I hum the American Dad theme like an anthem, fluffy blanket clenched up to my chin. As always, that final high note of the song screeches out of me like an injured falcon, scratchy and out of tune.
Just before the show starts, my bedroom door explodes open. There he is—Yang Jin. His grey checkered pyjama trousers hang loosely, and his bare chest rises and falls like he sprinted down the hallway. His brown hair is a total rebellion against gravity, as if he fought someone in his sleep and lost.
I blink up at him from my nest of plush fabric, resisting the urge to cover my eyes.
"Is modesty still a thing in this house?" I ask him in all sincerity.
Why is he even here?
Don't tell me...
Did he really sprint out of bed just to join me for American Dad?
"You didn't tell me you were watching American Dad!" he snaps sharply, glaring at me like I betrayed some sacred brotherly pact.
Guess he did rush all the way to my room to join me for American Dad.
I shrug, innocent and unbothered, and scooch over to make room as he slams the door behind him and flops onto the bed. The mattress dips violently under his weight and lets out a groan so dramatic it almost sounds like a complaint.
I snort, and immediately regret it when his death glare drills into the side of my head.
Clearing my throat, I adjust my face to neutral.
"Why is your bed so fucking loud?" he mutters while still shifting around to get comfortable. "Did you break it?"
"Ever consider you might be gaining weight?"
"Unlike you," he says, "I actually go gym."
As Roger the alien appears on screen, I nudge him subtly and whisper, "Look, it's your cosmic twin with his big ass forehead."
Yang Jin grins in amusement for half a second before swiping the pillow off my lap. He props it behind his head and settles into a more comfortable position after tucking his palms under his head.
The show unfolds— ridiculous, unfiltered and sometimes even borderline illegal in its humour—and somehow, it's exactly the chaos we both enjoy. This show is messed up in so many ways, but neither of us can get enough of it. Yang Jin and I laugh in between hilarious scenes, judging certain decisions characters make.
Then the commercial hits, and Yang Jin rolls off the bed.
"I'm gonna empty the tank," he declares with zero shame, like he's making some kind of mundane announcement to the household.
My face contorts instantly—equal parts disgust and confusion. "I did not need to know that," I mutter stiffly, eyes snapping back to the telly as if my retinas could block out his words.
He turns toward the door, about to make his grand bathroom exit, but pauses as if struck by divine revelation. "Oh, and if I'm not back before the commercials end, you better pause it."
Kind of fed up with him, I roll my eyes dryly.
"I'm serious, Seong Jin. Pause it!"
"Yeah, yeah," I say, waving him off with little enthusiasm.
But he doesn't trust me.
Of course he doesn't.
He begins backing out of the room slowly, his suspicious eyes staying glued to me, narrowing with every step.
I try to act as nonchalant as possible so that he can just leave to "empty the tank".
Once he's finally gone I let out a quiet sigh, shoulders relaxing into my blanket nest.
Honestly, I'll never understand why he insists on watching American Dad in my room. The guy has got a freaking eighty five inch TV gifted to him by Franklin, specifically to help ease his transition out of the house. Because, yes, my parents are done. Emotionally and financially exhausted from supporting a fully grown manchild with a degree in business and economics.
They're determined to launch him into adulthood before the year ends—one overpriced flatscreen at a time.
But here's the thing. As much as I complain, I don't really mind him crashing in my room. It's kind of comforting. Our chaotic sibling movie nights, our silent wars over the remote, his dramatic declarations about bathroom emergencies... weirdly, they make my room feel less lonely.
Besides, he may be petty and backstabbing and utterly useless when it comes to offering me lifts to school, but he is my disaster of a brother at the end of the day. And weirdly, I love that.
Even if I will forget to pause the show. On purpose. Just to watch him suffer.
Pushing aside the cocoon of blankets I'd been curled up in, I reluctantly hit pause and peel myself off the bed. My stomach grumbles loudly as if launching a rebellion in my belly. And although I know the snack selection downstairs is tragic, probably just a few sad strawberry flavoured granola bars left, I decide to brave it. Beggars, as they say, can't be choosers.
I tug the hood of my goat onesie over my head, the soft fabric slightly comforting as I trudge toward the door, ears flopping over my forehead like wilted petals. Just as I reach for the doorknob, a faint metallic clink echoes through the room.
I freeze.
Heart punching my ribs in fear, I scan the room with suspicion. My breaths shallow and eyes dart around urgently but nothing moves. It's quiet again—eerily quiet. After a long moment of silence, I shake off the paranoia. Must have been something outside. Maybe a squirrel. Or a ghost. Whatever.
Clink.
This time, there's no mistaking it. I whirl toward the window and that's when I spot the movement. I don't know what valiant spirit possesses me, but adrenaline slingshots me to the window. I throw it open—
Thwack.
"Ow!" I gasp, clutching my nose while stumbling back. My eyes sting as I mutter through gritted teeth, "What the fuck?"
I march back to the window, nose pulsing like it's got its own heartbeat, and peer down just in time to see the idiot responsible.
Dominic.
Of course it's Dominic.
My personal tormentor.
My chaos incarnate.
Dressed like a wannabe ninja in all black everything, from his overpriced hoodie to his designer tracksuit trousers that probably cost more than my monthly allowance. He stands on the damp lawn, glancing up at me. He looks like he's auditioning for an espionage film sponsored by an expensive clothing brand.
"Finally," he whispers irritably, lowering his stone launching arm. "I've been out here for over thirty minutes. What took you so long?"
"What the hell are you doing here?" I hiss, staring at him incredulously. "And how the hell did you get into my backyard?"
He shrugs shamelessly. "I told you I was coming over. And your back gate was wide open, by the way. You should fix that. Super unsafe."
"But Dominic, I was planning on relaxing today. Having a day to myself. Remember what I said over the phone about the awful week I had with you?" I grip the windowsill like it's the only thing keeping me from launching myself out the window in fury.
"What awful week?"
"I literally told you I needed a break. A breather. A moment without your face, your voice, your presence. Am I asking for the moon here?"
He doesn't respond. Just stares.
"I'm tired, mate," I whisper, as much to myself as to him.
Then he lifts his hand and starts wiggling his fingers in this over the top puppeteer motion. "Seems you're forgetting who's pulling the strings here, Pinocchio. I'm the one controlling you."
I stare at him for a beat.
"I regret the day I met you," I mutter bitterly, nodding with the kind of tight lipped smile that screams existential exhaustion.
Dominic remains planted on the lawn like he's just conquered some epic quest, completely ignoring the fact that said quest involved chucking stones at my face from illegal backyard territory.
I keep palming my nose, waiting for the throb to fade.
"You're extremely insufferable," I say flatly. "You know that, right?"
His eyes light up as if I've just handed him a compliment. "Isn't that the reason why you fell in love with me?"
I make a gagging sound loud enough for neighbourhood dogs to start howling.
"How did you even know this was my room?" I snap, arms crossed tight like armour. "What if my mum had come out? What then, huh?"
Dominic just shrugs, casually unapologetic. "I would've probably run away."
Oh, brilliant.
"But," he adds, as if that absolves the trespassing, "I had a feeling it was your room."
My eyes narrow. "How?"
He gives me a smirk way too smug for someone in black head to toe pretending to be stealthy. "Well over the past, quote unquote, awful week as you so delicately described it, I have noticed a few things about you. Like your... goat obsession."
I blink. "My what?"
"Your obsession with goats."
"What are you talking about? I'm not obsessed with goats."
"Your bag has a goat. Pencil case? Goat. Phone case? Goat. Your book covers? That one binder literally has a goat doing yoga. So yeah, I see goat print curtains and I make the obvious connection. Unless your whole family is secretly running a goat themed cult, this had to be your room."
"I–It's not an obsession." But the blush climbing my cheeks says otherwise. I hate my face. Why is embarrassment always the colour red?
Dominic is already shifting attention. "I wanna come up."
"Absolutely not. My brother and I are watching American Dad."
He squints. "What?"
"I know, shocker—me bonding with my sibling. But he budged into my room this morning and now we're watching a show together."
"No, I meant what show?"
"American Dad," I say slowly, as if teaching language to a brick wall. "You know. Good morning, USA?"
Still, nothing.
His frown deepens, digging into his forehead.
"You don't know American Dad?" I ask, baffled. "What rock have you been living under?"
He shrugs. "Not a rock."
"You have to watch it. It's actually really funny. Pure chaos. All the characters are absolute menaces. The show literally opens with the dad singing about how much he loves America every morning without fail. There's also an alien."
He pulls a face. "Your idea of comedy is... very different to mine."
I stare at him. "It's because you don't have a sense of humour."
"I'm coming up," he says for the third time.
He places his foot on a branch to ready himself for a climb as if this is Romeo and Juliet, only if Romeo were dressed head to toe in monochrome colours and Juliet didn't want him there.
"Can you not right now?" I plead desperately, trying to block the window with my body.
"Can I not what?"
"Weren't you listening?" I hiss, my voice strained but sharp. "My brother and I are literally watching a show. He just went to take a piss. He's going to be back any second."
But he's not listening.
Of course he's not.
He's still climbing, unfazed by my rising panic. His limbs move with an irritating level of grace, hands gripping bark, feet nudging into crevices like he's rehearsed this routine in his dreams. Leaves rustle under his motion, the tree groaning slightly beneath his weight, and I swear he makes it look easy on purpose.
Maybe Taylor was onto something with her stalker theory.
How is he so good at climbing trees?
But then he pauses, panting hard. His chest heaves, sweat beading along his hairline beneath the cap, and suddenly he doesn't look like a professional prowler anymore. Just a stubborn boy doing something entirely illogical because of his pride.
He reaches the final branch and latches onto my windowsill with a soft thud that vibrates through my elbows.
I purse my lips so tightly they feel thin enough to disappear, mentally debating whether I should push him back into the tree.
He balances himself like a trapeze artist, peeking into the room.
My fists ball on instinct.
"You never listen to me," I mutter, arms folded across my chest in stiff defiance.
"You never listen to me, Starr," he retorts, somehow still defiant while dangling off foliage and his knuckles whiten as he tightens his grip. "I clearly recall suggesting we meet at the park. You refused. So I improvised."
Then it happens.
His foot slips.
Our eyes meet in instant, mirrored horror. Without thinking, I grab his wrists, fingers pressing into the sharp edges of his bones. His hands are hot and tense beneath mine, calloused from God knows what reckless nonsense he gets up to.
My heart ricochets in my chest, so loud I'm sure it's audible.
We freeze.
The branch wobbles and leaves scatter.
What the hell is he doing?
How stubborn is this guy?
Is he really willing to die for his pride?
His gaze flickers to where I'm holding him just long enough to make me feel something I don't want to name. He blinks dismissively and shakes his head quickly, brushing off the moment like dust off a sleeve.
"Nice room, Mr. Not Obsessed With Goats."
Eyes wide, I glance back into my bedroom at the door nervously, lips parted in silent panic. Any second now, Yang Jin could barrel in and find me in this compromising situation.
My brain reels through explanations I don't have.
"Listen, you seriously need to get out of here. If my brother catches you, he'll tattletale straight to my parents. Do you want to get punched in the throat by my mum?"
The sun casts a pale spotlight on Dominic, still perched like a brooding gargoyle outside my window.
He leans in slightly, voice low and unapologetic. "If only you had come to the park."
I groan inwardly, pressing my palms to the window frame. "Yeah, well, I didn't. So can you please leave?" My tone teeters between desperation and fury.
"I'm not going anywhere, Starr."
"Man, you are stalkerish as hell," I snap irritably, brows knitted. "It'd do you some good to channel all this energy into Jodie, you know. The actual object of your obsession."
His head jerks back as if I'd thrown something solid at him. "Excuse me?"
"Yeah, why don't you go to her house and climb up her trees and peek into her room? She's the one you're in love with—not me. Maybe you'd finally learn something about her. Favourite music, colour of her favourite bra, even her preferred sex positions."
His glare slices through me like shards of glass, his face carved with fury.
I half expect my irises to combust.
"Get your hands off me," he growls, voice like gravel beneath tension.
I roll my eyes at the rehearsed line he says to me all the time. Lifting my hands in mock surrender, my fingers flutter like white flags.
His lips twist in disdain. "And who said I'm in love with Jodie? It's just a harmless infatuation that I'm choosing to indulge solely for my personal entertainment. A passing hobby, if you will."
I scoff, rolling my eyes in an unconvinced manner. "You don't have to lie. I won't judge you for catching feelings."
"If it hasn't been obvious, your opinion of me means fuck all."
"It has been obvious... Although," I add, arms folded, "you probably should have chosen better. I mean Jodie? Seriously? Ever since she started hanging out with Savannah, she has just been unbearable."
His voice flattens into steel. "You're just jealous."
A dry chuckle escapes me, eyebrow raised in humour like he just delivered a punchline. "Jealous? Over your unhinged, impetuous so called infatuation for Jodie? Sure, Dominic. I'm so jealous."
His scowl deepens, silent but thunderous.
Suddenly, an idea sparks in my head like a mischievous firework. Since Dominic's hands are still glued to the windowsill and his body balanced precariously on the branch, he can't move. He can't stop me.
Perfect.
With a smug grin, I reach up and pluck his black cap off his head.
He flinches slightly, but his hands stay locked in place.
I tug down the hood of my goat onesie and slide the cap onto my head, adjusting it with exaggerated flair.
Then I pose.
One hand on my hip, the other tossed behind my head. I make snapping sounds with my mouth, mimicking paparazzi cameras.
"Seong Jin, over here!"
I switch poses—duck lips, peace signs, dramatic side glances. I probably look like a deranged influencer who just discovered filters.
"How do I look?" I beam, wiggling my eyebrows exaggeratedly.
His voice is low and dangerously composed. "Give that back."
But I know him now.
Over the past few days, I have learned more about Dominic Lachowski than I ever expected to. Just like he picked up on my goat obsession, I picked up on something far more interesting.
He rarely snaps.
He never raises his voice.
He doesn't lose control.
Even back in eighth grade, when I confessed I liked him, he didn't explode. He just told me to stop liking him and immediately walked away indifferently. He's the calm before the never coming storm.
And that's exactly why I love pushing his buttons. I want to see him crack. The moment he stops being so damn composed and finally combusts. I want to witness the unraveling before I die. I have just decided it's on my bucket list.
"No," I say sweetly, stepping closer. "I like seeing your face even if it's not much to look at."
"What are you talking about?"
"I want to see Dominic Lachowski—the rugged hair you probably spend hours styling. Your chocolatey eyes that always glare at me irritably. That signature scowl."
I reach out and ruffle his hair, fingers slipping through surprisingly soft strands.
He jerks his head slightly, but his hands stay firm on the windowsill.
He's trapped.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
This is so fun. I should torment him more often—it makes his company almost tolerable.
"Get your hands off me," he growls through gritted teeth, jaw clenched.
"Relax," I say, twirling a few silky locks away from his face with theatrical care. "I'm just fixing you."
All he can do is narrow his eyes at me as if to silently say I'm a mosquito.
"And..." I pause for dramatic effect, stepping back to admire my handiwork. "There. Now you look perfect."
His glare could melt steel but he still doesn't move.
And I still don't give the cap back.
"Seong Jin?"
I jolt upright like I've been electrocuted, heart slamming against my ribs. My eyes widen in pure panic as I slam the window shut with a loud thwack that echoes through the room like a gunshot. I whip around to face my brother, plastering on the most innocent expression I can muster.
"Hm?" I chirp, voice an octave too high.
Yang Jin's face drains of colour. His eyes flick past me, over my shoulder, and I know Dominic has been spotted.
"Shit," he blurts, voice sharp with disbelief.
I raise my hands in front of me like I'm warding off a wild animal. "Okay, I know this looks bad, but I can explain."
Before he can bolt off to tell our mum that I've turned my bedroom into a secret escort business, I rush out, "You see, it all started with my sketchbook going missing and then Dominic—"
"No," Yang Jin cuts in, eyes still locked on the window. He doesn't even glance at me. His attention is laser focused on something behind me.
"You just—you slammed the window down on that guy's fingers."
I did?
I turn around slowly, dread crawling up my spine like a thousand spiders. And sure enough, Dominic is still outside, his face contorted in silent agony. He's biting down on his bottom lip so hard it looks like he might draw blood. His eyes are glossy, his knuckles red and raw, and—
There's blood.
I gasp, flinging the window open again and leaning out in a frenzy.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper guiltily, grabbing his hands gently to cradle them carefully. His skin is warm and there's a smear of crimson across his knuckles that makes my stomach twist.
But then his hands go limp.
My gaze snaps up to his face just in time to see his eyes flutter shut.
"Dominic?" I whisper, voice cracking.
"Blood makes me... oh fuck," he mumbles, and then he's out.
Just like that, his body slackens and his foot slips off the branch.
My heart stops.
I scream, lunging forward and grabbing his wrists before gravity can claim him. His weight yanks me forward, and for a terrifying moment, I'm halfway out the window, teetering between life and death with Dominic dangling below me like a sack of potatoes.
"Yang Jin, help me!" I shriek, voice raw with panic.
I don't look back, but I hear his thundering footsteps and feel the shift in weight as Yang Jin grabs his arm. Together we strain—muscles burning, fingers slipping—until finally we manage to haul him halfway through the window.
From there, it's easier to drag him inside.
With a loud thud, I collapse onto the floor, gasping for breath. Dominic lands squarely on top of me, knocking the wind out of my lungs and pinning me to the ground. My study desk rattles violently beside us, and the single rose in its vase wobbles dramatically before tipping over.
Water splashes across my face.
I squeeze my eyes shut, lips pressed into a tight line.
Blinking through the water dripping down my nose, I wonder why the fuck there was so much water in that vase.
And then it hits me why.
Chu Hua.
Perhaps coercing my little sister to water my plants wasn't such a good idea.
Why did she fill the vase like she was prepping for a monsoon?
I groan, lying flat on the floor with his unconscious body sprawled across me, soaked and sore and utterly defeated.
Blinking through the sting of water and panic, I lift my gaze to his face. His eyes still shut, lashes resting delicately against his cheeks. If it weren't for the faint blush in his cheeks and the soft pink of his lips, I might have thought he was dead.
My breath catches when I realise something.
We almost fell.
From the second floor.
Out of my bedroom window.
I shudder at the thought, my body still trembling from the adrenaline crash.
"Seong Jin."
I turn my head sharply to see Yang Jin sitting beside me, his chest heaving, eyes wide with concern.
"Are you okay? You almost j-just fell out the window like that... and you scared me. Are you hurt?"
I shake my quickly, not only trying to convince him but both of us. My voice comes out thin and brittle. "Yeah, I'm fine, b-but I think... I might have broken something in Dominic's hands."
His eyes flick to Dominic's limp form sprawled across me, and his expression hardens with urgency. "Okay, I'm gonna call Amma. Don't move him," he says, already scrambling to his feet.
He's halfway out the door when he pops back in, finger pointed like a warning. "No, seriously. Don't move him. I'll be right back with her."
I nod again, frantic and mute, watching him disappear down the hallway.
The room falls into a tense silence, broken only by the distant hum of the house and the erratic thump of my heart. I wipe the water from my face with the sleeve of my onesie, clearing my vision, and my eyes immediately return to Dominic.
He's still out cold.
Still beautiful in that infuriating way that makes me want to scream and swoon at the same time.
I lean in slightly, placing two trembling fingers against the side of his neck. Relief floods me when I feel the steady thrum of his pulse beneath my fingertips.
He's alive.
My fingers linger there for a moment longer than necessary, grounding myself in the rhythm of his heartbeat. Then, without thinking, I reach up and gently brush aside the wet strands of hair clinging to his forehead. His skin is warm, damp, and soft beneath my touch.
I swallow hard.
The idea that I might have just accidentally murdered Dominic yet again is making my heart beat in my face. It's pounding in my ears, my throat, my temples. I feel like I'm vibrating with guilt and fear and the absurdity of it all.
Sixteen.
Sixteen and possibly a criminal.
I glance down at his hands again, red and bruised, and wince. The blood on his knuckles looks stark against his pale skin, and I feel a fresh wave of nausea roll through me.
"Sorry," I whisper, voice cracking.
He doesn't stir.
I sit there frozen, cradling his injured hands in mine, waiting for Amma to come in and either save the day or ground me until I'm thirty.