Aaron slumped on the edge of his bed, staring at the orange pill bottle on his nightstand. The label read "Daniel's Meds---Do Not Touch," but that hadn't stopped him. For months, he'd been dipping into his younger brother's supply, swapping out the pills with Tylenol to cover his tracks. Aaron's addiction to prescription painkillers had started innocently enough---a back injury from his warehouse job that never quite healed. Now, it was a daily battle, and Daniel's pills seemed like a convenient fix. They were smaller than his usual oxycodone, so he popped twice as many to chase that numb relief.

Daniel had shown up at Aaron's apartment door three months ago, duffel bag in hand, mumbling something about needing space from their parents. Aaron didn't pry; he was just glad for the company in his cramped one-bedroom. Daniel kept to himself, working odd hours at a coffee shop and spending evenings in his room. Aaron figured the kid was dealing with typical twenty-something angst. Little did he know.

At first, the changes were subtle. Aaron's skin softened, his muscles seemed less defined. Then came the tenderness in his chest, a swelling that made his shirts feel tight. He dismissed it as weight gain from skipping the gym. But one evening, as he rifled through his closet, a strange urge hit him---to slip on a silky blouse he'd bought as a joke for a Halloween party years ago. It felt... right. Comforting, even. He shook it off, blaming withdrawal jitters.

Weeks blurred into a haze. Aaron's cravings intensified, but not for the pain relief he remembered. He stole more pills, rationalizing that Daniel wouldn't notice. His brother, meanwhile, seemed frustrated, complaining about his meds not working as well. One night, Aaron caught Daniel staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, prodding his own flat chest with envy.