You woke up to the smell of cologne, sunshine spilling across unfamiliar bedsheets, and the low, slow rhythm of someone else’s breathing.

For a second, everything felt normal. Comfortable. Just the afterglow of a late-night sleepover at Pau’s place—movies playing until 2 a.m., snacks scattered between you on the floor, long talks about football, life, growing up. The kind of night that only happened with him. The kind where friendship felt like the safest, closest thing in the world.

You’d fallen asleep on his bed, tangled in blankets, feet bumping under the covers, your laugh still lingering in the air. He was your best friend. He had been forever.

But now—

Now something was wrong.

You sat up too fast. Your head felt heavy—heavier than usual. Your limbs were longer, leaner. Broader shoulders shifted under his Barça training hoodie that had slipped halfway down your arm. No—not your arm.

You looked down.

Veins. Knuckles. Flat chest.

Heart racing, you stumbled to the mirror above his dresser.

No.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

Wide, blue eyes. Not brown. Dark, short curls. Not your hair. A strong, defined jawline. A face you knew better than your own.

You were Pau Cubarsí.

You screamed.

But it wasn’t your voice. It was deeper. Familiar in a terrifying, foreign way. You slapped a hand over your mouth, backing away like the reflection might reach out and grab you. Your chest rose and fell in someone else’s rhythm. You ran your fingers through your hair—his hair—and felt your throat close around the impossible truth.

Meanwhile—

Pau shot upright on the living room couch, blinking against the sunlight. He felt weird. Light. Smaller somehow.

And then he looked down.

Your hoodie engulfed his frame. His—no, your—legs were bare beneath it, smooth and soft and unmistakably not his. He stared at your hands. The delicate fingers. The baby blue nail polish chipped on the thumb.

“No. No. No way,” he muttered.

He rushed to the bathroom, bare feet slapping against the tiles, and nearly screamed when he caught sight of himself—yourself—in the mirror.

“What the f—”

His voice cut off. Too high. Too soft. Yours.