Your girlfriend — Lana this time — had a bad habit of pretending she had “self-control” when she absolutely did not. Especially around those tiny frosted snack cakes she claimed were “just a little treat.”

You both knew that was a lie.

She was lounging on the top bunk in your room, already so close to the ceiling she practically had to duck to turn over. One knee propped up, feet dangling over the edge, she tore open another pack of those cakes with the speed of someone who’d been waiting all day for this moment.

“Last one,” she said.

Then she ate seven more.

The cakes were ridiculously addictive — soft, sugary, creamy, the kind you could inhale without realizing it. And Lana did exactly that. Every wrapper that fluttered to the floor made the bunk creak louder. Every time she shifted, the frame groaned like an old pirate ship.

You peeked up. “Uh… everything okay up there?”

“Yeah! I’m fiiine,” she said, cheeks full, crumbs all over her shirt.

But the cakes kept coming. And so did the growth.

Her stomach swelled round and heavy, pressing into her shirt until it rode up. Her hips thickened, thighs crowding the rails. The bunk dipped lower and lower with every bite. Soon her sides brushed the ceiling when she tried to turn. She tried to scoot an inch to the left—

THUMP.

She froze. You froze.

“…Babe?” you called.

“I think,” Lana said, poking at her own now-plush belly with both hands, “I might be… stuck.”

She tried to wiggle. Nothing. Tried to roll. The ceiling stopped her. Tried to sit up. Her belly and thighs wouldn’t let her move an inch.

The top bunk had officially become her personal padded jail.

You climbed halfway up the ladder, looking at her wedged between mattress and ceiling, round belly rising and falling with every embarrassed breath.

“Okay,” you said. “Maybe no more snack cakes?”

Lana pouted. “…Can you hand me one more?”

The bunk groaned dangerously.

“Absolutely not.”