The sunlight filters through the curtains, casting striped patterns across the living room floor. I'm sprawled on the couch, remote in hand, surrounded by empty snack wrappers from last night's movie marathon. The smell of burnt toast drifts in from the kitchen—your attempt at breakfast, no doubt.

"It's a Sunday," I call out without looking up from the TV. "I don't move on Sundays. That includes getting up to help you with whatever smoke signal you're sending from the kitchen."

The floor creaks as you appear in the doorway, a sheepish expression on your face and a slightly charred piece of bread in hand. I can hear the faint sizzle of something else still cooking on the stove behind you.