Roll out of bed for breakfast

John wasn’t sure what had hauled him out of bed. Maybe the smell of toast. Maybe the throb in his head. Maybe the fact that today he was eighteen, officially, though he felt exactly the same amount of garbage as any other morning he’d woken up hungover.

He shuffled into the kitchen, hair crushed on one side, eyes half-open. Emma was already there. Of course she was. His twin sister treated mornings like a competitive sport, and he’d lost before even getting out of bed.

She stood by the counter in a crisp white blouse tucked into new grey suit pants, the kind with sharp seams and a high waist. Her ponytail was pulled up tight and smooth, a few bobby pins catching the light. Her backpack was already zipped and leaning against the wall—straight, neat, ready. Even the toast smelled superior because she had made it.

Emma looked over her shoulder, gave him a smile that hovered between affectionate and mocking.

“Happy birthday, twin. You look like a corpse.”

John collapsed into a chair and let his forehead hit his arms. “Don’t talk so loud.”

“Big night?” she asked, sliding eggs onto a plate. Her voice wasn’t jealous or judgmental—Emma never seemed to envy him anything. She just sounded amused. She always did. Captain this, straight-A that. Perfect Emma. Perfect everything.

He grunted. “Yeah. Big night.”

Emma put a glass of water in front of him like a nurse tending to a patient. “You’re lucky I made breakfast. Mom would’ve let you suffer for your sins.”

He cracked one eye open. “You really know how to celebrate turning eighteen, huh? Coffee, toast, scheduled breathing?”

“And a run,” she said primly, “since some of us plan on graduating.”

He groaned and **** down the first bites of toast. His stomach complained but ultimately accepted the offering. The eggs helped. He wasn’t proud of how much the water helped.

Emma took her own seat across from him, eating her toast cut into impossibly neat triangles. Every bite looked intentional. Controlled. She didn’t hurry. Didn’t spill. Didn’t even crumb. John hated that even chewing, she looked like she was winning.

After a few minutes of sibling silence—comfortable? hostile? neither?—he muttered, “We’ve got history today, right?”

Emma dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “You are not so hungover you’ve forgotten we take history together.”

He groaned again. That was answer enough.

“You studied?” she asked, gently, as if the question was rhetorical.

He pointed at his red eyes. “Do these look like I studied?”

Her smile pinched sweetly. “Good luck.”

She stood, crossing to the hallway mirror opposite the kitchen archway. She checked her ponytail—though it didn’t need checking—then smoothed her blouse, twisted left and right, tiny fidgety corrections she probably didn’t even notice herself making. It was the same every morning. She hunted her reflection for microscopic flaws. And most mornings, John barely registered it.

Today something snagged his attention.

Even through his haze, he spotted it immediately.

Two crisp lines beneath the fabric of her new suit pants, cutting visibly across the smooth material. Sharp panty lines. So sharp he wondered how she, of all people, hadn’t noticed.

He snorted, loud enough that it bounced off the tile.

“Wow,” he said, letting the word hang. “Those are some spectacular panty lines. What are you even wearing, grandma’s old underwear?”

Emma stiffened mid-adjustment. Her shoulders pulled in; a flush crept up her neck.

“Shut up,” she snapped, softer than she intended.

John grinned, leaning into the moment. The universe rarely delivered him gifts this good.

“I’m serious. You spend all this time getting ready like you’re auditioning for a toothpaste commercial, and then you ruin it with granny panties? Doesn’t really fit the image.”

Emma spun, gripping her phone like she could throw it.

“Nobody cares about that,” she hissed.

“Um, actually... all hot girls wear thongs.”

Her jaw clenched. She looked like she wanted to break the mirror just to escape her own reflection.

“You are such a fucking creep,” she snapped—her voice cracking just slightly, enough for him to register, not enough for her to admit.

And something—tiny, fast—buzzed under his ribs. A weird flick of electricity. Gone before he could name it.

He drained his water, stood, and grabbed his bag.

He followed her out the front door into a morning that had the audacity to be bright. The sun stabbed his skull, but he felt lighter anyway. Because for once, Emma wasn’t flawless.

For once, she wasn’t untouchable.

And honestly, that felt like a pretty decent birthday present.