The first rays of sunlight jabbed through the open blinds like a boxer testing Leo's guard. He sat up from his makeshift floor bed, his spine cracking in protest. Every muscle burned from yesterday's cleaning marathon. This body was soft in all the wrong places, but the heart beating strong in his chest made the trade worth it.
"Time to get to work," he muttered, grabbing a black trash bag from last night's supplies.
He stuffed the salvageable clothes into it, hoisted the burden onto his shoulder, and navigated toward what he hoped was a laundry room. The house was quiet at 6:17 AM—the Fitzgeralds apparently weren't early risers.
After two wrong turns (a guest bathroom and what appeared to be Arthur's study), Leo found what he was looking for.
The laundry room was predictably immaculate. It had a stainless steel washer and dryer, shelves with neatly arranged detergents, and a folding table free of a single wrinkle or stain.
Leo dumped the bag's contents onto the floor and started sorting. The smell hit him immediately.
"Jesus Christ, what did you do to these clothes?" he whispered to the ghost of old Leo.
Most of it was unsalvageable. Stained t-shirts with stretched-out necks. Sweatpants that hadn't seen soap in months. Boxers that told horror stories. Leo's lip curled as he created a "maybe" pile and a much larger "burn this" pile.
He found exactly three t-shirts, two pairs of basketball shorts, and four pairs of underwear that passed inspection. He tossed them in the washer, poured in probably too much detergent, and hit start. The machine hummed to life.
"That's not going to be enough," he said, leaning against the vibrating washer. He needed clothes that fit, clothes that weren't a walking advertisement for depression. But that would require money.
Did he have money? The old Leo must have gotten funds from somewhere. Arthur didn't seem like the type to hand out cash freely to a kid he barely tolerated.
Leo rolled his neck, enjoying the satisfying pop. Shopping could wait. First priority: food. He needed protein, complex carbs, and a metric ton of water if he was going to transform this disaster of a body.
He followed the hallway back toward the kitchen, mentally mapping the house layout. The scent of fresh coffee hit his nostrils before he rounded the corner.
Leo stopped dead in the doorway.
Evelyn stood at the kitchen island, her back to him, pouring coffee into a white mug. Morning sunlight streamed through the wall of windows, backlighting her in a golden glow.
She wore a nightgown. That was the factual description.
The reality was that she was practically naked.
The garment—if you could call something so insubstantial a "garment"—was pale silk that hung from thin straps on her shoulders. In the direct sunlight, it might as well have been made of air. The silk clung to every curve of her body, outlining her narrow waist and the generous flare of her hips. The only parts that weren't see-through were strategic panels—one covering her breasts, another small triangle between her thighs.
It was lingerie. Expensive lingerie. The kind designed for a husband's appreciative gaze.
This woman has no idea I'm standing here.
His second thought was significantly less clinical: Holy fuck.
This wasn't supposed to happen. In his old life, women were objectives, opponents, variables. He'd been too focused on boxing, then too trapped by his heart condition. Sex was abstract, theoretical—something for after championships, after his career was established.
Then he died. And now he was standing in a kitchen watching sunlight play through silk draped over the curves of a woman who had to be at least twenty years his senior.
Get it together, champ.
"Good morning," he said.
Evelyn gasped, coffee sloshing over the rim of her mug. She spun around, one arm flying up to clutch the front of her nightgown.
"Leo!" Her face flushed pink. "You startled me! I didn't expect anyone up this early."
"Sorry," he said, not sorry at all. He kept his eyes firmly on her face. "Couldn't sleep."
"Oh?" She set the mug down, her arm still protectively crossed over her chest. "How did you end up sleeping? After all that cleaning?"
"Like shit. On the floor."
Her eyebrows shot up at his bluntness.
"The mattress is a biohazard," he explained. "And the bed frame is broken."
This last part was a lie. The frame was fine, just disgusting. But he wanted an excuse to get rid of everything.
"Oh no! That's terrible!" She tucked a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear. "Do you still have some of your allowance left to get a new one?"
Allowance?
Leo's brain stalled. Nineteen years old and getting an allowance like a child?
"Should have enough."
"I can take you shopping today," she offered immediately, her eyes lighting up. "We could go to that big furniture store by the mall. They deliver same-day for an extra fee."
"Nah, I can drive," he replied automatically.
"Leo... you don't have a license."
Fuck.
Old Leo had never learned to drive? At nineteen? The hits kept coming.
"Right," he backpedaled. "Sorry. Still foggy from the fever."
"Are you feeling alright?" She stepped closer, maternal concern overriding her self-consciousness. "Maybe we should wait until tomorrow—"
"I'm fine," he cut her off. "Just mixed up. Yeah, we can go shopping. What time works?"
Her entire face lit up like he'd just offered her a winning lottery ticket instead of a mundane shopping trip.
"We could go right after breakfast! The store opens at ten, so we'll beat the crowds."
"Perfect."
With the plan settled, Leo moved toward the refrigerator, intent on making himself a proper breakfast. Eggs, bacon, maybe some toast. His body needed fuel if he was going to start reshaping it today.
"What are you doing?" Evelyn asked as he reached for the handle.
"Making breakfast."
"Oh no, sit down! That's my job." She shooed him away from the fridge with fluttering hands. "I'll make you something special. How about a veggie omelette? With turkey bacon on the side?"
Leo paused. That actually aligned perfectly with his nutritional needs.
"Sounds good."
"Wonderful!" She beamed. "I've been wanting to try this new recipe. Let me just grab my special mixing bowl."
Evelyn moved to the far side of the kitchen where floor-to-ceiling cabinets lined the wall. She opened one and stood on her tiptoes, reaching up toward a high shelf.
The silk nightgown pulled taut as she stretched, molding itself to her body like a second skin. The curve of her spine arched gracefully, leading down to the swell of her ass. The thin fabric left nothing to imagination.
Leo stepped up behind her, close enough that he could smell vanilla in her hair. His chest nearly touched her back as he reached up, easily grabbing the ceramic bowl from the high shelf.
"Here you go," he said, placing it on the counter.
Evelyn didn't move. She didn't breathe. She went completely rigid.
Leo realized too late what had happened.
He'd woken up with morning wood. Significant morning wood. And in his helpful gesture, he'd pressed it directly, unmistakably, against the soft curve of her ass.
Way to go, champ. Real smooth.
But instead of backing away or apologizing, Leo simply stepped aside, acting as if nothing unusual had happened. Drawing attention to it would only make things worse.
"So, what time are we leaving?" he asked casually.
Evelyn remained frozen, her hand hovering mid-air where she'd been reaching. A blush spread from her neck upward, staining her cheeks crimson. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
"Evelyn?"
She blinked rapidly, seeming to snap back to reality.
"I, um." She cleared her throat. "Ten. We'll leave around ten."
Her voice had gone up an octave.
"Cool," Leo said, turning toward the refrigerator again. "Mind if I get some water?"
"Water. Yes. Of course." She grabbed the mixing bowl with trembling fingers. "I'll just... start the omelette."
Leo filled a glass at the sink, watching her from the corner of his eye. Her movements had become jerky, uncoordinated. She dropped an egg on the floor, cracked another one with too much force so shell fragments fell into the bowl, then spent too long fishing them out.
"Need help?" he offered.
"No!" She lowered her voice. "No, thank you. I'm fine. Just... clumsy this morning."
Leo nodded and leaned against the counter, sipping his water.
Evelyn Fitzgerald, the perfect homemaker with her perfect kitchen and perfect hair, was not used to being touched.
At least not by a man who noticed she was a woman.
Not my problem, Leo reminded himself. Focus on the mission.
And his mission was clear: transform this body, secure resources, build a new life.
Everything else was just noise.
But as he watched Evelyn's hands shake while she whisked eggs, Leo filed away this particular piece of information. In boxing, knowing your opponent's vulnerabilities was half the battle.
Not that Evelyn was an opponent. But this household was definitely a ring, and he'd just landed his first unintentional blow.
"So about that allowance," Leo said, changing the subject. "When do I usually get it?"
Evelyn seemed relieved by the shift to practical matters. "Arthur deposits it on the first of each month. It should be in your account already."
I have a bank account? That's something.
"Right," he nodded. "And how much is it again?"
She gave him an odd look. "Five hundred dollars. Same as always."
Five hundred a month. Not great, but not terrible either. Enough to start with if he was careful.
"And I access that how?"
Now she was definitely concerned. "With your debit card. Leo, are you sure you're feeling alright?"
"Just making sure I remember everything correctly," he said smoothly. "Fever brain, you know."
"Maybe we should call Dr. Patel—"
"I'm fine," he insisted. "Just need food. And to find my debit card."
"It should be in your wallet. In your room."
Leo nodded. He hadn't seen a wallet during last night's cleaning rampage, but he hadn't been specifically looking for one either. It was probably buried under something.
"I'll look for it after breakfast," he said.
Evelyn nodded, focusing intently on the omelette she was preparing. Her movements were becoming more controlled again, though she still wouldn't look directly at him.
In his old life, he'd never paid attention to women like this. They were either competition or they weren't. But this body, for all its flaws, seemed hardwired to notice Evelyn Fitzgerald.
Old Leo had a thing for her, he realized. That's why it feels familiar.
But if the nightgown incident was any indication, Evelyn had no idea how the old Leo saw her.
She treated him like a child, not a man with desires.
But Leo wasn't a child. And he definitely wasn't the pathetic shut-in who had occupied this body before.
"That smells good," he said as the omelette began to cook.
"Thank you," she smiled, some of her usual warmth returning. "It's always nice to cook for someone who appreciates it."
"I'll always appreciate good food," he said honestly.
When she finally slid the omelette onto a plate and handed it to him, their fingers brushed. Just briefly. Just the lightest contact.
Evelyn pulled her hand back as if burned.
"Enjoy," she said, too brightly. "I need to go get dressed before the girls wake up."
She practically fled the kitchen, leaving Leo alone with his breakfast and the lingering scent of vanilla.
"Well," he murmured to himself, picking up a fork. "That was educational."
He took a bite of the omelette. It was perfect.