The first thing Archie noticed was the light. Blinding, unforgiving daylight poured through the oversized window, hitting him square in the face. His brain throbbed in protest, a cruel reminder of the whiskey-fueled choices he’d made the night before. Groaning, he rolled over, burying his face into the pillow. Wait—this wasn’t his pillow. It wasn’t even his bed. His eyes shot open, and that’s when the panic began to settle in, clawing its way up his throat. The bed was too soft, the sheets too nice, the smell too… unfamiliar. Where the hell was he?

Pushing himself upright, Archie’s head spun like a carnival ride, and the realization hit him harder than a linebacker: he wasn’t wearing his suit anymore. Oh God. His nice suit—the one his mom picked out, the one that screamed “poster boy” at every sponsor in the room—was gone, replaced by an old t-shirt that definitely wasn’t his. A sickening wave of nausea rolled through his stomach as memories from the countdown party flickered in and out like a bad signal. He’d been drinking, sure, but this? This was uncharted territory. His arms instinctively clutched at the pillow he’d been holding onto, as though it could somehow shield him from the very real possibility that someone had seen him. All of him. The thought alone made his pulse race. Who was this mystery person? Were they still here? And more importantly, were they going to run to the tabloids with a story about the NFL’s golden boy secretly being a golden…girl down below…?

Archie swung his legs over the side of the bed, heart hammering in his chest. His mind spun through worst-case scenarios faster than he could think. Pay them off? Involve his dad? Oh, his dad would love that conversation. He took a shaky breath, his eyes darting around the room for clues. A framed photo on the dresser caught his eye—who...was that…? That photo looked familiar, he had yet to realize that it was actually you after all these years. Panic gave way to confusion. How did he get to this house? Why? How? When???