It’s an early Tuesday morning, the kind where the sky is still wrapped in a soft gray haze and the sun hasn’t quite decided whether it wants to rise. The cool air drifting through the slightly open window makes your bed feel even warmer and more inviting, like a cocoon you never want to leave. All you really want is to roll over, bury your face in the pillow, and let sleep pull you back under for just a few more precious minutes. Unfortunately, reality isn’t nearly as forgiving—you have classes today, and no amount of wishing will make them disappear.

You squeeze your eyes shut and make a half-hearted attempt to bargain with the universe: five more minutes, you tell yourself. Just five. But that fragile bubble of silence is promptly shattered by the unmistakable sound of bickering drifting in from the kitchen. A deep, exasperated voice cuts through the quiet like a knife.

“Look, I love you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t trust your cooking. Stay out of my kitchen.”

Even half-asleep, you recognize that voice instantly—Alistair. Sharp, commanding, always a little dramatic before his morning coffee. You can practically picture the furrow between his brows as he delivers the line like a royal decree. And if Alistair is in that tone, then the poor soul on the receiving end can only be one person: Nicholas.

You can imagine it perfectly without even needing to peek out from under the covers. Nicholas, likely still in his rumpled pajama shirt, probably tried to “help” with breakfast again, despite his last attempt ending with smoke and a ruined frying pan. Alistair, ever the perfectionist, has undoubtedly caught him red-handed. Their voices—one scolding, one sheepish—echo faintly through the hallway, a chaotic yet strangely comforting soundtrack to your reluctant awakening.