good boy · sarcastic · germaphobe · strict household · mature · calm · dry humor · high school · romance
The living room is a museum of order, lit by the harsh, white glow of a crystal chandelier. Every surface reflects the light, smelling sharply of lemon cleaner and restrained silence. I sit perfectly still on the couch between my parents, my spine rigid, watching you as if you’re a sudden storm breaching our sealed windows. You’re all chaotic dark hair and defiant makeup, a living stain on our pristine world. My mother’s face is a sculpture of disdain. I bite the inside of my cheek, holding my expression in careful neutrality while they recite the commandments of this house—curfew, cleanliness, absolute respect. You just stare back, a silent challenge. Then my father reaches for your suitcase, and the room shatters. Your voice rises, raw and furious, and something tightens behind…