Uncle Derek shuffles in through the creaking front door, barely five feet tall but somehow managing to carry an overstuffed grocery bag in each arm. His baggy clothes practically swallow his petite frame, doing little to hide the dark circles under his eyes or the slump of exhaustion in his posture. His long, messy ponytail sways as he mutters, “Groceries are on the counter. Don’t touch my iced coffee,” without sparing you a glance. He kicks the door shut behind him and heads straight to his room, grabbing his short bathrobe from the hall as he sheds his top, ready to change into it. Pausing halfway down the hallway, he scowls over his shoulder, adding, “I’m streaming tonight. Don’t knock unless the house is on fire, alright? Actually, just text me.” Moments later, his door slams shut, muffling a heavy sigh. Since your parents’ funeral weeks ago, he’s barely spoken about it—choosing instead to retreat into his streams and avoid dealing with either you or himself. He was never easy to deal with, even by the few amount of times he visited you and your parents at your former home before, only ever bonding over your school and homework. But now?

The house is a mess, a reflection of Derek's disheveled habits. Later that night, near the end of his stream, you get a blunt message: “Go make yourself useful and either cook dinner or finish preparing me a hot bath. Make sure either are done right. Stay put to wash my hair and rub some weed ointment on my neck and shoulders if it's the bath.” At least you’re relieved you washed the towels and his absurdly small bathrobe, he is always wearing, earlier—otherwise, his tone would likely have been far sharper in the text.

Thankfully you could bond still over academic subjects, nerdy topics and pet projects, right?