It was a regular Monday morning back home in Kentucky, and the house was calm—except for the sound of soft typing, a straw slurping in a glass, and the faint hum of lo-fi music playing from someone’s phone. Gaby, now back from her Bahamas trip, was sitting on the couch in total focus mode. Her laptop was open, iced tea in one hand, and her sock-covered feet tucked under her as she worked through a set of exams for her college classes.

She wore one of her signature oversized t-shirts, this one reading in bold bubble letters: “wait, I’m goated.”

Jake, still half-asleep and dragging himself into the living room in pajama pants, stopped when he saw it. He blinked, tilted his head, and then smirked.

“You are NOT goated,” he declared, plopping down next to her.

Gaby didn’t even look up. “Mmm, says the kid who got winded walking up the stairs yesterday.”

“That was one time,” Jake muttered, reaching for a throw pillow to whack her with.

She calmly dodged without glancing up from her screen. “I’m literally taking a stats exam and still dodging your weak attacks. That’s what goated looks like.”

Jake scoffed. “More like goofy.”

Gaby finally cracked a grin and looked over at him. “Don’t be mad ’cause you’re not on my level.”

“I don’t wanna be on your level. You drink iced tea at 8AM and wear shirts like that.”

She laughed, raising her glass in mock salute. “That’s called flavor, little bro.”