Ethan woke slowly to the feel of something warm and soft breathing against his chest.
Jack.
He blinked, adjusting to the morning light filtering through the old curtains of his childhood room. Jack’s arm was still lazily draped over him, the blankets tangled around their legs. They’d both shifted in the night, ending up in a sleepy knot of skinny limbs, flushed cheeks, and mussed hair.
For a moment, Ethan just stared at Jack’s peaceful face—eyes closed, lips slightly parted, dark lashes brushing his cheeks. His heart gave a little *thump*.
What even WAS this feeling? He was used to adrenaline, danger, flirtation—sure. But this? Waking up like this? Soft and warm and shy?
It made him smile, goofy and helpless.
Jack stirred with a groggy grunt. “Mmmff… is the rat back?”
“Nope,” Ethan whispered. “Just me.”
Jack blinked blearily. His eyes focused. Then he smiled. “Oh. Good.”
They lay there a moment longer before Ethan’s stomach gave a loud, undignified *gurgle*.
Jack chuckled. “Sounds like crime-fighting kids need breakfast.”
Ethan groaned. “Do we even remember what kids eat?”
---
Ten minutes later, the two boys padded barefoot into the Keller Mansion’s gleaming kitchen, dressed in Ethan’s old school uniforms: short-sleeved white polo shirts tucked into navy blue shorts, pulled snug by leather belts a bit too tight. Knee socks completed the look, their tops wrinkling around skinny calves.
“Feels like we’re heading to class,” Jack mumbled, tugging at his collar.
“Class with snacks!” Ethan countered, swinging open the pantry.
It was a veritable treasure trove. Rows of artisanal teas, imported grains, dark chocolate protein bars, meal replacement shakes—everything a mature, health-conscious adult might stock.
But nothing looked... right.
Until Ethan spotted it. Hidden near the back. A huge tupperware labeled 'Ken’s Private Stash'.
With a grin, Ethan opened it.
Pop-Tarts. Sugared cereal. Gummy fruit snacks. Peanut butter crackers shaped like bears.
Jack’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas. “Oh YES.”
“Breakfast of champions,” Ethan declared, tearing into a packet.
They devoured the Pop-Tarts like they’d never tasted sugar before. Jam oozed onto their fingers, crumbs stuck to their lips, and the crackle of the foil wrappers echoed in the quiet morning.
Ethan licked icing from his thumb and said, through a mouthful, “Why does this taste better than anything I’ve eaten in years?”
Jack shrugged, chewing noisily. “Guess our taste buds aged backwards too.”
They were halfway through their second packets when a sudden *thump-thump-thump* of approaching footsteps made them freeze.
“Oh crap,” Ethan whispered. “Someone’s coming.”
Jack dove behind the kitchen island, dragging Ethan with him. They ducked low, cheeks sticky with sugar and hearts pounding. The door swung open—
In walked Ken Izumi.
Seventeen years old. Lean and wiry, muscles honed from daily training, his black hair damp and tousled from a post-run shower. He wore a simple black T-shirt clinging to his chest and khaki shorts that showed off the bruises of someone who sparred very often.
He strolled in, humming faintly to himself, cracking open the fridge with practiced ease.
The boys dared not breathe.
Ken pulled out a bottle of orange juice and twisted the cap off. Took a long swig.
And then he paused.
He sniffed the air.
Turned.
Brows furrowed.
“…Who’s been in the Pop-Tarts?”
Jack squeezed Ethan’s arm.
Ken stepped closer to the table, then dropped down into a crouch—and came face to face with two guilty-eyed twelve-year-olds in matching uniforms, their cheeks bulging with toaster pastry.
For a long moment, no one said anything.
Then Ken blinked.
“…What the hell?”
Ethan gulped. “Uh… hi?”
Ken stared, mouth slightly open. “Who are you?”
Ethan tried to think fast. “We—uh—we’re just—um—”
Jack cut in. “Exchange students?”
Ethan winced.
Ken’s eyes narrowed. “Exchange students... who snuck into my kitchen, wearing prep school uniforms that haven’t been used in years?”
“Er... goodwill uniforms?” Jack offered weakly.
Ken stood slowly, crossing his arms. “You two look like you are supposed to be in middle school.”
“Well, yeah,” Ethan said, smiling nervously. “That's… because we are twelve. Kind of.”
Ken gave him a hard stare. “So you’re telling me two middle schoolers broke into a heavily secured mansion, raided my secret snack stash, and were hiding behind the island like cartoon burglars?”
Ethan looked away. “We weren’t hiding. We were... uh... crouching for Pop-Tart crumbs.”
Ken’s jaw twitched. “Right.”
He rubbed his forehead. “Okay, listen, I don’t know how you got past the security. But you’re trespassing. I could call the police. Or, you know, child services.”
At that, Ethan flushed scarlet.
“No! Don’t do that! Please, just—we’re not delinquents.”
Jack whispered, “Well, we kinda are. A little.”
“Not helping,” Ethan hissed.
Ken’s expression softened slightly, but only just. “You two seriously aren’t going to explain?”
Ethan opened his mouth, then closed it again. His cheeks were burning. How could he say it?
'Hey Ken, it’s me, your adopted dad. The Blue Boxer. I got turned into a twelve-year-old by a sassy magic genie after wishing for youth and now I have a crush on my old partner who’s also a kid now, and oh yeah, we’re sharing my childhood bed.'
Yeah. No.
He looked at Ken with a pleading expression. “It’s… complicated. Really, really complicated.”
Ken folded his arms. “I’ve lived in a car. I’ve seen a guy explode into bees. Try me.”
Ethan exchanged a glance with Jack. They were both sweaty, sugared up, and dressed like private school misfits, their hair messy and eyes wide.
Jack sighed. “Look... we’re not bad. We’re just in a bad situation.”
“Yeah,” Ethan added. “A very... magical bad situation.”
Ken raised an eyebrow. “Magical.”
“We’re not kidding,” Ethan said.
Ken studied them again—his eyes catching on the subtle way Ethan moved, the slight posture shift, the faint, familiar confidence behind the nervous eyes.
His brow furrowed.
“…Wait a second.”
Ethan flinched. “Oh no.”
Ken leaned closer. “You look kinda familiar...”
Ethan held up both hands. “Please don’t freak out.”
“You look like...” Ken’s eyes widened. “...Ethan?”
Ethan cringed.
Ken reeled back. “WHAT?”
“Okay, now you can freak out,” Jack muttered.
Ken looked between them, pointing. “And you’re Lumberjack?! But—but you're like—kids!”
“Yeah,” Ethan groaned. “We noticed.”
Ken’s jaw dropped. “How the hell—?”
“Magic lamp,” Jack said, deadpan. “Rogue genie. Loophole wish. You know. Classic Tuesday.”
Ken opened his mouth, closed it, then burst out laughing. “You’ve GOT to be kidding me.”
“I wish we were,” Ethan sighed.
Ken wiped tears from his eyes. “This is the best thing I’ve ever seen. The Blue Boxer, local legend, reduced to a middle schooler sneaking Pop-Tarts.”
Ethan blushed furiously. “You try getting magically de-aged and see how cool you look in knee socks!”
Jack, chewing another bite, added helpfully, “He also cried in my arms last night.”
Ethan elbowed him. “Jack!”
Ken was still laughing, but it wasn’t cruel. It was affectionate, a little in awe, and a little exasperated—like a teen big brother realizing his parents had become babies overnight.
He ruffled Ethan’s hair as he passed. “Well… guess I’m the grown-up in the house now.”
Ethan just groaned, cheeks red.