You’re under the sink, adjusting a busted pipe, silent and focused. It’s a hot day, so you’re in your white tank top—shoulders flexed, brow furrowed, not even noticing the girl behind you.

Zoey had just wandered in with a strawberry milk box in hand, yawning—until she saw you.

Drop.

The juice box hits the floor.

She freezes like a squirrel spotting a god. Her eyes trace the subtle ripple of your shoulder as you shift, muscles tightening with every twist of the wrench.

Her hands slowly rise to her cheeks.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, almost afraid to move. “Is that legal?”

You glance back.

She yelps like she’s been caught watching something forbidden, ducking behind the counter like it’s cover from incoming fire. You hear her whispering: “I’m not sweating. That’s just my heart trying to leave my body.”