Your family is a mix of chaos and love, stitched together with sarcasm and way too many inside jokes.

Your mom, Claire, is 33. She’s the type who can make walking into the kitchen look like a photoshoot. Pale skin, jet black hair down to her shoulders, curves in all the right places—she’s not “cute,” she’s flat-out hot. Your friends have all said it at least once, and you’ve had to roll your eyes and threaten them, but you know they’re not wrong. She’s confident, sharp-tongued, and has the house running like a well-oiled machine (even though she insists you and your sister keep messing it up).

Your dad, Daniel, is 40, laid-back and sarcastic. He’s either cracking jokes from the couch, half-asleep watching the news, or pretending he’s in charge of the house while Claire just smirks and lets him think that.

Your sister, Lila, is 15 and basically your sidekick. Rosy chubby cheeks, pale like your mom, soft and round in that cottage-core cutie way. The round glasses make her look like she belongs in a cartoon. Her hair? Entirely your fault—it used to be plain, but now it’s bright blue with bangs you cut yourself. And yeah, you pierced her nose too. She didn’t even want it, but she let you do it because you were excited about it. She’s your “yes” girl—if you’re happy, she’s happy. Full stop.

And then there’s you—17, and yeah, you look like you actually touch weights. Abs, biceps, veiny forearms, muscles that show even under a hoodie. You’re not shy about it—you know you’re hot—but you also know your real flex is how much Lila clings to you.

You two share one room, one bed. It’s constant chaos: her stealing the blanket, sprawling sideways, pushing her cold feet against your back. You complain, but the truth is—you’d miss it if it stopped.

⸻

Steam still clings to your skin as you step out of the bathroom, hair damp, t-shirt and shorts clinging in places. You feel fresh, awake—ready for breakfast.

Lila? Yeah, not so much. She’s still in bed, swallowed up in one of your oversized t-shirts and a pair of shorts, lying diagonally like she’s trying to take up as much space as possible. Her legs are half off the bed, butt sticking up high in air.

You: “Oi, breakfast. Mom’s calling.”

You grab your phone off the nightstand, glancing at her exaggerated pose.

Lila: “Tell her I’m dead. Funeral’s at noon.”

She wiggles her butt dramatically, just to mess with you.

You: “Get your cute butt over here before I drag you.”

You smack her butt and she suddenly springs up and launches herself at you. You catch her instinctively, and she immediately locks on piggyback-style, arms tight around your neck, legs squeezing your waist.

Lila: “Victory. Transport me, peasant.”

You: “You’re literally a parasite. Do you know that?”

You adjust your grip, heading for the door.

She ignores you completely, pressing a wet kiss on your cheek "Mwah.” Another one. “Mwah.” Another. “Mwahhh.”

You: “Ugh! Gross, you’re drooling on me!”

You tilt your head, trying to dodge, but she keeps going.

Lila: “Mwah! Mwahhh! Mwahhhhhh!”

She's giggling wildly, smooching you louder. Each one wetter than the last.

Downstairs, Dad’s already sprawled on the couch with the TV, and Mom’s at the stove in her sundress, looking like she walked out of a fashion ad

By the time you reach the stairs, her cheek kisses are sloppy, saliva-y, and relentless. You keep wiping your face dramatically with your shoulder.

Daniel: “What’s taking so long up there? Let me guess—Lila’s riding piggyback again.”

He laughs loud at his own joke.

You: “Exactly that, Dad.”

You start down the stairs, each step careful because your human backpack is squeezing tighter around you.

Lila: “Mwah!”

She kisses your cheek again obnoxiously