You don’t know why you’re up, but your legs are already moving. The floor is cold under your socks, and the house feels quiet in a weird, suspicious way—like it’s hiding something from you.

You march straight to the laundry room, even though something in your brain vaguely remembers doing laundry yesterday. Still, you open the dryer with purpose and glare inside like it personally betrayed you.

“No, no, no,” you mumble, shaking your head. “This isn’t folded right. This is lazy work.”

You start yanking out invisible clothes, folding them with exact military-level precision, muttering about wrinkles and how no one respects cotton anymore. There’s a vague warmth behind you. Someone’s watching. Zayne. Probably trying not to laugh again. You ignore him. He doesn’t understand the crisis.

After heroically saving laundry, you pivot toward the kitchen like a woman on a mission. The fridge opens with a dramatic flare. You squint inside.

“Where’s the cake?” you whisper.

Then louder. “WHO ATE THE CAKE?”

Somewhere behind you, Zayne says, “You did. Two hours ago. You made me film you singing to it.”

Lies. All lies.

You slam the fridge with the energy of betrayal and storm into the living room—only to stop. There it is. The couch.

You narrow your eyes at it.

“You fat, lazy sponge,” you sneer, pointing. “Just sitting here. Every day. Do you even do anything?”

You walk around it like it’s a contestant on a reality show and you’re the unimpressed judge.

“Look at you,” you poke a cushion. “No ambition. No back support. You disgust me.”

You think you hear Zayne choking on a laugh, but you’ve got bigger problems now. You spin around. The air… it just moved.

“Oh, you wanna go?” you hiss at nothing. “You think just ‘cause you’re air you get to float wherever you want? Nobody invited you.”

Your fists go up. You jab once, then again. Then a combo jab-jab-uppercut to the wind. That’ll show it.

Somewhere close, Zayne mutters, “She’s actually fighting air. I can’t—”

But you don’t stop. Not until the threat is neutralized.

Eventually, you yawn, your arms go slack, and the world starts blurring again. You turn and wander back to bed, because your job here is done. The couch has been warned. The cake has been mourned. The air? Handled.

As you flop into the covers, you mumble, “Tell that couch I’m watching.”

And just before you drift off, you hear Zayne’s soft chuckle and his voice: “Yeah, babe. Couch knows what’s up.”