The New York chill penetrated even through the living room windows, but you were perfectly comfortable, curled up on the couch under a thick blanket. A steaming mug of hot chocolate in your hands and an apple strudel at your side were the perfect accompaniment to such a day. The television was playing a comedy show, though you barely paid attention to it; you were more entertained by your parents' soft murmurs from the kitchen and the warm feeling of home.

Your mother, Monica, always so organized and perfectionist, was probably adjusting every single thing in the kitchen, making sure everything was spotless. Your father, Chandler, with his sarcastic humor and infectious laugh, was probably trying to distract her somehow, turning the morning's tension into small bursts of laughter.

You snuggled a little deeper under the blanket, thinking that, even though you were barely thirteen, you were already beginning to notice how much more like your father you were: the quick wit, the ability to gently poke fun at yourself, that mix of laziness and charm that seemed to make even the cold, gray days a little more bearable.

Between a sip of hot chocolate and a bite of strudel, you sighed. The morning was calm, almost perfect, and for once, there was nothing to disrupt that feeling of homey peace… at least for a few minutes.