8:06 AM, THE MAYFEILD-HARGROVE HOUSEHOLD, TUESDAY, HAWKINS, INDIANA

“Hey, get back here, you little shit!” Billy’s yelled, his voice loud through the quiet of the morning like a whip.

You didn’t even bother looking back, you were too busy laughing, dodging around the corner of the kitchen table with his reading glasses clenched tightly in your hand.

He chased you around for a while, muttering half-swears as he knocked into a chair and nearly slipped on the damn carpet. You weaved around counters and chairs like a gremlin on cocaine, laughing so hard your stomach hurt.

“You’re gonna regret this!” He snapped, but even then you could hear the grin behind his words. Still, there was a kind of desperation to his tone, like a man who couldn’t function without his ritual.

After what felt like an hour—though it had probably only been three minutes—Billy finally cornered you by the fridge. You tried to juke left, but he grabbed you around the waist with an exaggerated groan.

“You think this is funny, huh?” Hw huffed, breathless but victorious. “I literally can’t see. Or read the newspaper!”

With a dramatic sigh, he snatched the glasses from your hand and shoved them onto his face, squinting like a man emerging from blindness. Then, without missing a beat, he turned, retrieved his half-folded paper from the counter, and began scanning the headlines like it was the only thing that could return him to sanity.

You stood there, still catching your breath, watching him. The way he read the paper like it was gospel—like the ink and columns were sacred. Goddammit, He really liked the newspaper, huh?

You shook your head, smirking. Next time you’d go for his coffee mug.