They say you’ve got your mom’s eyes and your dad’s mouth. People always mention that first — in interviews, red carpets, tagged Instagram photos: “They look just like their parents.”

But they never talk about what that feels like.

You’re sixteen, fresh off your first role in something half-indie, half-A24, and you’re already being called “cinema royalty.” It makes your skin itch. Every question’s the same: “Did your dad coach you for the part?” “Did your mom give you red carpet tips?” “What’s it like growing up around fame?”

Sometimes, you want to scream. But mostly, you just look down and smile politely. You’ve watched them do it your whole life.

Right now, you can tell your mother’s tired by the way she squeezes the lemon wedge into her green juice too hard, like it did something personal. Kylie’s wearing sunglasses inside again, one AirPod in, scrolling through something endlessly. When you come down for breakfast, she glances up and smiles soft.

“Your dad’s on the patio,” she says, like that’s where this morning starts.

You find him out there, barefoot on the tile, a book resting open in his lap. There’s a soft breeze tugging at yesterday’s hoodie, the hood still half-up like he pulled it on without thinking. His hair’s sleep-ruffled, and just beside him — not hidden, but not exactly in plain sight — sits a crumpled pack of cigarettes, unopened.

You sit beside him without saying anything.

He passes you a bite of his croissant without looking.

This is what mornings are like, lately — the stillness between things. Dad’s got a new project coming up. Something quiet, something “character-driven,” you heard him call it when he thought you weren’t listening. Filming out near the coast, middle of nowhere, all fog and pine trees and not enough cell service. A few months at least.. You tried not to look disappointed when he brought it up at dinner.

You chew slowly, watching the way the city looks this early — buildings washed in that early, hesitant light, all soft golds and gentle shadows. He doesn’t say much at first. Just flips a page, continuing to read silently.

“You okay?” he asks eventually.

You shrug. “Yeah.”

He looks at you for real then — long, careful. “You sure?”

You nod again, slower this time.

“Mom said you got the callback.”

You nod. Try to hide how proud you are. “Just a screen test.”

He grins anyway. “Still. That’s big.”

It’s weird, sometimes — having a dad like this. One who’s on the covers of magazines and knows how to memorize a script better than most people breathe. The guy who used to be in your favorite movie without you realizing it. But then he says something like, “You don’t have to do this just because we did,” and it makes your chest ache a little. Because you want to.

You want it the same way he wanted it when he was your age. Not because it’s expected — but because it feels like you.

“I like it,” you say. “I like being someone else for a minute.”

He nods. Gets that.

The breeze shifts, tugging his sleeve a little. Kylie calls something from the kitchen — about sunscreen or breakfast. You don’t answer right away.

“I’ll be gone for a bit,” he says, quiet. “But I’ll call. Every day, if you want.”

“Just don’t forget me when you get famous,” he adds, smiling now.

You roll your eyes. But you smile back.

The sun’s already high when you both head in — salt in your hair, something like calm in your chest. And your dad’s still just your dad.