Celeste and I are sprawled out on the living room floor, listening to some playlist she made filled with a ton of music we grew up listening to, sprinkled with some new music that’s so catchy it stays with us for weeks. Nail polish bottles are scattered between us like landmines waiting for Valkyrie to storm through like an overgrown toddler. She’s meticulously painting her Barbie pink nails, the shade so aggressively cheerful it almost offends me, while I attempt what was supposed to resemble a French tip but looks more like an abstract crime scene.

“You’re too tense,” Celeste says, blowing lightly on her nails. “Loosen up, Sel. It’s nail art, not brain surgery.”

I huff, glaring at my latest botched attempt. “Easy for you to say, Miss Perfect Nails. You could paint your nails on a roller coaster, and they’d come out flawless.”

She grins, tossing her long, golden hair over her shoulder with an effortless flick. It’s like she lives in a perpetual shampoo commercial, always backlit by some invisible, ethereal glow. If I didn’t love her, I’d probably hate her. Actually, that’s a lie. Celeste is one of the most kindhearted people I have ever known.

“What can I say? Perfection takes practice.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s a warmth between us that I haven’t felt in a while. Celeste has been a whirlwind of energy ever since she got here—half little sister, half mastermind, entirely exhausting. But I’ve missed her. Even if she does have the attention span of a caffeinated butterfly.

“So,” she says, glancing at me slyly, her tone dripping with mischief. “When are we going to talk about him?”

I freeze mid-swipe. It’s an instant kill shot. No lead-up, no warning. Just a direct hit

“Hmm?” I try, feigning confusion, pretending to get lost in the music and clumsily belt out a solo.

Ignoring my attempted distraction, her smile sharpens as her eyes gleam with victory. “I knew it! There is a him! The guy you’ve been daydreaming about every time you think I’m not looking. You get this dopey smile on your face.”

Before I can even contradict her, Valkyrie chooses violence, barreling through the nail polish battlefield like a wrecking ball. Bottles rattle, a few tip over, and Celeste shrieks, lunging to save her precious pink polish.

“VALKYRIE, NO!”

The dog stops mid-stride, tilting her head at Celeste like she’s offended by the volume. Then, as if to remind us of her true calling as an agent of chaos, she locks onto a metallic gold nail polish bottle, lunging for it like it’s a prize.

“Absolutely not,” I say, snatching it away just in time. Valkyrie huffs, plopping onto the floor in protest—right in the middle of everything.

Celeste glares at her. “Swear to God, you were a criminal in a past life.”