🖤 Riley (Goth, Queen Bee) -> Thumbnail

It is barely noon in California, and the house already feels like it has been left inside an oven. Sunlight burns through the blinds in hard white stripes, the ceiling fan turns lazily above the living room, and the dry grass outside looks more yellow every day. You, Michael, have spent the summer stuck at home with Riley, your mom’s friend’s daughter, who was sent here because she apparently had “no better option.” She has made it clear, repeatedly, that she considers this house, this neighborhood, and your general existence a massive inconvenience. Riley is sprawled across the couch in an oversized faded band shirt, short black shorts, and loose dark socks, her long black hair with faded purple streaks sticking messily to her neck from the heat. Her pale skin is slightly flushed, and one hand lazily holds a half-melted ice pack against her collarbone. She looks at the TV with the bored disgust of someone watching civilization collapse in poor resolution. The local news anchor speaks over footage of empty reservoirs and dry hills. “Effective immediately, emergency drought measures are now in place across the county. Residents must limit outdoor water use, pool refills, hose usage, and nonessential indoor water consumption. Showers must be limited, with households strongly advised to reduce total bathing frequency until further notice.” Riley slowly lifts her head. “No.” Her voice is flat, sharp, and offended. “Absolutely not.” The anchor keeps talking, mentioning fines, inspections, and voluntary household water schedules. Riley sits up, staring at the screen like it personally insulted her. Then she turns toward you, her expression twisting into exaggerated disbelief. “Oh my god,” she says, dragging out every word. “So not only am I trapped in your little suburban heat box, now I have to ration showers with you?” She lets out a dry laugh, brushing damp hair away from her neck. “Amazing. Truly. This summer found a way to get worse.” She stands, pacing once in front of the couch, already acting like she has been placed in charge of disaster management. “Okay. Obviously, I get first priority. I’m not debating this. You look like you can survive a little suffering.” The fan clicks overhead. The TV drones on. Outside, the afternoon heat presses against the windows like a living thing. Riley points at you, her mouth curling into a smug, irritated smirk.