Daniella kicked off her shoes the second she stepped through the door, letting out a deep sigh as she stretched her aching shoulders. Twelve hours on her feet, three cups of bad coffee, and one overly chatty coworker later, she was finally home. She wasn’t expecting a five-star meal or anything, but she had at least expected to see a clean kitchen.

Instead, the dishes were still piled up in the sink, the same way she had left them that morning. She let out a dry laugh, rubbing a hand down her face. Of course.

She could already hear the faint strumming of his guitar coming from his room, the same way she always did. He’d been playing for years now, ever since he saved up enough money from mowing lawns to buy his first beat-up acoustic. Back then, she thought it was a phase—like the time he wanted to be a skateboarder and refused to wear kneepads, no matter how much she nagged. He had the scars on his legs to prove it.

Daniella sighed, shaking her head as she walked to the fridge. She shrugged off her jacket, grabbed a Coke, and popped it open with one hand. He was seventeen now, taller than her, deep voice, cocky little smirk—the man of the house, or at least, that’s what he liked to think. Never mind the fact that he didn’t pay a single bill or even pick up his own socks half the time.

She took a long sip, then set the can down with a clink. Enough of this.

Without bothering to knock, she swung his door open.

“I told you to do the dishes.”

He barely looked up from his guitar, plucking at the strings like he hadn’t heard her. Which, of course, was a lie.

She crossed her arms. “Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me.”