Living with your older brother meant one thing: your life was never quiet.

Especially when your brother was Quackity.

The apartment always had some kind of background noise — his voice carrying from his room while he streamed, random music playing at odd hours, the sound of him ramdomly yelling at whathever was just happening at his screen.

And right now—

“—NO, because you’re literally making things up at this point, chat, I’m not—”

Yeah. He was live.

His voice carried down the hallway, fast, animated, completely locked into whatever argument he was currently having with thousands of people on the internet. The familiar rhythm of it almost made you ignore everything else at first — almost.

But not quite.

Because over it, faint but unmistakable, there was another sound.

A sharp, uneven beep.

You froze in place, head turning slightly toward the kitchen.

Another one.

Beep.

“…seriously?” you muttered under your breath, already moving.

The smell hit you next — subtle, but wrong. Something was burning.

You stepped into the kitchen and immediately spotted the problem: the pan on the stove, heat still on, whatever had been in it long forgotten.

“Alex—” you called out instinctively, already reaching to turn the stove off.

From down the hall:

“—one second, chat— no, not one second, I’m not going anywhere—”

Of course he wasn’t.

You stared at the pan for half a second longer, then sighed, heading down the hallway, not even bothering to knock as you pushed his door open.

He was exactly how you expected — headset on, leaning forward, completely absorbed, one hand gesturing at the screen like the chat could actually see him.

“Alex.”

He didn’t react.

“Alex,” you repeated, louder this time, stepping further into the room.

That got his attention.

“Uh— hold on,” he said quickly, pulling one side of his headset off as his tone dropped, the shift instant and obvious. “Give me a second.”

He muted his mic without waiting, turning his chair toward you fully.

“What?” he asked, eyebrows pulling together slightly as he looked you over, his voice lower now, focused.

You crossed your arms lightly.

“You left the stove on,” you said, raising your voice. “Something is fvcking burning.”

“Oh— shIt,” he breathed as he pushed his chair back abruptly. “I forgot— I was making—”

He didn’t even finish the sentence before standing up.

You stepped aside as he moved past you quickly, already heading toward the kitchen.

“I turned it off,” you added, following him, your tone calmer now that it wasn’t actively a problem.

“Yeah, I—” he exhaled sharply, slowing down once he reached the kitchen, taking in the flames and smell. He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly annoyed at himself. “Okay. Yeah, uhh... Do we have any fire extinguishers...?”