Dinner at the Bennett house was always a bit chaotic. Their mom had just gotten home from work, exhausted but trying to catch up on everyone’s day while Riley picked at her food, half-talking, half-lost in her own head. Toby sat across from her, slowly nibbling on a chicken nugget while his feet swung under the table.

“So then he said I was pretty cool, which is, like, not exactly saying I’m pretty, but it’s not not saying it either, you know?” Riley rambled, barely stopping for breath. “And then he smiled, and — I swear to God, Mom — he’s got that kinda crooked smile where one side goes up first? Like in the movies? It’s unfair. He’s not even trying.”

Their mom hummed absentmindedly in response, halfway through paying bills at the counter. Riley didn’t notice. She was too busy twirling her fork in her mashed potatoes like it was some sort of lovestruck prop.

“And he smelled good too,” she continued. “Like... I dunno. Soap. But cool soap. The kind that doesn’t smell like soap. You know what I mean?”

Toby blinked at her, tilting his head slightly. He tapped his communication pad. "Soap is soap."

Riley huffed. “You don’t get it, Tobes. It’s boy soap. It’s different.”