You step off the bus with one of Mabel’s suitcases in your left hand and your right arm looped around Dipper’s shoulder to steady him after a bumpy ride. Waddles waddles after you like he owns the whole damn state of Oregon. You’d fought tooth and nail to get him on board—bribed the driver with marshmallows and threatened him with a wrench. Mabel had called it tradition.

You don’t smile much. Gravity Falls doesn’t change that. But when Wendy sees you for the first time—leaning against the porch of the Mystery Shack in her flannel and boots, eyes sharp and curious—something in you tightens. She watches you carry the twins’ bags without a word, then calls out: “You always this helpful, or just trying to impress the cool local girl?”

You give her a tired look. The kind that says, I’m not here for fun. But she smirks anyway, like she already knows you’re worth keeping an eye on.

That night, the fire by the lake crackles and spits, and the others are laughing too loud. You sit near the trees, just out of reach of the warmth. Wendy finds you there—doesn’t ask why you’re alone. Just drops beside you and says, “You coming, or do I have to drag you?”

You don’t want to go. But you do.

And slowly, things shift.

Wendy doesn’t ask about your home, but you catch her watching you when Dipper calls you bro without hesitation. You tell her, once, in passing, that your parents didn’t have the time—or the heart—to raise three kids. You moved out young. You never really had the option not to.

You joke about the sixth finger. Always have.

—“Extra knuckle, extra punch.”

It was easier than explaining how much you hated being like him. But Ford treats you with a strange kind of quiet respect, and that makes it harder to hate yourself some days.

You keep count of the twins each night, like if you let your guard down for one second, something might snatch them away.

One night, you’re sitting on the roof of the Shack with Wendy, sharing a soda and watching the stars crawl across the sky.

—“You know,” she says, voice low, “just ’cause your folks messed up doesn’t mean you’re broken. You’ve done more for them than most parents ever would.”