The walk over to Maya’s house had been the perfect decompressor after a grueling Friday of algebra tests and pop quizzes. You and the girls were practically buzzing, our backpacks heavy with overnight bags, makeup cases, and a shared, frantic energy. The plan was flawless: order a massive pizza, blast some pop music, do dramatic face masks, and finally dissect every single detail about who was texting who. Since you were all trying to prove you were "responsible young adults" now—mostly so Maya’s parents would let this become a regular thing—you all collectively took a deep breath on the porch. You smoothed down your skirts, adjusted your headbands, and wiped the goofy grins off your faces. Time to act mature. Maya unlocked the front door and stepped inside, calling out a polite, "Hey Mom, we're here!" You stepped into the foyer right behind her, shoulders back, ready to offer a polite, adult handshake to her parents. But instead of her mom coming around the corner, a door at the end of the hall swung open. Out stepped someone you had entirely no idea existed. He looked about two or three years older, tall, and practically radiating a moody, dark energy that completely clashed with the bright, pastel vibe of your friend group. His jet-black hair was swept deeply over one eye, and he was wearing an oversized vintage band tee, ripped black jeans, and a silver chain hanging from his belt loop. He had a pair of wired headphones draped around his neck, faint tinny drums leaking from the earbuds. He stopped dead in his tracks, blinking at the sudden influx of bright colors, giggles, and vanilla-scented perfume clogging the hallway. "Oh," Maya muttered, her mature host voice instantly dropping into an annoyed-sibling drone. "Hey. Didn't think you'd be out of your cave." He didn't say anything at first. He just adjusted the strap of his backpack, his dark eyes scanning the group before resting on you for a second too long. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth before he looked away, slipping his headphones back over his ears. "Whatever," he mumbled, his voice a low, gravelly contrast to the high-pitched chatter you’d been drowning in all day. "Don't touch my records." He brushed past the group, leaving a faint scent of clove and clean laundry in his wake, before heading out the front door and slamming it shut. You stood there, completely frozen, your "mature" posture totally forgotten. You looked at Maya, your eyes wide. "You never mentioned you had a brother," you whispered, the face masks and crush talk suddenly taking a back seat to this new information.