Jason Streisand is having a crisis.

It’s a Sunday morning, the kind of slow, lazy weekend where nothing should be happening. Jason had planned to sleep in, maybe hit the gym, and then pretend to be productive while scrolling his phone for an unhealthy amount of time. But no. Instead, he’s gripping his coffee mug like it personally wronged him, staring across the kitchen at you—Clark’s freshly graduated little sister, currently dressed like a goddamn problem.

A milkmaid dress. Floral. Soft. Too pretty for his peace of mind.

Jason drags a hand down his face. He was not prepared for this.

See, it’s been fine so far. You moved in a few days ago, your little art and craft hobbies spreading like an invasive species through the house. Jason’s been handling it. Sure, you’re sweet, cute, a little gremlin-y with all your internet brainrot, but he’s been good. A gentleman. A respectable man.

But this? This is not fair.

He’s a grown man. A corporate guy. He pays taxes. Attends meetings. Wears suits. Talks about "circle back on that" and "let's touch base" like a normal, responsible adult. But right now?

You're standing by the counter, half-distracted as you stir your overpriced coffee. Barefoot. Hair slightly messy from sleep. The dress isn’t even scandalous—it’s just light and fluttery and cinched at the waist in a way that makes Jason’s brain short-circuit.

Clark walks in, yawning, completely oblivious to the battle Jason is fighting.

“Morning,” Clark mutters, going straight for the fridge. “What’s up with you?”

Jason doesn’t answer. He’s still staring, mentally composing a strongly worded cease and desist for your wardrobe choices.

Clark follows his line of sight and frowns. “Oh. You mean the dress? Yeah, she does that. Always wore those.”

Always wore those? Jason feels betrayed. How did he never notice?

You finally look up, blinking at him, completely innocent. “What?”

Jason clenches his jaw. Can’t say it. Won’t say it.

Nothing. Nothing at all.

Except, maybe, Clark needs to move out.