Lucy backed away from the table with a stumble, the heavy chair scraping loudly behind her. Her—his—thick, work-booted feet felt foreign and heavy, every step like trying to move through wet concrete. She clutched the edge of the counter for balance, breath hitching in her throat. Her little lungs were gone. Each inhale came deep and coarse now, chest rising and falling like someone who’d just run a mile.
She turned sharply and rushed down the hallway, unsteady. Her larger legs weren’t used to these proportions. She felt powerful and sluggish all at once, like a robot with the mind of a butterfly. The hallway was dim, the old hardwood floor creaking beneath her weight. Her weight. Every footstep made the house groan in protest.
And then she passed the mirror.
It was an old thing, framed in chipped wood, hanging just outside the bathroom. She caught movement in the corner of her eye — a looming shape where there shouldn’t be one. She froze, her breath catching. Slowly, almost like something out of a dream, she turned her head toward it.
And there he was.
Bob Peterson.
Broad, thick-necked, balding. That familiar jawline, dusted with day-old stubble. Shoulders like someone who carried lumber for fun. A man who could lift a fridge and grumble about it later. She stared up at the figure in the mirror, her eyes locking with her own… only they weren’t hers anymore. Not small. Not blue. Not wide with wonder. They were deep-set, dark-rimmed, weary.
She raised a hand. So did the man in the mirror.
Lucy blinked rapidly. Her heart — his heart — thudded in her ears. She turned her hand over. Thick fingers. Knuckles like knots in an old tree. Hair on the back of her wrist. She wiggled them one at a time, slowly.
Then, like a switch flipped, her fear flickered into something else.
Curiosity.
Tentative. Childlike. Raw.
She stood up straighter. Or tried to. Her body responded sluggishly, like an old machine warming up. She adjusted her footing, planting her boots wide like she’d seen Bob do a hundred times. She furrowed her brow — copying his usual serious face — then dropped her shoulders to mimic the “dad slouch” he always had when standing in front of the TV.
Then, hesitantly, she flexed.
The bicep in the mirror rose like a hill under her sleeve. Thick, rounded. Big. She gasped — a quiet, breathy noise — then turned slightly sideways and flexed both arms like a bodybuilder.
Her mouth cracked into a grin.
It wasn’t that she liked what was happening — not at all. But her nine-year-old brain couldn’t help but latch onto the novelty. This wasn’t some abstract horror story. This was her now. She was big. She was strong. She looked… like Dad.
Lucy puffed up her chest a little, admiring the curve of the muscle through the shirt. Then she tried on a deeper voice, mimicking the way Bob used to tell John, “Alright, time for bed, bucko.”
It came out strange — not quite a growl, but close enough to send a giggle bubbling up her throat. But the giggle wasn’t light and high-pitched anymore. It was low, scratchy, rough-edged like gravel. That stopped her for a beat.
Then, impulsively, she grabbed the hem of the gray T-shirt and lifted it up to her chest.
The breath caught in her throat.
A broad, pale stomach stared back at her from the mirror — not flat like a superhero’s, but round and solid, with a soft cushion of muscle wrapped in a forest of wiry, dark hair. Her — his — belly was slightly firm, the kind that jiggled a bit when Bob laughed too hard at something on TV. The light above caught the glint of sweat at the edges of the coarse hair.
With wide eyes, Lucy reached down and dragged her — his — thick fingers across it.
The sensation was so strange. Not gross exactly. Just… foreign. The hair tickled against her skin as she pressed gently, tracing circles through it, watching the way the skin shifted.
Her expression lit up with surprise.
“I’m even fluffier than my teddy bear,” she whispered, completely genuine. There was a weird kind of fascination in her voice — like discovering a new part of a toy she’d owned for years but never noticed before. Her lips curved into a small, stunned smile.
Then it hit her — how wrong that was. How strange this whole thing was.
Her arms dropped again. The shirt fell back into place, clinging lightly to the newly furred belly. She stared at herself in the mirror. The fun had evaporated. What remained now was confusion, and a slow, creeping worry behind her eyes.
This wasn’t a game. It wasn’t pretend.
It was real.