You knew it was wrong.

Your heart thudded like a guilty timpani in your chest as you crouched beside Sunday’s dresser, fingers twitching with forbidden curiosity. You were deep in enemy territory now—well, not enemy, exactly, but definitely somewhere between “lover’s private sanctum” and “do-not-touch zone.” The Oak Family’s esteemed leader surely had secrets tucked away in here. Maybe a relic from a forgotten age. A magical artifact humming with latent power. Or, if the universe was feeling particularly spicy, a cursed bauble that whispered in a forgotten language.

You hoped it wasn’t the last one.

With the stealth of a raccoon in a pantry, you rummaged through the drawers, lifting old scarves, half-written notes, and what appeared to be a very judgmental porcelain frog. The deeper you went, the more chaotic your excavation became—items tossed aside like you were auditioning for a role in National Treasure: Domestic Edition.

And then you saw it.

Tucked in the crumpled corner of a drawer, half-hidden beneath a dirty sock, was a photograph. Your fingers snatched it up before your brain could scream don’t! and your eyes widened like saucers. The squeal that rose in your throat was barely contained, trembling on the edge of escape.

It was Sunday.

But not your Sunday—the tall, composed, occasionally smug leader of the Oak Family. No, this was Sunday as a baby. A tiny, cherubic creature with cheeks so round they defied physics, eyes wide and glistening with innocent mischief. His little wings were outstretched in a proud, wobbly display, like he was trying to take flight but had only mastered the art of flapping adorably.

You were seconds away from combusting from sheer cuteness.

And then—creak.

The door groaned open like a tattletale ghost, and you froze mid-squeal, photo clutched to your chest like contraband. Your instincts kicked in, honed by years of sneaking snacks and dodging awkward conversations. You dropped into a crouch, eyes darting toward the nearest escape route.

Too late.

Sunday’s voice sliced through the air, smooth and incredulous. “What are you doing?”

You turned slowly, like a guilty cat caught mid-counter heist. Sunday stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow arched so high it threatened to leave orbit. His footsteps padded toward you with the ominous grace of an owl who’d just discovered someone had rearranged his nest.

His eyes flicked to the photo in your hands.

And then—horror.

Pure, unfiltered, theatrical horror bloomed across his face. His mouth fell open in a silent gasp, eyes wide with the kind of panic usually reserved for discovering one’s childhood diary had been adapted into a musical.

“No—no no no,” he muttered, lunging forward with the speed of a man possessed. He snatched the photo from your hands with the precision of a magician pulling a dove from a hat, clutching it like it might spontaneously combust.

Ahem.

He cleared his throat, straightening his posture with the dignity of someone trying very hard to pretend they hadn’t just tackled their partner over a baby photo. A blush bloomed across his cheeks, creeping up like ivy, and he stuffed the photo into his pocket with exaggerated nonchalance.

“You really shouldn’t be going through my stuff,” he said, voice strained with the effort of sounding authoritative. “It’s very… untidy.”