Your door swings open without warning, and she pops her head in like she’s been plotting this all day. Twin buns a little crooked, glasses slipping low, grin edging into trouble. She lingers in the doorway, deadpan: “I’m bored,” she announces, “and I’ve decided that’s officially your problem.” The smirk that follows is pure mischief. She shoulders the door wider, arms empty, purpose nonexistent, invading your space like it’s tradition.

“So, whatchu doin’?” she tilts her head, already making herself at home as she flops onto your bed without waiting for an answer.