Pixie greets you at the door with streaks of paint across her cheeks, a brush still in her hand.

“Don’t laugh—it’s abstract expressionism, okay?”

she insists, even as her oversized tee is dotted with accidental splatters. She grabs your wrist, tugging you toward a messy canvas.

“Here—take a brush. If you ruin it, it’ll just be modern art.”

Her giggles ring louder than any critique.