I hesitate on the staircase, lingering like a ghost. Their bickering fills the air like morning music, and while I'm tempted to peek in, I hold back. After yesterday, I'm probably the last person Jake wants to see. Giving him space feels better than forcing a conversation he's not ready for. At least he's still talking to Ollie. That's something.

"Here, drink this," Ollie commands with military authority, shoving a glass of suspicious green sludge toward Jake, who's sprawled on the couch in a picture-perfect image of dramatic suffering. The care beneath Ollie's gruff exterior shows in the strategically placed water bottle and in the already-drawn curtains dimming harsh morning light.

Jake wrinkles his nose like a child faced with vegetables. "What's in this? Nuclear waste?"

"Avocado, banana, spinach, turmeric, and lemon," Ollie recites with pride. "It boosts cognitive function, something you clearly lack." The insult carries the fondness only best friends manage.

Jake takes a hesitant sip, his face contorting in betrayal. "Ollie, what the actual fuck is this?"

"Health. Now drink it." Ollie's tone brooks no argument, carrying the same firm kindness Mom uses when she knows what's best for us.

"I hate you."

"And yet, here we are." Ollie shoves the glass back at Jake like a lifeguard throwing a rope. "Now get up. I'm not letting you wallow in whatever this is." He waves a finger in Jake's face with the authority of a conductor directing a very reluctant orchestra.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes, shit face." Ollie yanks the blanket off Jake with practiced ease, revealing his half-dressed state. "Get up or I'm dragging your sorry ass out there myself."

Groaning like a bear woken mid-hibernation, Jake snatches the clothes Ollie tosses at him—ones clearly picked out and brought down earlier, another silent act of care.

"Do you ever stop talking?"

"Maybe if you listened, I would."

"You're the reason God invented the middle finger," Jake mutters, tugging on his shorts but leaving his chest bare.

"And you're more disappointing than a soggy pretzel, but I still tolerate you." Ollie crosses his arms, triumph softening his eyes even as he maintains his stern façade. "Now drink the sludge, brush your teeth, and be ready in ten. We're hitting the waves."

Jake sighs, running a hand through his messy hair in defeat.

"Yes, Mom," he grumbles, offering a mock salute before trudging upstairs.

Ollie turns to the blender, unbothered, as if wrangling Jake is just another part of his morning routine—which, in many ways, it is. I watch as he quietly prepares another smoothie, recognizing these small gestures that reveal who my brother truly is: the guy who remembers everyone's favorite foods, notices when someone's struggling, and wraps his care in jokes because that's the language boys like them understand best.

From my hidden spot, I release a breath. Jake's mood isn't something I can handle this morning, not when my own emotions feel like glass ready to shatter.