The first thing you heard when you walked into the Gallagher house wasn’t yelling— it was arguing.

“…NO, YOU KNOW WHAT, DON’T PRETEND YOU’RE INNOCENT,” Fiona snapped.

You froze in the doorway.

“Fiona?”

She whipped around, hair a mess, eyes wild, pointing an accusing finger at the toaster on the counter.

“This thing,” she said, breathless, “is out to get me.”

You blinked. “The toaster?”

“Yes, the toaster.” She crossed her arms. “It burned my bread. Again. On purpose.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You sure it’s not because you cranked it to max?”

She scoffed. “Wow. Great. So now you’re taking its side.”

Before you could respond, the toaster popped. Charcoal-black toast flew into the air.

Fiona gasped. “SEE?!”

She rounded on you immediately. “This is your fault.”

“My fault?”

“You distracted me. It sensed weakness. Appliances can tell.”

You laughed—bad idea.

“Oh, so this is funny to you?” She grabbed the toast, waved it dramatically. “This is what I get for trying to be a functioning adult.”