strange new intimacy with them. This was different. He turned slowly, facing the mirror head-on, then shifted to profile.

There it was.

It wasn't a trick of the light. It wasn’t morning puffiness. Beneath the skin, a distinct, soft mound was forming. A protrusion. A small, but undeniable, breast. His brain supplied the clinical term Dr. Mercer had used—gynecomastia—but his gut supplied a single, blaring alarm: Wrong.

His breath hitched. He lifted a hand, not to touch, but to hover inches from his own skin, as if he were observing a bizarre museum artifact. The intellectual understanding—the hormones, the science, the goal—felt a million miles away. This was visceral. This was his body, the one he’d lived in for thirty-something years, and it was becoming something he didn’t recognize. A wave of cold, sharp panic washed over him, so intense it made him dizzy. This wasn't a funny story to tell Jen later. This was real. This was his chest.

The clock on the cable box blinked accusingly. 8:15 AM. He had to go.

He showered on autopilot, the hot water doing little to warm the chill that had settled deep in his bones. Back in the bedroom, as he dried off, his eyes landed on the black cotton bralette laid out on the nightstand. The garment that had started as a joke, then became a practical comfort, suddenly looked monstrous.

Putting it on felt like a betrayal. His hands fumbled with the clasp at the back, a motion that was becoming routine but today felt alien and clumsy. The soft fabric settled over the new, tender curves of his chest. It wasn’t a cloud of comfort anymore. It felt like a cage, a costume for a part he hadn't fully agreed to play, confirming the very change that was making his skin crawl.

He pulled on a loose-fitting button-down, the fabric hanging over his chest in a way that was meant to conceal but only made him more aware of what was underneath. He glanced in the mirror one last time, a stranger staring back at him. It was still his face, his eyes. But below the neck, he was becoming someone else.

Grabbing his keys, James walked out the door, the familiar weight of his wallet in his back pocket a strange contrast to the foreign weight on his chest. He was on his way to get commended for his progress, and for the first time, he wasn't sure if he wanted to be praised.

* * *

The scent of Jennifer’s perfume lingered in the bedroom, a welcome ghost that had finally returned. She was back, curled up under the duvet and already half-asleep, exhausted from the jet lag but radiating a contentment that warmed the whole apartment. For the first time in two weeks, the space felt whole.

James stood in the bathroom, the door cracked open just enough to let a sliver of bedroom lamplight cut through the steam. The hot water had done little to unkink the tension in his shoulders. His hair, now several inches past his collar, dripped in heavy strands onto his back. It was getting unmanageable, a constant curtain in his eyes. On a whim, driven by a muscle memory from watching Jennifer a thousand times, he grabbed a clean towel, flipped his head over, and expertly twisted his damp hair into a turban-like wrap.

He straightened up, wiping the condensation from the mirror with his hand, and froze.

The person looking back at him was… not him.

He’d always had a slender build and softer features, but two and a half months of hormones had sanded down the remaining edges. The lack of body hair was now a smooth, almost polished canvas. He’d only shaved once since Jen left, yet his jaw was soft, the shadow of stubble faint and sparse. The towel hid his hairline, reframing his face entirely, emphasizing the width of his cheekbones and the fullness of his lips. And then, his eyes dropped lower. The bralette was off, but the shape it supported remained. The slight, soft swell of his chest was no longer just a tender spot; it was a definitive curve, unmistakable even in the dim light.

Hair up. Soft jaw. Slender neck. Breasts.

A wave of vertigo hit him so hard he had to grip the sides of the sink. A stranger was wearing his face. A soft, pretty, female stranger. The image was a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. This wasn't a funny phase. This wasn’t a science experiment. This was theft. His reflection had been stolen and replaced with this… person.

A choked, ragged sound escaped his throat, half-sob, half-gasp. He stumbled back from the mirror, away from the image, his bare foot slipping on the damp tile. He didn’t fall, but he crumpled, sliding down the cool wall to sit heavily on the floor, his head in his hands. The towel on his head felt like a cruel joke, a costume piece solidifying the illusion. He couldn't breathe. The walls were closing in, the air thick and unbreathable. He was losing himself. He was disappearing piece by piece.

“James?” Jennifer’s sleepy voice drifted from the bedroom. A floorboard creaked. “Babe? You okay in there?”

He couldn’t answer. He was shaking, tremors wracking his body as silent, hot tears began to stream down his face.

Jennifer appeared in the doorway, her face a mask of sleepy concern that sharpened into alarm. “Oh my God, James.” She rushed to his side, kneeling on the bathmat, her pregnant belly pressing against her robe. She wrapped her arms around his shaking shoulders. “What is it? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

He could only shake his head, burying his face against her shoulder, his tears soaking into her robe. He tried to speak, but the words were tangled up with the lump in his throat. “In the mirror,” he finally managed to choke out, his voice raw and broken. “Jen… look. That’s not me.”

Jennifer’s eyes flickered to the mirror, to the reflection of them on the floor, she saw exactly what had broken him. The illusion was jarring, and heartbreakingly clear. She saw the gentle slope of his shoulder, the curve of his chest, the femininity in the lines of his face without the familiar frame of his long hair. But she pushed the thought down, burying it deep. Now was not the time for her shock.

“Shhh, baby, of course it’s you,” she whispered fiercely, pulling him tighter, her hand stroking the back of his neck. “It’s you. It’s my James. I’m right here.”

“I’m disappearing,” he sobbed, his voice muffled against her. “I’m turning into someone else.”

“No, you’re not.” Her voice was thick with emotion, but steady. She tilted his chin up, forcing him to meet her tear-filled eyes. “You are becoming a father. The most dedicated, incredible father I have ever known. This,” she said, her hand moving from his face to gently cup the side of his chest, her touch firm and grounding, “is for our baby. This is you moving a mountain for our child because I can’t. It’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her words, the reminder of their purpose, sliced through the panic. The baby. Their baby, sleeping soundly in her womb, blissfully unaware of the sacrifice being made in a steamy bathroom on a Tuesday night. The thought was an anchor in the storm of his dysphoria.

His sobs slowly subsided into shuddering breaths. He leaned into her, his entire weight seeming to rest on her. “I’m just… so scared,” he whispered.

“I know,” she murmured, kissing his wet temple. “Me too. But we’re doing this together.”

She helped him to his feet, and without another look at the mirror, they stumbled into the bedroom. They crawled under the covers, curling into each other like two halves of a whole. James wrapped his arms around her from behind, his face pressed between her shoulder blades, his hand resting protectively over her belly. He could feel the faint, fluttery kicks of their child against his palm.

Tears still tracked silently down their faces in the dark, but the panic was gone, replaced by a profound, shared ache of love and sacrifice. They were rewriting the rules, and tonight, they were just feeling the cost of the ink. They held on tight, and tearfully, drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The sunlight streaming into the kitchen felt aggressively cheerful, a stark contrast to the heavy silence that had settled over the breakfast table. Jennifer pushed a piece of toast around her plate, the clinking of her fork against the ceramic the only sound. James was nursing a mug of coffee, his eyes fixed on the steam rising from it as if it held the answers to the universe.

Finally, Jennifer put her fork down. “We need to talk about last night.”

James didn’t look up, but his shoulders tensed. “The great bathroom meltdown of 2025? Yeah, not my finest moment.” He attempted a wry smile, but it was a fragile thing that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m serious, James.” Her voice was soft but firm, laced with the raw concern from the night before. “I hate seeing you like that. It broke my heart. We have a deal, remember? No guilt, no pressure. We can pull the plug on this. Right now. The sooner we stop, the sooner your body can…” She trailed off, not wanting to say go back to normal.

He finally met her gaze, his expression weary but resolute. “Babe, no. We’re not stopping.” He took a deep breath, marshalling his arguments. “Listen, everything that happened last night… it was bound to happen. Dr. Mercer warned us. Mood swings, intense emotions, identity weirdness. I’ve got a cocktail of hormones in me that could power a small village’s worth of teenage angst. It was a perfect storm—I was tired, I missed you, I looked in the mirror at the wrong angle. It was a glitch. A system reboot.”

He reached for her hand across the table, trying to add some levity to his tone. “Besides, if I’m going to be experiencing pregnancy hormones by proxy, I figure I’m entitled to at least one dramatic, ugly cry on the bathroom floor. It’s in the fine print of the ‘Dad Milk’ contract.”

Jennifer’s expression didn’t soften. She squeezed his hand, but her eyes were still troubled. “A glitch? James, you looked like you were shattering. You said you were disappearing. That’s more than just a mood swing.”

The word ‘disappearing’ hung in the air between them, heavy and real.

“I think,” she said carefully, “that maybe you should talk to someone. A therapist.”

James stiffened immediately, pulling his hand back. “Whoa, no. I don’t need a therapist.”

“It’s not because I think you’re weak, or because I want you to quit,” she pressed on gently. “It’s because this is a massive, unprecedented thing you’re doing. You’re navigating something that almost no one has ever gone through. You should have support. A professional who can give you tools to cope when I’m not here, or when I don’t have the right words.”

“I have you,” he said, his voice quiet but defensive. “I don’t need to pay a stranger to validate my feelings. This is a means to an end, Jen. It’s temporary. I just have to power through it. Talking about it isn’t going to change the fact that my body is changing.”

“It’s not about changing the facts,” she argued, her voice pleading. “It’s about helping you live with them. So that you don’t get lost in the process.”

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken fears. James stared out the window, watching a car drive by. He saw the logic in her words, but the idea of sitting in a sterile office, admitting to a stranger that he was terrified of his own reflection, felt like a profound failure. But he also saw the unwavering resolve in Jennifer’s eyes, the deep love that was fuelling her fear for him.

He let out a long, slow sigh, the fight draining out of him. “Okay,” he conceded, rubbing his tired eyes. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll think about it. I promise.”

It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no. Jennifer accepted the compromise, knowing it was the most she would get for now. She reached across the table and took his hand again, her grip a silent promise of her own. The issue wasn’t resolved, but they were still a team, navigating the fallout together.