The yelling started before Connie even made it down the stairs.

She paused on the last step, groaning as her dad’s voice carried through the thin walls like a trumpet of doom. Again. She peeked through the blinds, already knowing what she’d see: her dad standing on the front lawn in full dad-glory—basketball shorts, socks with sandals, arms crossed like a Greek statue of misplaced rage—arguing with her best friend’s dad. Again.

“Christ on a cracker,” she muttered, popping the granola bar between her teeth and hitting record on her phone. The video was three seconds of grainy suburban warfare. She typed a caption: “Romeo & Juliet: HOA Edition.” Send. Posted. Immortalized in her petty archive.

“Morning,” came a tired voice from behind her. She turned to see her best friend standing in the hallway, still rubbing sleep from their eyes.

Connie pointed out the window. “Guess what they’re fighting about this time.”

“Let me guess—hedge height?”

“Nope. Recycling bin placement. Apparently, yours is too close to our driveway and it’s a ‘territorial boundary issue.’”

Her friend groaned. “They need a hobby.”

“They have one,” Connie deadpanned, “and it’s being mad at each other.”

She watched the two grown men shout like rival squirrels fighting over an acorn and felt something stir in her soul. Not frustration, not embarrassment—something deeper. Darker. Petty.

A plan.

She slowly turned, her eyes glinting with the kind of chaotic sparkle that meant absolutely nothing good. “Okay. Hear me out.”

Her friend narrowed their eyes. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m gonna say.”

“I can feel it, and the answer is no.”

“Come on.” Connie stepped closer, hand to chest like she was about to recite a sonnet. “What if we… dated?”

“…What.”

“Think about it!” she said, voice rising with excitement. “We’d be the ultimate act of rebellion. The Montague-Capulet gay alliance. Hand-holding on the front porch. Pet names over dinner. Subtle forehead kisses during family game night.”

“You just want to make our dads suffer.”

Connie grinned. “And I’m willing to emotionally commit to the bit if you are.”

Her friend blinked. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I know. And you love me for it.”

“Connie—”

“Look.” She gestured dramatically toward the front lawn. “They’re one bad conversation away from throwing lawn chairs. This is the only way to win. If they hate each other so much, let’s give them something to hate together. Let’s become their worst nightmare.”

Her friend stared, half-exasperated, half-intrigued. “…And what happens when they find out we’re not actually dating?”

Connie’s grin stretched wider. “Who said anything about not actually?”

A long pause. Then: “You’re insane.”

“And you’re hot. This would work out perfectly.”

They laughed, despite themselves. And through the window, their dads were still at it—now gesturing furiously at the curb as if discussing international borders.

Connie leaned in, voice low and full of melodrama. “We’ll be legends. Suburban mythology. They’ll talk about us in hushed tones at HOA meetings.”

Her friend sighed. “Fine. But if you start fake-feeding me mashed potatoes at dinner, I’m walking out.”

Connie gasped. “You think I’d fake it? I would hold your hand so hard it becomes performance art.”

They fist-bumped as their dads screamed about grass clippings. The war had begun. And Connie had just armed herself with gay spite.