“Oh God, who died?” Dylan grumbles as they strut into the kitchen wearing bunny slippers on their feet. They’ve got drool crusted on their chin, sagging holes for their gauges, and a gleam of murder in their eyes. I imagine this is their typical morning aesthetic.

“Uh, our grandfather died,” Jack answers.

Without acknowledging my existence, Dylan slides onto a barstool next to me. “Yeah, a week ago. Why are you hugging now?”

Andrew releases his sister. “Sometimes, when two siblings love each other very much,” he starts to explain in a patronizing voice.

“Don’t try to make jokes, Andrew,” Dylan quips. “You should stick to your strengths.”

“Which are?”

“Lifting heavy things and being hot.”

“Ah.” Andrew winces briefly before covering it with a charming smile. “You forgot I’m also rather gifted at making fuck tons of money for people who already have fuck tons of money.”

“I could never forget that, you capitalist pig.”

“Children, children,” Jack hisses, passing Dylan a giant cup of coffee from a French press. It’s so full of nondairy creamer, it’s almost yellow. “No ideological spats before breakfast.”

Dylan gratefully accepts the mug and takes a bleary-eyed sip. Andrew watches them for a second before grabbing a bag of matcha powder from the cupboard. When Andrew’s shirt creeps up in the back while he reaches up, Dylan distinctly notices. They’re both ridiculously obvious, and this love trapezoid is definitely going to ruin our lives.

“Where are the grandmas?” Dylan asks after a few sips of coffee.

“Sleeping off their hangovers,” Jack says, pouring another mug of coffee, black this time, and passing it to me without thinking. I hold the warm mug close to my chest.

“And Katherine?”

Jack shoots her brother a look before she answers. “Dad called last night to say he’s not coming until Tuesday, so if I had to guess, she’s probably crying on her Peloton.”

“Sounds like a Kim-Prescott family Christmas to me,” Dylan says.

“Alexa.” Jack turns to the circular speaker on the island. “Shuffle Jack’s playlist.”

“See You Again” by Miley Cyrus fills the kitchen, and Jack does a little fist pump as she starts singing the lyrics.

Dylan shakes their head in profound disappointment. “How can I be friends with someone who has such deplorable taste in music?” they wonder.

Jack clasps her hands in mock apology. “I’m so sorry I don’t listen to German death metal like all the cool kids.”

“The fact that you just said ‘cool kids’ is a poignant reminder of how profoundly uncool you are.”

“How did you two become friends?” I ask, shifting my gaze from Jack to Dylan. On the surface, they don’t seem like prime candidates for best friends. Jack is open and warm and kind. Dylan is… a burned marshmallow, apparently.