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They dressed in silence, pulling on loose, soft clothes from Frank and Amy’s drawers. The familiarity of the garments—Frank’s worn t-shirt hanging on Claire’s new frame, Amy’s yoga pants stretching over Will’s borrowed hips—somehow made the strangeness worse. They made lunch, the simple act of spreading mustard on bread feeling like a complex performance. They ate at the kitchen island, not tasting the food, the air between them thick with the memory of the shower, with the unspoken, humming need.

It became too much.

Will put his plate in the sink with a clatter. He turned, his expression a war between self-loathing and desperate want. Without a word, he walked back to the bedroom. Claire followed, her heart—Frank’s heart—pounding a heavy, anticipatory rhythm.

He lay down on the rumpled bed, on his back, and began to remove the soft clothes. Claire watched, Frank’s body already stirring in response to the sight. Amy’s body was revealed again, pale and curved in the afternoon light. Will stared at the ceiling, his jaw tight, as if trying to disassociate. But his breathing was shallow, quick.

Claire shed her own clothes, letting them fall to the floor. The cool air on Frank’s skin was a shock, but the heat pooling lower was greater. She joined him on the bed, kneeling between Amy’s—between Will’s—spread legs.

“We should…” Claire began, her voice rough. “We should make sure it’s ready.”

Will gave a tight, jerky nod, his eyes still fixed above.

Claire leaned down, her new body large and shadowing his. Using Frank’s hands, she touched him. Not as a husband to a wife, but as a soul trapped in one body, trying to communicate with another. Her fingers found the soft, warm folds between Amy’s legs. Will flinched, a sharp intake of breath hissing through Amy’s teeth.

“Relax,” Claire murmured, though she was anything but. She explored, gently, learning the terrain. With a careful thumb, she found the little nub of Amy’s clit and circled it, watching as Will’s borrowed body reacted independently of his will. His back arched slightly off the bed. A soft, choked sound escaped him.

She worked him with a focus that was part clinical, part worship. She wanted him wet, pliant, ready. She wanted to feel the acceptance. Her touch grew more confident, stroking, rubbing, until Will was shuddering, his hands fisting in the sheets. She brought him to a first, trembling orgasm that made Amy’s whole body seize, a high, womanly cry tearing from his throat. She didn’t stop, gentling him through the aftershocks before building him again, slower this time, deeper, until a second wave crashed over him, leaving him gasping and slick, the evidence of his pleasure glistening on her fingers.

“Claire,” he breathed, the name a surrender.

She looked down at herself. Frank’s cock was fully engorged now, thick and heavy, a size she knew, intellectually, was familiar to Amy but felt monumental to her. It was the size Will had been. Now it was hers to wield.

She positioned herself, the blunt head nudging against soaked, yielding flesh. Will’s eyes—Amy’s blue, wide eyes—finally met hers. There was fear there, but beneath it, a blazing curiosity.

“Slow,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

She pushed forward, an inch. The stretch was immediate. She felt it from both sides—the tight, incredible pressure encircling the head of Frank’s cock, and from Will’s perspective, the breathtaking, filling burn of intrusion. She saw his lips part, heard the shaky moan.

“Oh, god,” he gasped. “It… stretches. It really stretches.”

Claire pushed deeper, a slow, relentless slide. Her whole world narrowed to that incredible sensation of being enveloped, of a hot, velvety sheath expanding to take all of her. She was fully inside, buried to the hilt, their bodies joined in a way that was biologically familiar and existentially alien. She lowered Frank’s body onto his, feeling Amy’s soft breasts flatten against Frank’s hard chest. She kissed him, deep and searching, trying to find her husband in this sister’s mouth.

Will kissed her back, his hands coming up to clutch at Frank’s broad back, his legs wrapping around Frank’s waist. He was moaning now, continuous, womanly sounds of shock and pleasure that seemed to surprise him as much as they did her.

Then she moved. She fucked him. It was not frantic, but deep, sensual, and devastatingly thorough. Each withdrawal was an agony of loss, each thrust a homecoming of profound, stretching fullness. Claire focused on the feeling, on the incredible feedback loop—the power of pushing in, the breathtaking tightness that welcomed it. Will was lost in sensation, his head thrown back, every gasp and cry a melody of feminine pleasure sung in a utterly masculine voice of need.

The climax, when it came, was simultaneous. It tore through Claire with the force of a thunderclap, a roaring, pulsing release that seemed to originate from the very root of the alien penis and flood Frank’s entire body. Beneath her, Will screamed, Amy’s body clamping down in rhythmic, milking convulsions around her, pulling every last drop from her. They collapsed together, a tangled, sweating, spent heap of wrong bodies and profoundly right feeling.

After a long time, they untangled and shuffled back to the shower. This time, there was no clinical desperation. They washed each other slowly, sensually, Frank’s big hands smoothing soap over Amy’s curves, Amy’s small hands roaming Frank’s planes. They kissed under the spray, tired and sated, a silent acknowledgement of the bridge they had crossed.

They dressed in simple sleepwear—a tank top for him, a large t-shirt for her. They ate a quiet dinner, the normalcy of it surreal. As dusk fell, Claire found a pen and a notepad by the phone. She sat at the dresser and began to write. Will watched from the bed, silent.

Frank, Amy—if you’re reading this, you’re back. We were here. Will and Claire. The accident swapped us. We lived in you for a day. We were scared. We were confused. And then… we found each other in your bodies. We made love. It was wrong and it was the only thing that felt right. We’re sorry, and we’re not sorry. We needed to. We left your bodies clean and cared for. Please don’t hate us. —C & W

She folded the note and placed it on the dresser, right beside the hospital discharge papers. They turned off the light and got into bed. Will, in Amy’s smaller form, curled into Claire, his back pressing against Frank’s large, warm chest. He fit perfectly in the curve of her new body. They fell asleep like that, exhaustion and a strange, hard-won peace pulling them under.

***

Morning light, gentler this time. A man blinked awake, his arm numb. He looked down. Blond hair tickled his nose. Amy. His wife. A deep, profound relief washed through him. He was Frank. He was in his own body. He felt… sore. A good sore. A familiar, sexual ache.

Next to him, Amy stirred. She stretched, a cat-like motion, and smiled up at him, her eyes clear and knowing. “Morning,” she murmured, her voice her own.

“Morning,” Frank said, his voice his own. He leaned down and kissed her, and the kiss quickly deepened, turning hungry. The strange, vivid dream of being someone else faded in the face of his own, very real desire.

They ended up in the shower again, the water hot. They made love against the tile, fast and passionate, a reclamation. They washed each other after, laughing, touching, re-familiarizing.

Still damp, wrapped in towels, they padded back into the bedroom to dress. Frank hunted for a clean shirt. Amy, brushing her hair at the dresser, paused. Her eyes fell on the folded note beside the hospital papers.

“Frank? What’s this?”

“Hmm?” He pulled a shirt on.

She picked it up, unfolded it, and began to read. Her smile vanished. The color drained from her face. Her hand flew to her mouth. The brush clattered to the dresser top.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, the paper trembling in her hand. She looked up at Frank, her eyes wide with shock, with a dawning, horrific understanding. “Frank… read this.”