The living room was dim. House warm, cozy. And empty. Curtains filtered late afternoon sunlight into geometric streaks across the carpet, dust motes suspended in the beams. The couch springs creaked under their combined weight. The television glowed, an unchanging hum of light and static. Kirk was issuing orders on the screen, but the signal-processing center in Sheldon’s brain barely registered the audio.

She lay against him, half-asleep, cheek pressed to his chest. Soft, warm, breathing regular. Sweet. Trusting. Vulnerable. Breasts. Rounded, fully developed, proportionate. Estrogen-induced tissue growth confirmed.

Heat pooled low in his pelvis. Muscles tensed involuntarily. Veins carried blood with alarming velocity. Heart rate elevated. Respiratory rate increased. Every fiber of his body sending signals incompatible with conscious suppression.

Hips widened. Abdomen softening. Pelvic hair—inevitable secondary sexual characteristic. Unknown configuration, but logically present.

The faint scent of her shampoo mixed with natural pheromones. Olfactory input triggered a cascade of neurotransmitters: dopamine, norepinephrine, testosterone surging. His palms were damp. Thighs pressed together. Tremors in the forearm and calf muscles. Autonomic response overwhelming.

The hum of the refrigerator, tick of the wall clock, flicker of the television—all predictably ordered, obeying physical laws. Every system external to the body maintained equilibrium. Internal chaos, however, was maximal.

She shifted slightly, weight against his side. Subtle movements—rise and fall of chest, sway of hips, warmth radiating—magnified every physiological reaction. Perfect. Natural. Hazardous.

He focused on the television, attempting observation of the stars and ships. Neural prioritization failed. All sensory data funneled to her. Fully conscious, unable to suppress any internal reaction. Silent, panicked, hyper-aware. Every pulse, every muscle, every autonomic tremor a record of biological rebellion.