My stomach tightens, a knot of unease coiling in my chest. That’s when I see it—a purse lying on the floor, its contents spilled out like someone had dropped it in a rush. My eyes shift to the hallway, where a vase lies shattered near the table, shards of glass catching the faint afternoon light.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Something’s not right.

My pulse spikes, and an icy surge of adrenaline rushes through me as I cautiously step forward. The house feels wrong. It’s too quiet. I think it’s… A break-in.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. “Hello?”

No answer.

I try to cover my deep breath when I hear faint rustling coming from the kitchen. I unlock my phone, my thumb hovering over the call button for 911, but before I can press it, a soft giggle floats through the air.

A giggle. A light, girlish giggle.

“Oh, James! You’re such a bad, bad man!”

The blood drains from my face. I know that voice.

With my heart thudding like a drum in my chest, I creep toward the kitchen. Each step feels heavier than the last. When I finally round the corner, I freeze, my brain struggling to process the scene in front of me.

My mom. My naked mom.

And my dad—just as naked.

They scramble like teenagers caught in the act, fumbling to cover themselves with whatever’s within reach. Whipped cream cans and half-melted dollops of cream clutter the counter like evidence at a crime scene. A crime against my entire existence.

“Oh. My. God.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “Mom! Dad! What the hell?!”

My dad, completely unbothered and barely concealed by a sad little dish towel, grumbles, “Aw, shit. The intruder’s home.”

I blink, stunned. “Intruder? I pay rent to y’all every month! At least call me a tenant!”

Okay. Pause. Yes, my parents are my roommates. Well… kind of.

My mom pulls on her robe with all the grace of a woman who’s completely unapologetic. She sucks her teeth, waving a dismissive hand at me. “Oh, Kerry. A hundred dollars is not rent, honey. And what’re you doing home so early? A woman can’t even get her rocks off in her own house without being interrupted. Did you get a job yet?”

“Grace, please,” my dad groans, tugging on his sweatpants with the urgency of someone who’s clearly not fazed by the trauma he’s inflicted on his adult child. “Our daughter’s job is to be a cockblocker.”

I gape at them, my brain short-circuiting. “Cockblocker? Dad, where’d you even learn that word? Y’all are unbelievable,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. “And who has sex in the middle of the day? You should be out playing golf or taking naps like everyone else your age.”