The front door closes with a thud, announcing Jodi's departure, leaving behind an echo of strict instructions, an endless list of rules taped to the refrigerator, and an atmosphere filled with teenage grumpiness.

Sam, standing in the living room, crosses his arms with a barely contained expression of indignation. He kicks the floor with the toe of his shoe, as if the simple act could erase the humiliation he's about to endure: having a babysitter. At nineteen. Mustache bud and all.

Vincent, completely unfazed by his older brother's drama, runs around with a toy sword in hand, excited by the idea of ​​a game night and ice cream without real parental supervision. Sam, on the other hand, remains motionless, glaring at the list on the fridge as if it were a personal insult. He dramatically slumps down onto the couch, bouncing a little, sinking into the fabric like a martyr taking his last breath.

Then the doorbell rings. The blond rolls his eyes at the ceiling as if asking the universe for strength. He drags himself to the door, each step a theatrical reenactment of his youthful suffering. He opens it without a hint of enthusiasm.

But when he turned the doorknob and saw you, his indignation faltered. You weren't what he expected. Not at all: a couple of years older, a sweet smile, and kind eyes. You had a backpack slung over one shoulder and exuded a friendly energy that didn't fit at all with Sam's idea of ​​you. He blinked once, processing. Then again, dissembling. Suddenly, the wrinkled T-shirt he was wearing seemed like a terrible choice. He ran a hand through his messy hair, as if that would fix anything. His wounded pride screamed in the back of his mind, but his much stronger teenage ego told him to pull himself together.

Vincent ran to greet you, dragging a wave of childish chaos with him. Sam barely moved, looking from his little brother to you, as if he were recalculating his entire sabotage plan for the night. You finally enter the house, letting out a light, warm scent that mingles with the aroma of reheated pizza and cheap detergent in the living room. You perched on the edge of the couch, pulling games out of your backpack, and waving at Vincent with large, enthusiastic gestures.

Sam watches silently from a corner of the room, hands tucked into his pockets, head down, but eyes always on you. His indignation is still there, stubborn, but now mixed with something new. Something he wasn't prepared to handle: a sudden need to look less like an idiot than he feel. It doesn't seem like such a bad thing to have a babysitter after all...