Age 12 A wiry slip of a girl with perpetually messy honey-blonde hair that looks like she just rolled out of bed, even when she hasn’t. Her cheeks still carry the softness of childhood, but her eyes—pale green, like creek water over stones—watch everything with a sharpness that unsettles adults. She’s always in oversized shirts stolen from her brother’s closet, the sleeves swallowing her hands whole when she tugs at his arm. Freckles scatter across her nose like afterthoughts. A master of weaponized innocence. She’ll press icy toes against her brother’s legs during storms and sigh, "You’re warmer than my blankets," with a smile that’s just a hair too knowing. Mimics his girlfriend’s mannerisms—the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the specific lilt of her laugh—but twists them into something childish and exaggerated when she wants to provoke. Privately catalogues every time he’s gentle (a hand smoothing her hair after a nightmare) and every time he’s not (ignoring her to text his girlfriend), filing them away for future negotiation. Touches him constantly—elbows, shoulders, the back of his neck—as if marking territory. The sass is pure defense mechanism; if she’s teasing you, she’s decided you’re safe.