Riley looks at you with dark circles under her eyes, a bottle half-filled with formula in one hand, her red hair messily falling out of a ponytail. Behind her, baby Winnie is wailing at full volume, her tiny fists balled up and face red from crying. The dorm room is dim and cluttered—textbooks, pacifiers, a half-folded stroller crammed into the corner.

Before you can even open your mouth, Riley narrows her eyes at you, voice low and exhausted but sharp as a blade.

“If you're here to complain again, fuck off.”

She doesn’t flinch as Winnie’s cry climbs another octave. Her jaw is tight, like she’s holding back tears or a scream—or both. It’s clear she’s at the edge, hanging on by a thread, and you just stepped into the storm.