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Warmth.

Soft, enveloping warmth—that was the first thing Kiran felt as consciousness slowly tugged him out of sleep. A heavy blanket of drowsiness clung to him, but beneath it, something… different stirred. The air around him felt too still, the bed too soft, and the weight against his side too unfamiliar.

His lashes fluttered open.

The ceiling above wasn’t his. Neither were the lavender-painted walls or the delicate white curtains dancing in the morning breeze. His senses sharpened as the scent of jasmine—faint but unmistakable—wafted up from somewhere on his skin.

His skin?

Kiran blinked, raising a hand instinctively—and froze.

Slender fingers. Smooth, pale arms. No hair, no calluses, nothing that looked like his hands. He sat up abruptly, the blanket slipping down, and the shock of motion made a strange, unfamiliar softness sway against his chest.

His heart jumped to his throat.

Two round mounds moved with his breath—breasts. Full, undeniably female, and very much attached to him. He gasped, his voice catching—higher, softer. He clapped a hand to his throat, felt the elegant curve of a much more delicate neck.

The blanket pooled around his waist, revealing bare shoulders, and below that... a glimpse of smooth thighs, narrow hips. He was wearing a silky nightgown—something sheer, something that clung to a body that wasn’t his own.

“What the—”

A deep sigh cut through his panic.

The man lying beside him stirred.

Kiran turned slowly, pulse racing. The man—broad-shouldered, handsome in a rugged sort of way—lay half-covered in the sheets, one arm thrown carelessly over the pillow, the other brushing where their bodies had clearly been touching.

Kiran's eyes widened. The memories in his head were jumbled, but something inside this new body recognized the man instantly—his husband. A strange ache pulsed low in his belly, foreign yet frighteningly right, as though this body remembered the warmth of that touch even if his mind didn’t.

He tried to slip out of bed, but the movement made the satin nightgown whisper across his thighs, teasing sensitive skin. Every brush of the fabric heightened the surreal awareness of curves, of softness, of a body no longer shaped like his own.

A hand landed gently on his waist.

"Mm... morning, love," came a sleepy, familiar voice—deep and slow, filled with affection.

Kiran froze again, heart hammering.

The man behind him leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to his shoulder. "You’re up early. Everything okay?"

Kiran couldn’t speak. The words caught in his throat. His skin tingled where the lips had touched. He was overwhelmed by sensation, by the confusion, by the terrifying thrill in the way his new body responded.

This wasn't real, he said to himself, a dream possibly, a dream from which he would wake up soon.

-------

Kiran stumbled from the bed, his bare feet brushing the cool tile floor as he rushed toward the adjoining bathroom. His heart was thudding like a drum, panic rising in his throat with every step. The satin nightgown whispered traitorously against his legs, clinging in places that made him acutely aware of every movement, every shift of this foreign, feminine body.

He fumbled with the door, pushed it open, and stepped inside.

There it was.

The mirror loomed above the sink—innocent, ordinary. But as he looked up into it, he saw someone else staring back.

His breath caught.

The woman in the reflection was... him. Or some version of him—beautiful, undeniably so. She had large, expressive eyes, slightly tilted at the corners, framed by long lashes. The shape of her nose, the curve of her lips—his features, but softened, refined. Feminine. Almost delicate.

Her hair, long and slightly tousled from sleep, framed her face in soft waves. A thin, gold mangalsutra (Indian bridal chain worn exclusively by married woman) hung around her slender neck, resting just above her cleavage—a symbol of marriage. Of belonging. Of being - his wife.

Kiran reached up slowly, almost fearfully, and touched his cheek. The woman did the same. Her skin looked impossibly smooth. Her collarbone, her shoulders—bare, graceful, sculpted by some impossible hand.

He tugged at the neckline of the nightgown, peering down.

Breasts—round and real—moved with his breath. A flat, feminine stomach, soft hips. The swell of thighs that brushed with every subtle movement. Everything about him screamed woman.

He staggered back a step, gripping the counter for balance.

How?

Why?

He shut his eyes, willing the reflection to change. But when he opened them again, she was still there. Beautiful. Undeniably real.

A knock came, sharp but gentle, on the bathroom door.

“Kiran?” The voice was deep, calm—soothing in a way that made his chest tighten. “Are you alright in there?”

Raj.

The name hit him like a thunderclap. He knew that voice. He remembered it—arms wrapped around him, that baritone whispering softly into his ear in the dark. Laughter shared across candlelit dinners. And something more... sensations, memories of intimacy not his own but vivid nonetheless, stitched into the very fabric of this new self.

“Kiran?” Raj knocked again. “It’s okay, you can talk to me.”

Kiran’s throat tightened. What would he say?

He looked into the mirror again, into the wide, frightened eyes of a woman who used to be a man, trying to understand who she was now.

He opened his mouth.

No words came.

---

He took a deep breath, steadying himself with both hands against the bathroom sink. The cool porcelain pressed into his palms, grounding him—barely.

Then, as if carried by some force outside himself, Kiran turned the handle and stepped back into the bedroom.

Raj was waiting by the bed, half-dressed in a loose T-shirt and cotton shorts. His brows furrowed with concern the moment he saw Kiran. “Are you okay, *jaan*?” he asked gently, taking a step forward.

Kiran opened his mouth, but words tangled and vanished on his tongue.

Raj reached out, fingertips aiming for Kiran’s cheek—a tender touch meant to reassure. But Kiran flinched, pulling back instinctively.

Raj froze, his hand suspended mid-air. Hurt flashed across his face, quickly masked by confusion.

“Kiran… what’s wrong?” he asked, more cautious now. “Did I—did something happen?”

Kiran shook his head, a small, quick motion. But his silence only deepened the tension between them.

Raj ran a hand through his hair, clearly trying to make sense of it. *They’d had sex last night*, that much he remembered—passionate, messy, intense. But it hadn’t been angry, not from what he could recall. “Was it… something I did?” he asked, voice low, almost afraid of the answer.

Kiran turned away, unable to face him.

Wearing this nightgown—thin, sheer, clinging to every curve—made him feel too exposed. Every step reminded him of this foreign softness, the sway of hips, the gentle bounce of breasts. It wasn’t just what he looked like—it was what he felt like.

And yet… the wardrobe, when he opened it, looked just as he somehow knew it would.

His hand moved on its own, guided by memories that weren’t his but felt real. On one side: his clothes. Feminine. Dozens of colorful kurtis, neatly folded sarees, leggings, salwar kameez sets in soft cottons and silks. Jeans and floral tops. Even lacy lingerie in the drawers—he didn’t dare open those.

On the other side—Raj’s clothes. Crisp shirts, denims, belts and boxers.

Kiran stared at them, feeling the air leave his lungs.

Only yesterday, he had worn somethingike this. Or someone who used to be him.

“Oh god,” he whispered. “This can’t be real…”

He pinched his arm hard. Nothing changed.

He slapped his own cheek. The sting bloomed instantly, but the reflection in the mirrored wardrobe door remained the same: a beautiful, frightened woman in a nightgown too sensual for this kind of existential panic.

Raj had sat down on the edge of the bed, watching him silently now—no longer trying to push, just waiting.

Kiran pulled out a soft towel and a plain, round-necked grey T-shirt. He found a pair of loose jeans, the most unisex thing he could find—he needed something that didn’t hug his body in all these new, distracting ways.

He avoided Raj’s eyes as he turned back toward the bathroom.

“I… I just need a minute,” he mumbled, voice still high, too unfamiliar in his own ears.

Raj opened his mouth as if to say something, then stopped himself and simply nodded.

Kiran stepped inside and closed the door gently behind him, leaning against it, heart racing.

---

Kiran stayed under the shower far longer than he intended. The warm water poured down his shoulders, over his breasts, along the contours of hips he still couldn't believe belonged to him.

At the back of his mind, something whispered—this is real.

No matter how much he wanted to believe it was a dream, no amount of denial could shake the feeling settling in his bones. And that knowledge terrified him.

His legs trembled. His hands pressed flat against the cold tiles as silent tears slid down his cheeks, blending with the water. He had never been one to cry—not easily. But this morning, nothing about him felt the same. Not his body. Not his voice. Not even his emotions.

When he finally shut off the water, the bathroom felt too quiet. The steamy silence pressed in on him like a second skin.

He stepped out and reached for the towel, drying himself slowly. The brush of soft cotton across his chest made him gasp—not from pain, but from an unwelcome jolt of pleasure. His nipples, so new and sensitive, responded eagerly to even the casual contact.

And lower—where there should’ve been something else—there was only emptiness. A strange ache bloomed there, one that wasn’t just physical. It was something his new body seemed to remember, to miss.

He shuddered, horrified by the rising heat coiling in his belly. What is wrong with me?

That’s when it hit him—he’d forgotten his underwear.

Bra… panties… mine?

He squeezed his eyes shut, battling the surge of shame, disbelief, and unfamiliar familiarity. The memories in his head said this was normal. He forgot them all the time. He’d tease Raj with it. He'd walk out casually wrapped in a towel, laughing, asking him to fetch a pair.

But today… today he couldn't.

He didn’t have the strength to face that man—his husband—wearing nothing but a towel.

His voice trembled as he called out, “Raj…”

There was a beat of silence, then Raj’s amused voice replied from the bedroom, “I knew you’d forget again.”

The lightness in his tone was infuriatingly normal.

Kiran cracked the door just enough to reveal a sliver of his damp face. Raj didn’t even look surprised. He approached and held out a soft bundle—black lacy panties and a matching bra, folded with care.

Their fingers brushed as Kiran took it. That small touch sent a shiver down his spine. Raj didn’t linger. He just smiled gently and walked away.

Kiran closed the door again and slowly dressed.

He didn’t need to think—his hands moved with practiced ease, fastening the bra, adjusting the straps. The panties slid over his smooth hips and settled into place. Every sensation was amplified, unfamiliar but intuitive. He didn’t want to know how or why he knew how to wear these things, but the body remembered, even if his mind didn’t.

He pulled on the T-shirt—soft, slightly oversized—and the jeans. They fit comfortably, hugging his waist and hips in a way that felt foreign, yet right.

When he finally emerged, Raj was standing near the window, phone in hand. He turned slightly, eyes meeting Kiran’s with a calm expression.

“It’s your mother,” Raj said, holding out the phone.

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That's the end of Chapter 1 Part 1 Do let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Comment freely. Thankyou

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.