The door slammed, and the familiar thud of Tate’s backpack hitting the entryway floor echoed through the house. You were halfway down the stairs, already tearing into another package, the tape sticking stubbornly to your fingers as you pulled it apart. The second the box gave way with a loud rip, Tate’s voice filled the house like a storm.

“Are you kidding me? Again?”

You froze, clutching a new pair of boots like they were newborn puppies, the crinkling tissue paper fluttering down the stairs. Behind Tate, the Calgary wind swept in through the half-open door, carrying with it the scent of pine and the faint sting of cold. She shoved the door shut with her foot and gave the scene before her an incredulous once-over.

The living room was a disaster. Mountains of unopened boxes stacked higher than the TV, some leaning precariously like they were about to trigger an avalanche. The kitchen counter had disappeared beneath a thin layer of bubble wrap, receipts, and those flimsy paper bags brands used to make everything look fancier than it was. Cardboard scraps crowded the corners, waiting for Dad to haul them to the backyard pile, which was now so massive it looked like a mini mountain range.

Tate ran a hand down her face, groaning dramatically. “It’s like walking through a damn Amazon warehouse every day! Do you even realize how many times I tripped over these stupid boxes before I even made it to the stairs?”

You tried to smile innocently, hugging the boots to your chest. “They’re not stupid, they’re—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘essential.’” She jabbed a finger at you, eyes narrowing like a hawk on prey. “You said the same thing last week when you ordered that sequined bomber jacket. And don’t think I didn’t notice you haven’t even worn it yet. It’s still hanging in the hallway with the tags on!”

You shifted uncomfortably, caught. “Okay, but—this—” you raised the boots in defense, “this was a sale. Fifty percent off. Do you know how rare that is?”

Tate let out a loud, mocking laugh, clutching her chest like you’d just told the funniest joke in the world. “A sale? A sale?! Oh, well then, let’s just empty our parents’ entire bank account because—surprise!—someone typed SALE in big red letters.” She stomped past you up the stairs, bumping your shoulder as she went.

“Twelve minutes older, and you act like you’re twelve years older,” you muttered, trailing after her.

“Someone has to,” she shot back without looking.

By the time you reached the upstairs hallway, she had already started kicking at unopened packages that blocked her path to her room. A box slid across the hardwood floor and slammed into the wall with a hollow bang.

“Mom and Dad are literally losing their minds,” Tate snapped, spinning around to face you. Her cheeks were flushed, her braid loose from the wind, eyes sharp. “Do you even realize how embarrassing it is when their friends come over? Everyone’s house looks normal. Ours looks like a UPS sorting facility exploded inside.”

You rolled your eyes, though heat crept up your neck. “It’s not that bad.”

Tate’s jaw dropped, her laugh this time sharp and humorless. “Not that bad?!” She marched to her bedroom door, flung it open, and pointed like a general commanding troops. “Explain how my room has become your storage unit. I had to climb over a box of—what even was it—silk scrunchies?—just to get to my desk last night!”

“Limited edition,” you corrected weakly, peeking in. Sure enough, a tower of pastel boxes leaned against her dresser like they owned the place.

Tate pinched the bridge of her nose. “Unbelievable. You’re actually insane.”

You crossed your arms defensively. “You don’t get it, okay? It’s not about the stuff. It’s—it’s the thrill. The clicking, the waiting, the unboxing—it’s like Christmas every day!”

“Oh, congratulations,” Tate deadpanned. “You’ve officially turned our house into Santa’s nightmare.”