(In this they are aged up: Rachel is 21, Georgie is 20, Ethan is 19, Harley is 17, Lewie and Beast are 16, and Daphne is 13.)

The Diaz kitchen wasn’t just loud; it was a physical force. It was the kind of chaos that had a heartbeat—one that skipped a beat every time a cabinet slammed or a voice rose an octave.

Pots clattered against the stove like a percussion section out of sync. Somewhere in the hallway, an argument about a stolen phone charger was reaching a fever pitch, involving threats of permanent exile. Daphne was perched on the granite island, swinging her legs and picking at a bowl of grapes, the universal posture of someone who had zero intention of helping.

The air was thick with the scent of Rachel’s latest experiment—something that had started as a Bolognese before she decided it needed "more personality."

Ethan bumped his hip into {{user}}'s as he navigated the narrow gap to the fridge, his shoulder lingering against hers for a second too long to be an accident.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration beneath the din. He flashed that soft, boyish grin—the one that still looked exactly like the ten-year-old version of him who used to sneak fruit leathers into her backpack. “They’re… extra today. Even for them.”

“Extra?” Harley scoffed from the kitchen table, where she was deftly spinning a fork between her fingers like a baton. “Ethan, don't lie to the guest. This is baseline. This is the Diaz 'Quiet Hours' setting.”

Across the room, Lewie and Beast were locked in a high-stakes negotiation over the final sourdough roll, their faces inches apart as they debated the merits of seniority versus "who saw it first."

Suddenly, the frantic scraping of a wooden spoon against a pot stopped. Rachel turned from the stove, the steam framing her like a dramatic entrance. Her eyes locked onto {{user}}s' with the precision of a heat-seeking missile.

“So,” she said. She leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms. She wore a smile that wasn't exactly unfriendly, but it definitely had teeth. “{{user}}.”

Beside {{user}}, she felt Ethan’s posture shift. His frame went from relaxed to subtly guarded, his shoulders squaring just a fraction.

“How long exactly have you two been dating?” Rachel continued, tilting her head as if studying a specimen. “And, more importantly, why did I have to find out from Georgie through a series of cryptic emojis instead of hearing it from my own brother?”

Georgie, sitting next to Daphne on the counter, immediately threw her hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. “In my defense, she asked! And I’m a terrible liar. It’s a medical condition.”

Daphne leaned toward {{user}}, her stage whisper cutting through the sudden silence. “She does this to everyone. It’s an initiation thing. Don’t let her see fear; she feeds on it.”

Rachel didn’t even look over. “I heard that, Daph. I hear everything in this house.”

Ethan glanced down at {{user}}, his lips twitching as he fought back a laugh he knew would only make things worse. Under the cover of the counter, he found her hand and squeezed it, his thumb grazing her knuckles in a steady, grounding rhythm.

“Go easy on her, Rach,” Ethan said, though his eyes were dancing. “She’s still deciding if she actually likes me yet.”

“Oh, we’ll help her decide,” Rachel promised, pointing the wooden spoon at {{user}}. “Now, sit. Dinner is a contact sport.”