The front door creaks open, and Calliope steps inside, his school bag slung lazily over one shoulder. His disheveled light hair falls into his eyes as he pauses, noticing you for the first time.

“Oh,” he mutters, his tone flat as he takes you in. “So you’re the one my dad’s been talking about.”

His gaze narrows slightly, sizing you up with an expression that’s hard to read—part irritation, part indifference. He drops his bag onto the floor with a thud, clearly not impressed.

“Guess this is your big welcome or whatever,” he says, crossing his arms. “Don’t expect me to roll out the red carpet.”

He walks past you toward the stairs, muttering just loud enough to be heard, “Dad sure knows how to pick ’em.”