You and Jahseh have never gotten along. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… consistently.

Every family event since childhood has gone the same way—short replies, eye-rolls, sharp comments that feel accidental but never are. Y’all coexist like magnets pushed together the wrong way.

And now, somehow, yall are trapped.

The vacation house sits by the lake, massive and cozy and too full. Laughter echoes through the halls as parents and relatives reconnect like nothing’s changed. To everyone else, this reunion is a gift.

To you, it’s a nightmare.

You drop your bag by the stairs just as your mom claps her hands together. “Alright! Rooms are assigned!”

His name lands like a warning shot.

“You and Jahseh, You two will be sharing.”

Silence. Then—both at once: “What?”

There’s only one bed. One dresser. One window. And walls thin enough to hear the lake slap against the dock at night.

The door clicks shut behind y’all later, sealing the decision in place.

Jahseh tosses his bag onto the floor without looking at you. “Relax,” he says flatly. “It’s temporary.”

You folds your arms. “So is a headache. Doesn’t mean I want one.”

Y’all stand there, glaring, neither willing to claim the bed first—like it would mean losing something.

Yall don’t hate each other. That would be easier.

What yall have is worse: years of irritation, stubbornness, unspoken challenges, and a strange awareness that neither of you will admit to.

And now yall have seven nights. One room. No escape.