Meanwhile, downstairs…

The second the bedroom door clicked shut upstairs, the living room fell into a very different kind of silence.

Cam was still standing near the couch, hands on his hips, staring at the ceiling like he could see through it. Mitchell had poured himself a generous glass of the leftover wine and was drinking it like it was medicine.

Cam turned to him, eyes sparkling with pure chaos. “They’re doing it. They’re actually doing it. Gloria took Claire upstairs and told Phil to bring toys. Do you understand what that means?”

Mitchell pinched the bridge of his nose. “It means I need a stronger drink and possibly a new therapist.”

“It means,” Cam continued, already pacing, “that the most uptight woman in this family and the most dramatic woman in this family are currently alone with Phil and a drawer full of recreational equipment. And we are just… sitting here. Like civilians.”

Mitchell set the glass down harder than necessary. “We are not going up there.”

Cam gasped as if Mitchell had suggested they burn the house down. “Of course we’re not going up there. That would be rude. We’re going to stay right here… and listen.”

He tiptoed over to the bottom of the stairs and tilted his head. Faint sounds drifted down—Gloria’s low laugh, the soft creak of the dresser, Claire’s muffled whimper. Cam’s hand flew to his mouth in delighted scandal.

Mitchell groaned and dropped onto the couch, covering his face. “I can hear them. Why can I hear them? This house has terrible insulation.”

Cam hurried back and plopped down beside him, practically vibrating. “Mitchell. Look at me. We have two options.”

Mitchell peeked through his fingers. “I already hate both of them.”

Cam held up one finger. “Option one: we stay down here like responsible adults, finish the wine, and pretend this is a completely normal Friday night.”

He held up a second finger, grinning wider. “Option two: we make ourselves useful. Gloria said ‘extra hands’ earlier in spirit if not in words. We could… knock. Politely. Offer assistance. Or at the very least, we could lock the front door so no one else walks in, pour more wine, and wait for the inevitable moment someone calls for a refill or a third participant.”

Another soft, unmistakable moan floated down the stairs.

Cam’s eyes went huge. “That was Claire.”

Mitchell’s voice was strangled. “I am aware.”

Cam leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “So… what’s it going to be, honey? Responsible adult… or full Cam?”