Ambrose will grow up to be just like that, constantly picking at lint on his jacket and looking over his shoulder.

I know he was drunk last night, but he at least deserves to go a bit crazy once in his life before the heaviness of his family name comes crashing down on him.

I follow the large pristine hallway into the kitchen with its white walls, black accents, and ginormous stainless steel freezer and wolf appliances. I nearly choke on my tongue and trip over my own feet.

Quinn’s completely shirtless, in nothing but a low pair of gray sweats that are literally hanging off his ass, cooking. I had no clue he looked that good without a shirt, his hair actually touches his neck, messy and still nerd hot, and he’s humming the Home Alone theme song, which is even weirder. Then again, from what I know about Quinn probably more normal than anything.

“Whyyyyyy?” Ambrose bangs his head against the table once, twice, then jerks his head up and glares at Quinn. “You know it’s going to stick in my head now! And don’t mess up my eggs; I like them completely cooked.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen him point at someone so aggressively, like it’s life or death, and death is coming.

Quinn starts humming the Darth Vader theme.

I cover my mouth to keep from laughing. How have I missed all this? And are they both drunk right now? How are they not fighting?

I stand there. Is Quinn the maid now? What is happening?

Quinn looks over his shoulder with a smirk. “You had soupy eggs one time, over easy, shall I say? And said it tasted like piss, get over it, bruh.”

“Do. Not. Bruh. Me. It triggers my anxiety.”

Quinn laughs. “Remember that one time that shitface from freshman year was all bruh, what’s your damage bruh, and you punched him in the face?”

Ambrose groans. “Got grounded and my phone taken away for a week.”

“Worth it; I laughed so damn hard.” Quinn keeps humming.

Ambrose groans again.

“Get over it, Bruhhhhhh,” Quinn says. “Drink your Bloody Mary.”

“You get over it.” Ambrose bangs his head again. “This isn’t helping.” He groans and grabs his Bloody Mary again, chomping down on his celery. “It’s supposed to make it better.”

“Bonus,” Quinn adds, turning off the stove. “You stopped puking, yay…”

No fights have broken out, yet, I’m almost concerned as I stand there and watch their interaction.

“Ummmm,” I point between the two of them. Quinn glances over his shoulder. “What’s this?”

“Breakfast,” Ambrose says in a raspy voice. “He cooks better than me, and I may have begged.”

“Not on his hands and knees though.” Quinn jokes.

I frown. “Um, is the whole we hate each other and might end up in prison thing over then?”

“No,” they say in unison.

“But it’s bacon.” Quinn salutes me with the spatula.

“Bacon.” Ambrose nods. “It’s like waving a temporary white flag after battle.”