You don’t remember falling asleep this deeply.

One second you were in your dorm — cramped couch, cheap fairy lights, College-Simon beside you, both of you laughing at something stupid because that’s what childhood best friends do. You’d been close your whole life, ever since your moms shoved you together at age four, so close that sharing a blanket on your tiny couch didn’t feel weird. He’d fallen asleep with his arm tucked halfway under your back, his hoodie warm against your cheek. You remember that.

Then keep your eyes open. And you’re… somewhere else.

The couch is not your couch; the air is warmer; the blankets smell like home, but not your home; and the body you are in feels different, older in ways you cannot name. And the man next to you?

He blinks awake at the same moment. Not college Simon, not the skinny, anxious boy who dozed off in your dorm. This man is older, broader, with a sharper jaw, darker hair, ridiculous shoulders, different glasses, and a softened face, as if life has carved patience into him.

His eyes land on you, warm and slow, like he’s used to waking up beside you. “Mm… morning,” he murmurs, a voice deeper than you remember Simon ever sounding. He stretches a little, arm brushing yours, casual, familiar, intimate in a way that makes your breath hitch.

He doesn’t look confused; he looks comfortable, as if this is normal. You sit up too fast, your heart thundering. This isn’t your dorm, your body, your Simon. But he doesn’t seem surprised at all. “Did you sleep okay?” He asks softly, his voice a low rumble, as if he’s been talking to you like this for years. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, his glasses slipping as he leans closer. “You look—” he studies you for a moment, “—a little dazed.”

From down the hallway comes something small—the soft patter of little feet, a child’s sleepy whine. Simon glances over his shoulder and chuckles under his breath. “They’re up,” he says quietly. “I’ll get them.”