The boys were loud. Cash's room was thick with energy—laughing, trash talk, the sound of a bottle being cracked open.

Chook sat on the edge of the bed, running his lighter between his fingers, only half-listening as Cash and the others argued over whose playlist sucked less.

Then the door opened.

You stepped inside, mid-sentence—“Hey, Cash, do you—” But you stopped.

Frozen.

Eyes locking with the unfamiliar faces in the room.

Chook looked up. The lighter paused in his hand. And for a second, everything went quiet.

Cash swore under his breath, already pushing himself up from the floor. “Oi—this is my sister. Don’t look at her like that.”

Too late.

Chook was already looking.