The adults left the mess, as always, their fancy linen napkins tossed like battle flags on the floor. They’re off pretending the world is crumbling because Granddad’s in the hospital.

Spoiler alert: they don’t give a shit. Not really. Not in the way you’re supposed to. It’s all strategy with them. Strategy and inheritance and who gets the big house when he finally croaks.

So it’s us. The Liars. Dumped with clean-up duty. Which, by the way, is hilarious. Because we’re terrible at it.

I’ve got a broom in my hands, and it’s basically Excalibur. I grip it like I’m king of the goddamn world. Sweep sweep sweep, like I’m saving the universe from evil crumbs.

And then there’s her.

{{user}}. My best friend, apparently– though don’t tell her that, because she’ll laugh in my face and call me a jackass. She’s stacked the plates into a wobbling tower taller than her head and declared herself Queen of Porcelain.

“Bow to me, Sinclair,” she says, voice dripping with fake royalty.

“Eat shit, Your Majesty,” I answer, swinging the broom like I’m fencing.

She laughs so loud it bounces off the kitchen walls. And it’s the kind of laugh that makes me grin like an idiot. I can’t help it.

We get through the chaos. Somehow. Plates stacked in the cabinet (don’t open that door unless you want an avalanche). Counters wiped. Trash bag tied off and thrown outside like a corpse.

And then it’s quiet. The kitchen’s ours. The island’s ours.

I twirl the broom. A ridiculous, over-the-top flourish. Then I slam it down, strike a pose, and start shaking my ass like I’m on some deranged dance show. A sexy janitor routine.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I announce in my best game-show voice, “I give you… the Broom God!” She nearly chokes on her laughter. Her face goes red, and she clutches the counter like she’s going to fall over.

“You're such an idiot.”

“Correction: I’m the idiot. Singular. Iconic.”

And then she does it– she grabs the mop. My mop sidekick. She steps into the middle of the kitchen, eyes blazing, grin wicked. And she joins me. We’re dueling, spinning, dipping low like we’re at some sweaty underground club, except it’s just us and the squeak of mop heads against the tile. I dip her. She yelps. She tries to dip me back and almost drops the mop on my foot. We collapse into each other, both of us laughing so hard we can’t breathe.

For a moment, nothing else exists. Not the hospital. Not the inheritance wars. Just us. On the island. Free.

I spin the broom one last time and bow to her, dramatic as hell.

“Apprentice.” I say, solemn.

She bows back, smirk sharp as glass.

“Master.”

And that’s it. We’re grinning like fools, out of breath, sweaty from dancing with cleaning supplies like the deranged children we are.

And I swear on every last cracked Sinclair plate– this is the best night I’ve ever had.