on a Thursday morning, after ballet.

Brett was already sweating through his pink leotard, his long honey blonde hair pulled up in a high, messy ponytail, his face flushed and bare except for the waterproof mascara Julian made him wear to class. His legs in pale pink tights were shaking from an hour of pliés and arabesques at the barre. His small, tender breasts, now a solid C cup from the increased hormones, bounced softly under the leotard with every breath.

Mara had finally let him out of the corset for class, and without the steel his waist felt almost naked, free.

He padded barefoot across the heated marble to the bathroom, still breathing hard, and stepped onto the digital scale out of habit. He did it every morning, same time, same nakedness. Elena logged it. Nico logged it. Dr. Ellison logged it.

He looked down, expecting to see 144, maybe 143 if he'd been good.

The red numbers blinked. Then settled.

139.0

Brett stared. He blinked hard. The numbers didn't change.

His brain went completely blank for three full seconds. Then a sound came out of him that wasn't a word, wasn't a laugh, wasn't a sob. It was all three at once.

"Holy shit," he whispered in his soft girl voice, his hand flying to his mouth.

He stepped off. Stepped back on.

139.0

Thirty-six pounds. He had lost thirty-six pounds since the night Lance found him crying in his apartment above the laundromat in Whitefish.

He was twenty-one, five foot eight, and he now weighed one hundred and thirty-nine pounds.

His knees gave out. He sat down hard on the cold marble floor in his leotard and tights, his long ponytail swinging, his big blue eyes filling instantly with hot tears.

"Oh my god," he choked out loud to the empty bathroom. "Oh my god oh my god oh my god."

He scrambled up and ran to the full-length mirror, yanking his leotard down in front, not caring that he was alone.

The girl in the glass was not Brett anymore.

She was all soft curves and golden skin. Her waist, even without the corset, dipped in dramatically to maybe twenty-four inches, a tiny hourglass created by months of steel and starvation and ballet. Her hips flared wide and womanly above long, lean legs. Her ass was high and round under the pink tights. Her breasts were full and heavy and real, bouncing slightly as she breathed hard, nipples peaked from the cold air.

Her face, his mother's face, was sculpted now. Cheekbones high and hollow, jaw soft, big blue eyes huge in a smaller face, full lips parted in shock. Her long honey blonde hair, damp with sweat, framed everything perfectly.

She looked like a model. She looked like a fantasy. She looked like Brielle.

Brett turned sideways and ran his pink-nailed hands down his sides, feeling the dip of his waist, the flare of his hip. He cupped his breasts with both hands, feeling their weight, their tenderness, and sobbed out loud.

"Holy shit," he said again, louder, his voice cracking with emotion and hormones. "Look at me."

He grabbed his phone off the vanity with shaking hands and opened the camera, flipping it to video. He didn't think. He didn't follow the rules.

He hit record.

" Lance," he whispered to the lens, tears streaming down his made-up face, his chest heaving in the leotard. "The scale says one thirty-nine. One thirty-nine. I'm not even the same person."

He turned the camera to show his body in the mirror, the leotard clinging to every curve, the tiny waist, the full hips, the breasts. He turned back to his face.

"I'm doing it," he cried, laughing through tears. "I'm really doing it."

He stopped the video and stared at the thumbnail. His thumb hovered over send.

No. He had promised no pictures until in person. He had made Lance wait. He wanted to see Lance's face when he saw her for real.

He saved it to his private folder instead, his heart hammering against his new breasts.

He walked out of the bathroom on shaky legs, still in his leotard and tights, barefoot, and found Mara in the kitchen.

She took one look at his tear-streaked face and stood up. "What? What happened?"

Brett held up his phone with the scale app open. "One thirty-nine."

Mara's hands flew to her mouth. "Brielle."

Elena came running. Nico came running. They all stared at the number and then at Brett, at the girl standing in front of them trembling in pink ballet clothes.

"You did it," Elena whispered, and pulled him into a hug, careful of his hair.

Brett collapsed into her, sobbing openly now, his whole body shaking with relief and pride and terror and joy all at once. He could feel his breasts press against Elena's shoulder, feel his tiny waist in her arms, feel his long hair tickle his back.

He was crying so hard he couldn't breathe, and he didn't care.

His phone buzzed at 9 pm that night while he was curled in bed in his silk pajamas, his corset finally off for the night, his stockings folded neatly on the chair, his long hair spread across the pillow.

Lance: How was today?

Brett stared at the ceiling, his hand resting on his flat, soft stomach, feeling the dip of his waist, the swell of his hip, the weight of his breast under his palm.

He sent a voice note, his voice thick from crying and thick with emotion.

"One thirty-nine," he whispered into the phone, and he started laughing and crying at the same time. "Lance, the scale says one thirty-nine. Holy shit. I'm her. I'm really her."

He hit send and rolled onto his side, hugging a pillow to his new chest, his big blue eyes wet and shining in the dark, his entire body humming with the insane, beautiful, terrifying truth that he had finally, completely, transformed.

And Lance wasn't even home yet to see it.…