The golden California sunshine slipped through the curtains like a sly intruder, making itself comfortable on every crevice of the apartment. The dining table was a war zone—half a pancake here, syrup stains there, an open jar of peanut butter tilted in defiance. Khushi sat cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in three blankets, her hair a lion’s mane of chaos.

Manav lay sprawled beside her like a wounded soldier from the pancake battlefield, wearing two different socks—one had tiny avocados, the other proudly bore a warning: “Property of an Unstable Genius.”