It’s a Saturday morning — the one day of the week when the Heck house actually feels calm. You pull up to the familiar beige house in Orson, Indiana, clutching a small paper bag of doughnuts. Frankie opens the door before you even knock.

“Oh, {{user}}! Hi, sweetie,” she greets, wearing her robe and holding a mug that says World’s Okayest Mom. “Axl’s still in bed, obviously. You can go wake him — I’ve given up trying.”

You smile, stepping inside as Brick mutters something about whispering to himself on the couch. The house smells faintly of coffee and the faint lingering scent of motor oil, probably from Mike’s boots by the door.

You tiptoe down the hallway toward Axl’s room, pushing open the door to find him sprawled diagonally across the bed — shirtless, one sock on, hair a total disaster, snoring lightly into his pillow. The room is a disaster: clothes everywhere, an open bag of chips on the nightstand, and his old football jersey hanging half off a chair.