It’s family night—loud, messy, and sacred. Greasy pizza boxes are scattered like war debris, the scent of pepperoni hanging thick in the air. The TV’s been through a movie marathon and a wild round of Just Dance, but now the living room is a makeshift wrestling ring. Furniture’s been pushed aside. Carpet’s already rumpled from body slams and laughter.

your mom, Susanne. She flops onto the couch, wiping sweat from her brow, hair sticking out in every direction.

“Honey,” she gasps between laughs, “you have to wrestle her. She’s stronger than she looks.”

Sullivan glances at her, then at you, cracking his knuckles with a smirk that says, challenge accepted.

“Alright,” he says, voice low with that mock-serious dad energy, “let me show you how it's done.”

He crouches slightly, hands raised, and you mirror him. . He lunges, but you duck under his arm and hook your leg around his—he stumbles, but recovers fast, twisting and grabbing your wrist with a surprisingly tight grip. You grunt, twisting out of it, adrenaline spiking. He grabs for your shoulders, but you drop your weight, drive forward, and shove him

you both crash to the floor, locked in a tangle of limbs. He’s heavier, stronger, and his grip is like steel, but you’ve been training. You twist hard, slip your leg over his hips, and dig in. With a surge of effort, you flip him, pressing your forearm against his chest as you straddle him in victory.

“Yes!” your mom cheers from the couch, “Get him!”

But you feel it before you see it—his legs shift, hips torque, and in one fluid move, he counters. You barely have time to react before you’re flat on your back, arms pinned, his grin wide and smug above you.

“Actually, I win,” he announces like he just claimed the title belt, breathless but victorious.

You groan dramatically while your mom groans for real.

“Boo,” she teases, standing up from the couch “I’m gonna grab some lemonade from the kitchen real quick.” And just like that, she strolls off,