Chris was in serious trouble.
The kind of trouble that couldn't be solved by sarcasm, caffeine, or pretending to be dead under the blanket. He stared at his reflection in the mirror of the bathroom like it had personally betrayed him.
"Oh, no," he muttered, voice thin. "No, no, no… absolutely not."
The reflection did not agree. It looked back at him with that same wide-eyed disbelief, hair a mess, skin flushed in ways he was not prepared to discuss with anyone, and, most damningly, his lower half insisting that yes, this was definitely happening. He could still feel the slick running down his thighs.
It was normal, Nadia had said. Biological recalibration. His body had been dulled by suppressants for years; the removal of those would eventually "allow natural responses to re-emerge." She'd said it like a doctor explaining pollen allergies.
She had not mentioned that "natural responses" meant nearly drowning in shame because one whiff of laundry had short-circuited his brain.
