The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 35 - 38

Chapter 35

Summer went on, and the money kept pouring in.

My fans happily throwing cash at me—paying for my meals, my indulgences, my life. And yeah, I was spending. A lot.

First big move? Traded in the Jetta.

I didn’t need a new car. But I wanted one. Something sleeker, sexier, faster. So I called my dad, told him I was ready for an upgrade, and of course, he wanted in.

No way was he letting me drive just anything—safety was his thing. He pushed for a German car as usual. Audi, BMW, Porsche—something solid, something that wouldn’t crumple like a tin can if I got in a wreck.

I thought about going roomier, maybe something bigger, but I wasn’t really an SUV girl. Never had been, especially not in Seattle. And besides—I wasn’t going keep gaining weight. Didn’t need something huge. And truth be told? I liked feeling a little snug behind the wheel, my curves filling up the seat, wrapping around me like the car was built just for me. Sensual, sexy. Kind of turned me on.

When I settled on the black A7, my dad nodded, approving. “Solid choice.”

Then came the down payment.

Big.

His head tilted. “You sure you wanna put that much down?”

I shrugged, all casual. “Just been saving.”

His eyes narrowed, assessing. Like he was running numbers in his head. Like the money was as shocking as my weight.

But he didn’t press. Maybe figured I’d stacked up some hefty Google bonuses. Maybe thought I’d been playing around with crypto. Or, more likely, assumed I had another rich boyfriend footing the bill, someone like Tanner, someone who took care of things.

And honestly? If he thought I needed help covering it, he wouldn’t have let me walk out of that dealership without his card on file, just in case.

Not that I needed it.

Because yeah. I was making that kind of money.

No help from men.

All. Me.

And it wasn’t just the car. It was everything. Clothes, dinners, weekend trips. If I wanted it? I bought it.

And lately I’d been thinking bigger.

Real estate. Not because I needed a house—I’d extended my lease, but only for six months this time. A year felt like too much, too permanent. But a house, a condo? A property? That felt smart. An investment. And, well… because I could.

But as the weeks passed, keeping up the charade with Jordan and Chase? Getting harder.

Not because they knew. But because I was slipping.

By August, restraint was gone.

With Jordan? Workouts turned into dessert. Then turned into junk food.

Then turned into me, sprawled out on my sectional, stomach tight, heavy, full, lips wrapped around a spoonful of cheesecake while he watched me like I was the hottest woman in the world.

It started slow. Innocent. A little reward after a workout.

You worked hard, princess. You deserve it.

A bite turned into a slice. A slice turned into three.

Then one look. That dark, charged, lingering glance between bites—

And that was it.

Game over.

Then he’d grab the fork, slide it between my lips, and I’d let him.

Let him feed me whatever I wanted.

Let him stroke a hand over my too-full belly when I leaned back with a moan.

Let him smirk like he loved seeing me this way.

Like he couldn’t get enough.

With Chase?

Different story.

Chase made me move. Still pushed me through workouts. Still had me sweating, swearing, hitting my limit five minutes in.

And I knew—knew—he could tell.

Knew my weight wasn’t staying the same. Knew that by the end of August, working out was getting harder, not easier. Knew I was getting bigger.

And the way he looked at me when I lost steam halfway through? When I pressed my hands to my knees, panting, sweat dripping down my back?

Yeah.

He noticed.

And by the end of September, it all came crashing down.

Chapter 36

It was Wednesday night. 

Chase was out in my living room, arms probably crossed tight across that broad chest, no doubt wearing one of his signature scowls—stoic, serious, and way too hot for his own damn good. The man took entirely too much satisfaction in hauling my ass down to the fitness center to punish me on the treadmill.

Meanwhile, I was in my bathroom fighting a losing battle with a pair of teal leggings—leggings that had the nerve to claim they were a 2X. I tugged and wiggled, stretched and yanked, wrestling them up over my thighs inch by inch until finally, with a breathless grunt, they snapped into place. The waistband cut in sharply, upper belly spilling over, the matching sports bra barely containing my boobs. I was winded, overheated, and miserable, and I hadn’t even touched the treadmill yet.

In a moment of sheer self-sabotage, I stepped onto the scale. The numbers flashed up at me, cruel and mocking, and I let out a small, horrified shriek.

Chase was at the bathroom door in seconds, body rigid with concern. “What?”

My eyes shot up to his, panic bubbling up. “Two fifty-nine.”

His eyes darted to the scale, then locked back on me, expression guarded. “Shit, Cel. That’s—yeah, not great. You been eating extra lately?”

Instantly, I saw Jordan’s lazy smile flash through my mind—midnight ice cream runs, giggling over cupcakes in bed, Chinese takeout nights spent sprawled out, eating until it hurt. My cheeks flamed.

“I mean…maybe,” I admitted quietly. “Here and there.”

Chase blew out a breath. “Look, babe, you gotta rein it in a little. Maybe download an app, count calories or whatever. Ease up on the booze. And straight up, those cigs gotta go.”

But even as he laid it out, his eyes never moved from my body, his gaze heated and hungry. Chase talked a big game about discipline, control—but the way he was looking at me told a different story.

He liked what he saw. A lot.

BAM, BAM…BAM, BAM.

My body went still, head turning toward the sound.

Chase’s gaze cut to me, brows drawing together. “You expecting someone?”

“Umm, no.” 

Jenna wouldn’t knock like that—DoorDash, maybe? Had I ordered something and forgotten?

Jordan was the only other person who had my building code.

Oh shit.

Chase was already on the move, prowling toward the door.

I hurried after him. “Chase—wait!”

Too late.

He yanked open the door, and there stood Jordan, pink Top Pot donut box in one hand, bouquet of roses in the other.

That carefree grin vanished real quick when he saw Chase filling my doorway.

Jordan’s eyes darted from Chase’s hard face to me—standing there flushed—confusion shifting swiftly to wary disbelief.

“The fuck?” Jordan said, eyes narrowing sharply on Chase. “What’re you doing here man?”

Chase went granite-hard. His eyes flicked coldly from the roses to the donuts and back up, simmering fury clear as day. “Could ask you the same damn thing. Why you at my woman’s door looking like some lovesick TikTok fuck?”

“Your woman?” I just came to surprise Cel. Didn’t know she had company. You said you were going to the gym.”

Chase turned on me fast. “Cel?”

My mouth opened. Nothing came out. Guilt, shame, panic—they twisted painfully in my chest, cutting off words.

Jordan moved forward, realization hitting hard and raw. “So...you two?” His voice cracked, wounded. “Seriously, princess?”

Chase’s head whipped around again, eyes lethal. “Princess?”

My heart was going full-on jackhammer.

Both men swung around, pinning me with looks that screamed trouble—double-barreled, alpha-male trouble.

“How fuckin’ long, Cel?” Chase growled.

“I didn’t mean—”

Chase sliced through my words sharp. “Un-fucking-believable.”

Jordan’s jaw went slack as he looked at me. “So when you said you needed space, this is what you meant?”

“Jordan,” I whispered, my voice shaking and small.

He moved toward me, eyes full of wounded hope. “Cel, I thought—”

Chase cut him off, stepping right in his path. “She’s fucking mine.”

That did it.

Jordan lunged, growling back, “She’s not yours, asshole.”

Chase shoved him, roses flying everywhere, petals going down like some tragic romance massacre, but God bless him, Jordan managed to keep hold of those donuts like they were his firstborn child.

“Stop it!” I shouted. “I’m not anyone’s anything!”

I wedged myself between them, breath coming fast, snatched Jordan’s wrist, and rescued the precious donuts from becoming collateral damage.

I whirled around and slapped the donut box onto the counter, then spun back to face them. “Jordan, (pant) you should go.”

He glared at me, hurt bleeding openly from his eyes. Without another word, he turned, boots stomping heavy as he shut the door behind him.

Still trembling, heart racing, I turned to Chase. 

He was glaring at me.

“Jordan?” he rasped. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“I didn't (huff) plan this,” I whispered, voice shaking. “I swear to God, (gasp) I care about you—more than you know. Jordan, he's…he just makes things complicated. He’s sweet and—”

“Sweet?” Chase barked a bitter, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “This isn't fucking complicated.”

“I know,” I admitted softly.

“Tell me something. Does Jordan know about your OnlyFans—or was that a dirty secret you kept just for me?”

“Chase, don’t.”

“You don’t get to say that shit to me right now,” he said. “Not after this.”

I sucked in a breath, tears threatening, pride barely holding them back. “Please, Chase. Just go. I need space. And don’t take this out on Jordan. This mess—it’s mine.”

He stared at me a long, heavy second, anger battling openly with hurt. Then he snatched his keys from the coffee table.

“This isn’t done, Cel. Not even close.”

The door slammed behind him so hard the walls shook.

I stood frozen.

Tried to breathe through it.

Tried not to shatter into tears.

I turned numbly back toward the kitchen. That damn donut box sat there, taunting, mocking, promising comfort I didn’t deserve.

Without thinking, I lunged toward it, flipping the lid back hard, grabbing a chocolate sprinkle donut and shoving it into my mouth, barely tasting it. Swallowed fast and hard, like I was trying to push down every wrong choice I’d ever made.

Then I grabbed a maple bar, inhaling it just as quickly.

God, what was I even doing?

My eyes fell to the roses scattered like casualties across my floor, a sad reminder of the wreckage I’d made. My breath came short, sharp, leggings slicing into my belly like punishment, heart beating a wild, angry rhythm beneath my skin.

I needed out of this apartment.

I needed Jenna.

Chapter 37

I grabbed my purse, the donut box, and stormed down the hall, into the elevator, ignoring the way my thighs rubbed, how every step sent a fresh jiggle through my ass.

I hit the parking garage, squeezed into my Audi, grunted, cursed, fought my seatbelt over my tits like I was in a goddamn wrestling match.

Should’ve bought a bigger car.

I drew in a deep breath, tried to settle my nerves, tried to process how I’d somehow detonated my entire life in less than twenty damn minutes.

I yanked out my phone, shot Jenna a quick text—Need to talk. Headed your way.—then shoved it back into my purse.

Then, because clearly my self-destruction had a tight schedule to keep, I flipped open the donut box again.

Sweet, sugary goodness hit me like an addiction.

Hell, might as well make it three.

Didn’t even hesitate.

Grabbed a French cruller, shoved it in my mouth, barely chewing, not tasting—just filling something deep and aching, something bottomless inside.

By the time I backed out of my garage, I was already reaching for another maple bar.

By the time I stopped at the first red light, my fingers were sticky, sugar coated my lips, and the sharp ache deep in my chest hadn’t eased even a little.

I'd promised myself—sworn to myself—I’d never smoke in the car.

But my vape was MIA, buried deep in my purse, or lost forever in the wreckage of my life, and at this point, I didn’t give a damn.

I fished out my pack, slid a cigarette between my lips, lit up fast, inhaled deep.

One long drag, and nicotine hit hard, swirling with sugar and frustration, taking the edge off the panic rattling through me.

Whatever.

This was an emergency. A full-blown meltdown.

Right now, I needed nicotine, donuts, booze—maybe all three together, straight to the veins.

I flicked ash carelessly out the window, wind blowing my hair wild, city lights streaking past like bright smears. My other hand reached blindly to my right, grabbing another cruller, stuffing it between my lips as I kept my eyes half on the road.

Cigarette burning in one hand, donut crushed between my fingers in the other.

Jesus. I was officially a disaster.

But this wasn’t hunger. This was desperation. Pure, raw, ugly need. Need to shove it all down—the guilt, the shame, the hurt slicing through Chase’s beautiful blue eyes, the shock shattering Jordan’s cocky smirk.

Me. Exposed. Cornered.

Unable to explain myself, even to myself.

My grip tightened on my fluffy pink steering-wheel cover, cigarette pitched between fingers. Another drag. Smoke swirling, night air cooling my skin as I sped over the Aurora Bridge, lights twinkling around me like I was driving through some twisted, fucked-up fairytale.

Didn’t even clock how many donuts I’d inhaled—five, maybe six—each swallowed in a haze of compulsion and panic. My stomach felt tight, full, my leggings punishing me harder than ever, cutting in like they had a personal vendetta against the shitshow that was me tonight.

Still—I reached over and shoved in another bite, driving fast, nearly mowing down some clueless jackass jogging at night like he wanted to test his mortality. My heart slammed, hands trembling, alternating between pulls of smoke and frantic bites of fried dough like I had something to prove.

I needed Jenna to tell me what the fuck to do before I totally lost my mind.

Her place was small, cute, tucked in a little four-unit building, two floors, outside entrances—unfortunately, she lived on the second.

Because of course she did.

By the time I dragged my ass up the stairs, my legs were burning, and I was gasping for air.

I knocked.

No answer.

I knocked again, breath coming fast, heart slamming, whole body vibrating with sugar, adrenaline, and nicotine.

Still nothing.

I grabbed my phone and swiped at my screen.

Jenna still hadn’t responded to my text.

ME: Where are you?

I knocked harder, louder, starting to panic.

Then finally my phone lit up.

JENNA: Sorry I’m at my parents, talk tomorrow?

Fucking perfect.

The door swung open.

And there stood Aaron.

Jenna’s too-good-for-this-world, too-smart-for-his-own-good, way-too-damn-observant boyfriend.

And me?

Standing there in nothing but leggings and a sports bra, my hair a sexy mess, every soft, full curve on display.

Chapter 38

Aaron’s gaze dropped.

Box of donuts in my hand.

Sweat glistening on my forehead.

Breasts heaving beneath my teal sports bra, still out of breath from hauling my oversized butt up one damn flight of stairs.

His lips tugged at the corner, like he had a thought he shouldn’t be having.

"Celeste."

I swallowed, tried to act normal, tried not to look like I had just sprinted away from my own personal trainwreck.

“Sorry, um, (gasp) I just needed to talk to Jenna, (pant) but I guess she’s not home.”

I blinked.

My chest still rising and falling too fast, brain scrambling for a next move that wasn’t just collapsing on his damn doorstep.

“I (pant) should go.”

I should not be here.

I should not be standing in front of Jenna’s door, looking like I’d been on a full-blown binge spiral, clutching a box of donuts like they were my emotional support animal.

But I didn’t move.

Aaron exhaled through his nose, watching me. "You okay?"

I swallowed, mouth still coated in sugar, head spinning from the absolute disaster I had just left behind.

"I (pant)don’t know," I admitted.

"You wanna come in?"

“I shouldn’t.”

“I’m not doin’ anything. You can if you want.”

I licked my lips, eyes drifting past Aaron into the apartment, not entirely sure what I was searching for—just knowing I wasn't ready to walk away yet.

"You got anything to drink?"

His mouth twitched like he was fighting a grin.
"Uh, yeah."

"A drink (huff) would be awesome," I said, brushing past him as he swung the door wide, ass bouncing as I moved over the creaky wood floor, shoving the donut box onto the coffee table. Ignoring how my belly jiggled like jello, ignoring how I was a total mess and Aaron wasn't missing a thing.

He shuffled behind me, pushing the door shut.

"Vodka good?" he called, already headed toward the kitchen.

"Uh, Yeah," I breathed, collapsing onto his couch. "Maybe (pant) with soda?"

He dug through the fridge, glancing my way. "Ginger ale work?"

"Perfect." I dropped my head back against soft cushions, eyes closing briefly because ginger ale and vodka sounded exactly like salvation right now.

He poured two drinks over ice, handed mine over, then settled himself into the recliner opposite.

I drank, vodka hitting sharp, sweet sugar still coating my tongue. My head was still spinning, but for the first time all night, I felt my lungs loosen enough to breathe.

"So," Aaron said. "You needed to talk to Jenna? And donuts were required?"

I stared at him, then at my drink. "I'm good now," I lied, exhaling slow and shaky. "It's just…boy trouble."

And then because I was fresh out of fucks to give, I laid it all out.

Chase. Jordan. Feeling torn. Setting boundaries I clearly didn't know how to set.

Didn't spill about the feeding. Didn't spill about the OnlyFans. But everything else came out raw, messy, and real.

Aaron listened, giving me gentle nods that made me feel safe and made me feel heard. And when I finally ran out of steam, he leaned back, lips curving softly, pure Aaron—calm, steady, solid.

"Sorry Jenna's not here, but you know she wouldn't touch those donuts anyway."

"She still dieting or whatever?"

He nodded. "Now she's off sugar completely. Can't keep track anymore—what she eats, what she doesn't. Exhausting."

"You two okay?"

He took a sip of his drink, jaw tightening briefly. "We sorta had a little fight. She said she wanted to see her folks. You know how she is."

"Oh I’m sorry," I whispered.

"Don't be." He tipped his chin toward the donut box. "And don't let me stop you. Need a napkin or something?"

I didn't need another donut. Didn't need Aaron watching me lose control around food.

But since he offered—and since tonight was already a disaster—I shrugged, "Sure. Thanks."

He set down his drink, pushed smoothly out of his recliner, headed into the kitchen, and came back holding a handful of paper towels. He handed them over, watching, a little amused, a lot gentle.

I leaned forward, feeling my belly folding over my leggings as I grabbed a pink frosted sprinkle donut, and took a big bite.

Fuck it. Might as well go all in.

"(chew, chew)Sorry," I mumbled around the donut, embarrassment mixing with relief. "I've (chew) already had like half the box. You better (chew, chew) take one, or I'll end up eating all of them."

I pointed at the box then looked up at him. "Just (chew) don't touch the Boston creams."

He gave me a look, then—without breaking eye contact—reached down and grabbed a plain-ass cake donut.

The only one I didn’t have an undying obsession with. Have no idea why Jordan even added it to his assortment.

I narrowed my eyes. "Did you just read my mind?"

He smirked, broke the donut in half, popped a piece into his mouth, watching me the whole time like he had me figured out.

“Didn’t have to,” he said, after he finished chewing, sinking back into the recliner like he was settling in for a show. "You basically told me which ones were off-limits."

Touché.

I took another bite, chased it with a sip of my icy beverage.

Aaron set his half-eaten donut next to his drink, stretched out like he was comfortable as hell, watching me. "You look good."

I snort-laughed with my mouth full. "Are you (chew, chew) kidding? I’m a fucking (chew) mess right now."

"And yet, you still look good. You always look good, Celeste."

I rolled my eyes, took another sip. “I feel like a hippo.”

"But you look like a goddess."

I blushed. Actually blushed.

I took another bite, ignored the way my chest squeezed, at the way Aaron was looking at me, then washed it down with more vodka—because, honestly, I had no idea what the hell to do with that comment.

"So," I exhaled, licking a smudge of chocolate off my thumb, "what do you think I should do?"

Aaron leaned forward, watching me like he actually gave a shit.

"What does your heart tell you?"

I let out a breathy laugh, shook my head. "I don’t know anymore. If I knew, I wouldn’t feel so confused right now."

Then I shoved the rest of my donut in my mouth, barely chewed, then immediately grabbed a Boston cream like I had a donut-eating deadline to meet.

Aaron smirked. "You could always just do nothing."

I paused mid-chew, staring at him.

He lifted a shoulder, took a sip of his drink. "I mean, you don’t have to choose anyone. You could just... be alone for a while. Give yourself space. Take some time to figure your shit out instead of letting two guys drive you nuts."

I chewed slower, processing.

Swallowed.

I shoved the rest of my creamy donut in my mouth, like maybe this Boston cream had the answers.

"You (chew, chew) make it sound (chew) so simple."

"Sometimes it is."

He had a point. I didn’t have to choose Chase or Jordan. Didn’t have to keep making a mess of things. I could just... be.

I sighed, dropping my head back against the couch.

“Maybe you’re right.”

He smiled. "Happens more than you think."

I grabbed another donut, because fuck it, might as well finish the whole damn box at this point.

"Well," I said, taking a bite, "guess (chew, chew) I’m gonna be single and (chew) stuffed."

I shifted, slow—my belly aching now, packed tight, pressing firm against the wide flare of my hips and the thick spill of my thighs. My tits strained against my top, breath shallow, every inch of me too full and too soft.

I let out a low, sultry sigh, lips curling as I arched into the pressure, chasing that mix of pain and pleasure.

“Mmm… I need a cigarette,” I purred, thinking maybe a drag would take the edge off the delicious stretch in my stomach.

Aaron’s brows shot up. “You smoke?”

“Only when I’m stressed.”

“How’s that workin’ out for you?”

I let out a soft laugh, digging into my purse. “Considering (pant) I’ve gone through half a pack already today? Totally stellar, Aaron.”

He pushed to his feet. Then he was standing right in front of me and he held out his hand.

My gaze dropped to that hand. Long fingers. Sleeves rolled up. Veined forearm. Strong wrist.

“I can get up by myself.”

"I know," he said, not moving an inch, hand still extended, waiting patiently.

I sighed, placed my hand in his, and he pulled. His muscles flexing, grip tightening, hauling my heavy, exhausted body off that couch like he was dragging me out of quicksand.

He let go, slow, reluctant—like his hands weren’t quite ready to give me up. Like maybe the way I felt had him thinking thoughts he shouldn’t.

But the instant his warmth left me?

I missed it.

He slid open the door, stepping onto his tiny balcony, the city stretched out below us, glittering softly beneath the cool September night, Green Lake glowing gently.

I followed, pulling out my pack of cigarettes, slipping one between my lips. He turned, close enough now that the warmth of him brushed softly against me. Without a word, he flicked a lighter, eyes holding mine in quiet understanding as the flame touched my cigarette.

I took a drag, then leaned forward, easing against the railing, grateful for the relief it offered my feet and my bloated body. Aaron reached out quietly, slipping a cigarette from my pack.

My eyebrows arched. “What, did you start smoking too?”

“No, but some nights call for breaking the rules.”

He lit up, took a drag, eyes catching mine before drifting towards the lake. Smoke curled around us, silence stretching long and easy, like neither of us needed to fill it.

Then, finally he spoke—"You ever think we make it harder than it needs to be? Life, I mean."

I exhaled, eyes sliding to his. "Maybe. Probably."

"Feels like we’re always chasing something—money, success, the perfect partner—trying so hard to be someone else’s idea of happy, we forget what actually feels good. What really matters."

"Like donuts (pant) and questionable vodka?" I teased.

"Exactly. Or just… finding a connection, laughing with someone who sees you for exactly who you are and likes you anyway. Eating food that tastes amazing, sharing a cigarette you didn’t plan to smoke. Maybe life is just unexpected intrusions of beauty."

"You make it sound so simple."

He shifted closer. "Maybe it is. We overthink, we second-guess, we worry. But maybe the whole point is to let go—just feel good while we still have time."

I took a drag, watching him. "I swear Aaron, every time I see you, you surprise me."

"Good. Maybe that means we have more layers to explore."

I laughed, gaze dropping, nerves mixing with something sweeter. "Oh, I’ve got layers."

"I noticed."

My cheeks flushed, heat sliding slow and lovely beneath my skin, my breasts pressing gently into the railing as I shifted, aware he was watching. His gaze lingered openly—roaming over curves he didn’t normally get to see.

He cleared his throat. "So were you like heading to the gym before shit went sideways?"

"Yeah," I admitted. "Sorry, didn’t exactly plan this look."

"Are you cold?" 

"No, I’m fine,” Still leaning against the railing, I wiggled my hips—just a little, but with how fat and juicy my ass was, it meant a whole lot of movement. "Turns out (pant) gaining weight has perks. Like carrying around my own built-in cozy blanket, twenty-four-seven."

He gave me a small smile.

I took another long drag. "God, I’m such a mess. (cough) One minute, I’m dead set on exercising. The next? Face-first in donuts.” I lifted my lashes and looked up into his eyes. "Delicious irony, don’t you think?"

"That’s why people love you, Cel. You’re always exactly who you are."

“Oooff, maybe. But I should probably watch it—feel like I’m about to burst out of these leggings. I really do need to drop a few pounds…”

He exhaled, his dark blonde hair shining in the glow of the city lights. "Why?"

I shifted my weight to one hip. "What do you mean?"

"It looks good on you,” he said.

I smiled, liking how straight-up he was. "Yeah, that’s what people keep telling me."

"So why don't you just believe them?"

I took a quick puff, not sure how to answer.

He took another drag then moved slightly closer. He looked out into the night for a moment then back to me. "You tried mushrooms lately?"

I blinked, caught totally off guard. "Why—you got some?"

He nodded. “Been microdosing. Got these capsules, like point-six grams each. Helps me quiet my head, sort through my shit. Might help you figure things out with Chase and Jordan—or whatever you got twisting you up inside.”

“Maybe that’s exactly what I need.”

He held my gaze.  “I'll give you some before you go. I usually take like two. You could start with that, see how it feels.”

“Thanks, Aaron.”

I drew in another couple of drags, feeling the silence settle easy between us.

“I should probably go,” I said.

I lifted the spent cigarette between my fingers.
“What should I do with my butt?”

He stared at me, just long enough for me to realize how that sounded. "I’ll just grab… something."

He set his cigarette on the little gas grill thingy, slid open the door, disappeared inside, came back out a moment later with a ceramic bowl.

"Thanks for letting me hang for a bit," I said, stabbing out my cigarette. "For the chat. For listening."

"It was my pleasure."

I drew a careful breath, as I wiggled forward, my hip brushing past him as I moved back inside.

Aaron went to the bedroom, returning a moment later, quietly pressing a small white Advil bottle into my palm.

“This,” he said, “is not Advil. Point-six grams per pill. Four if you wanna trip, two if you just wanna…clear your head.”

“Thanks, Aaron.”

His voice dipped lower, softer. “Anytime, Cel.”

At the door, I hesitated, stepping into the night air but turning slightly, glancing back at him. “See ya.”

His lips twitched softly. “Yeah, Cel. Until next time.”

I made my way down the stairs, slow—each step a bounce that had my belly and boobs jiggling like they had minds of their own. Heavy, soft, everywhere. My thighs ached and rubbed, breath shallow, my overstuffed belly tight and hanging low, every bit of me moving with a rhythm I couldn’t ignore.

And damn if it didn’t turn me on—feeling all that softness, all that weight, with every step I took.

I should’ve felt guilty. Embarrassed. Anxious, maybe.

But I didn’t.

I felt good. High on sugar, stuffed past the point of reason—and somehow, still riding that edge of okay.

And as I drove away, I realized something I really didn’t need to be realizing.

I liked Aaron.

The way he looked.

The way he listened.

The way he made me feel like I wasn’t crazy.

Like maybe, just maybe, he saw me in a way no one ever had before.

And that?

That could be a problem.

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe

by Jolene Dubois (2025)