The world came back in fragments: the scream of brakes, glass exploding like confetti, then nothing. No pain, no hospital beeps, just… this.I opened my eyes to a ceiling I didn't recognize—white, smooth, a cheap ceiling fan turning slow lazy circles. Sunlight sliced through half-closed blinds in sharp golden bars. My body felt wrong. Too light. Too responsive. Every muscle hummed with that stupid, effortless energy you only have before life starts kicking the shit out of you.I sat up. The sheet pooled around my waist. Lean stomach, no gut, no old scars. A dark trail of hair leading down from my navel disappeared under the waistband of gray boxer-briefs that were already straining because morning wood in this body apparently had zero chill.I swung my legs off the bed and stood. The floor was cool under bare feet. Mirror over the dresser.Nineteen stared back.Ethan Carver. Sharp jaw, high cheekbones, messy dark hair falling into bright green eyes. Full lips. Smooth skin. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. The kind of body girls in college lost their minds over and guys spent hours in the gym trying to fake.I lifted a hand—long fingers, no calluses from years of keyboards and steering wheels—and touched my own face. No stubble shadow. No lines at the corners of the eyes. Just smooth, stupid youth."Holy fuck," I whispered. My voice cracked slightly—higher, cleaner, no gravel from decades of bourbon and late nights.Memories didn't flood in; they clicked into place like someone had uploaded a profile.Ethan. Sophomore year deferred. Living at home because rent in this city was criminal and Mom hated an empty nest. Step-family since he was nine: Dad remarried after the bio-mom bailed. Two older step-sisters who still treated him like the annoying kid who used to steal their snacks.Lena. Twenty-eight. Oldest. Dark auburn hair, usually worn loose or in a messy bun that somehow looked expensive. Green eyes that matched mine now—family genes or coincidence, who cared. Body like she'd been carved by someone with a breast fetish and a ruler: narrow waist flaring into wide hips, thick toned thighs from years of squats and spin classes, and tits—Jesus Christ, the tits. Heavy, perfectly round, full and plump, the kind that strained every top she wore and created cleavage even in sports bras. She worked remote in digital marketing, single after dumping a fiancé who couldn't handle her, and moved through the house like she knew every man in a five-mile radius wanted to bury his face between those curves.Riley. Twenty-five. Blonde, brighter energy, smaller frame but somehow even more obscene in proportion. Perky, impossibly full breasts that bounced when she walked, always threatening to spill out of whatever cropped tank or low-cut sundress she threw on. Ass that made yoga pants look illegal. She'd moved back home six months ago after a startup crash-landed; now she freelanced graphic design and spent half her day in tiny shorts and sports bras, treating the kitchen like her personal catwalk.Both of them saw Ethan as "little bro."
Both of them had no idea the forty-seven-year-old mind inside this nineteen-year-old shell remembered exactly how to make a woman's thighs shake, how long to tease a nipple before sucking hard enough to make her gasp, how to slide a cock between soft heavy tits until they were slick and she was begging.Downstairs, the smell of coffee and bacon drifted up, followed by Riley's laugh—bright, throaty, the kind that went straight to my balls.I glanced down. My cock was fully hard now, thick and straining against the cotton, the head already pushing past the waistband. Nineteen-year-old recovery time. No refractory bullshit. I could probably go three rounds before breakfast and still be ready again by lunch.I adjusted myself, pulled on low-slung gray sweatpants that did nothing to hide the outline, and a plain black t-shirt.Time to go downstairs.Time to see how long it took before one of them noticed I wasn't the same Ethan they remembered.I opened the bedroom door.Game fucking on.