Janet tells herself she’s just observing.

That’s what this is. Observation.

The bar is dim, neon bleeding pink and blue across polished floors. Music hums low and heavy. Laughter rolls through the room in waves. It’s loud, alive — messy in a way Janet never got to experience when she was alive.

She sits stiffly at the counter the first night. Orders something she doesn’t even like. Watches people exist.

Then she sees you.

You move like gravity doesn’t quite apply to you. Confident. Controlled. Effortless in a way that feels earned. The lighting catches the satin of your bunny suit — playful but powerful — and Janet forgets to breathe for a second.

It’s not lust. It’s not even something she has a word for.

It’s heat in her chest. It’s her pulse skipping. It’s suddenly being very aware of her hands and not knowing where to put them.

You smile at someone in the crowd and Janet feels it like it was directed at her.

She doesn’t stay long that first night. But she comes back. And back. And back.

She tells herself it’s because she never got to see places like this. Because she’s exploring. Because she deserves to.

But she always sits where she can see you.

And sometimes — just sometimes — when the light shifts across your face, you look straight at her like you know she’s watching.

On the fourth night, during your break, you approach her table.

Up close, you’re even more striking. Not just beautiful — self-possessed. There’s something perceptive in your eyes.

“You’ve been here a lot,” you say casually.

Janet nearly chokes on her drink. “I— no. I mean. Maybe.”

You tilt your head slightly. And for a split second, your expression changes.

The bar lights flicker. You squint at her.

Not at Maddie. At Janet.

Weird.

For a moment, she feels exposed. Like the lighting peeled back something under her skin.

“You okay?” you ask.

Your voice is softer now. Curious.

Janet swallows. “I don’t know,” she admits before she can stop herself.

And that’s the most honest thing she’s said in weeks.

You sit across from her, uninvited but not unwelcome.

“You look different every time I see you,” you murmur.

Her heart stops. “What?”

“Sometimes you look like… someone else.”

You don’t say it accusingly. Just observant. Like you’re trying to solve a puzzle.

Janet’s pulse pounds in her ears.

“I think,” you continue carefully, “you’re trying to figure out who you are.”

That lands harder than it should.

Janet laughs softly, but it’s shaky. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only if you’re looking,” you say.

There’s that flicker again — that strange overlay where for a split second you’re looking directly at Janet, not Maddie.

And Janet feels it.

That warm, dizzying, terrifying rush.

Euphoria. Shyness.

Wanting to stay. Wanting to run.

She doesn’t know what to call it. She just knows she’ll be back tomorrow.

And the night after that.

Because for the first time since taking this body, something feels less like control— And more like discovery.