A distant beeping pulled Ethan from the depths of sleep. He stirred groggily, warm and cocooned in softness. For a moment, he lay there, reluctant to open his eyes, enjoying the rare comfort of a bed.

Wait... a bed?

His last memory flashed vividly in his mind: the coffee, the office, the sudden wave of exhaustion. His eyes snapped open.

He was in a bed. A very nice bed, with a pristine white duvet, pink sheets, and pink pillows fluffed to perfection. The room smelled faintly floral, the scent comforting yet foreign.

The alarm blared again. Twisting toward the sound, he saw a phone lying on the nightstand. Its case was light pink, scattered with tiny rose illustrations. He picked it up hesitantly and swiped at the screen, expecting it to ask for a passcode or fingerprint. Instead, the phone unlocked immediately, as if it recognized him.

He froze.

Face ID?

But this wasn't his phone. How could it recognize him?

Placing the phone back down, his eyes caught something else—long strands of blonde hair spread out on the pillow beside him.

His heart raced as he sat up, the hair following him, reaching just below his shoulder blades.

His eyes traveled down to his body.



He was wearing pajamas—girls' pajamas. A white tank top with tiny rose patterns and ruffled seams clung to his torso. Matching shorts hugged his hips and thighs, which seemed... slightly fuller than he remembered.

He jumped out of the bed, stumbling slightly, the soft sheets tangling around his legs. He rushed across the room to the large mirror mounted on the wall.

The girl staring back at him made his stomach drop.

She was familiar, yet unfamiliar. Her features resembled his own, but softer. More feminine. The face was unmistakably his—just different. Her blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, the same golden hue as his before... but much longer.

He moved an arm, and the reflection mirrored him. He touched his face and the reflection did the same.

Wait.

He bent his leg as he checked his knee. There it was—a small scar on his left knee, exactly where it had always been since that bike accident when he was a kid.

How is this possible?

He turned his gaze to the mirror again, scrutinizing his frame. His waist was narrower, his hips and legs slightly larger, and his chest slightly fuller. But the details—his faint freckles, that scar on his knee—were still there.

His heart thudded against his ribs.

This has to be a dream.

But every sensation felt too real.

There was one last thing he had to confirm.

Dreading what he might find, he tugged the waistband of his shorts out and peeked inside.

His breath caught, and he instantly let the waistband snap back into place, his face flushing hot.

Ethan stumbled backward, his legs hitting the bed as he sank down onto it, his head spinning.

What happened to me? How did I get here?

Nothing in his mind offered answers. He remembered the coffee, the office, the strange questions, and then—nothing.

The sound of a voice startled him, breaking through his racing thoughts.

"Olivia! You're going to be late if you don't hurry up!"

Ethan's head snapped toward the door, his pulse quickening.

Olivia?