NAMJOON TO THE RESCUE

"Life sucks!" A loud, frustrated shriek yanked Namjoon awake from where he was sprawled on the couch.

For a moment, he was bewildered, struggling to piece together what was happening, where he was, or if he was still stuck in that nightmare of chasing down Eunha's mischievous antics.

All he'd wanted was a quiet moment to drift off, maybe imagine himself in a heavenly, cloud-like bed—a feathery duvet wrapped around him, pillows soft as cotton beneath his head, another snuggled close, catching the drool slipping down his lips.

But reality had other plans.

Babysitting Eunha had become a reluctant side job for him, on top of pulling all-nighters for work and studies. He understood her intentions were pure, maybe even angelic, as she liked to claim. But he wasn't sold on the "innocent eyes" act she threw his way. Years of handling her antics had trained him to see through that charm, brushing off her pleas like a seasoned ninja.

Bleary-eyed, he stretched, trying to shake off the ache from his uncomfortable sleeping position and the sudden jolt that had woken him. Then, hearing more grumbling and irritated yells echoing through the house, he muttered, "Shit." The nightmare was real—and he'd have to do something about it. Now.

If this were any other scenario, maybe he'd imagine charging downstairs heroically to save Eunha from a midnight intruder. But no, reality proved she was the very "intruder" he had to protect the household from, specifically the poor child who often found himself a target of her creative outbursts. To be fair, the thirteen-year-old had his own ways of provoking her.

Sometimes Namjoon questioned how the two of them, with their constant bickering and peanut-sized patience for each other, were even related. The last argument? Whether to pour cereal before milk or milk before cereal. He thanked his sanity for choosing coffee instead.

Yawning, he steadied himself and made his way downstairs, navigating the suitcases he'd packed late into the night. He leaned against the handrail as he descended, not entirely sure what fresh chaos awaited him but entirely sure it involved Eunha.

"Where are you?" he called out, his voice heavy with sleep. Her voice echoed from the kitchen, and he followed, bracing himself.

An unpleasant smell hit his nostrils, making him pause. The sight before him solidified his horror.

Eunha stood there, wide-eyed, in front of what could only be described as a kitchen massacre.

"Namjoon, I. . . ," she began.

"You what?" he pressed, crossing his arms. The chaos had stolen his sleep entirely, and now he was wide awake.

Eunha bit her lip, fingers fiddling with the hem of her oversized pajama shirt—a rare look of hesitation on her face.

Normally, "hesitation" and "Eunha" were words that were poles apart, but he knew it was only a matter of time before she'd snap back to her usual self.

Sure enough, she soon mumbled, "I was making breakfast."

Namjoon's eyebrows shot up, amused. "You were making breakfast?"

She groaned. "I was trying to make breakfast, okay? I know no one thinks I can cook," she huffed, glancing away in frustration.

"Now that's plausible," he smirked, mirroring her crossed arms and leaning against the door frame. Letting the silence hang for a beat, he finally asked, "By the way, Eunha, what exactly were you trying to cook?"

She grumbled. "You're the worst!"

He chuckled. "Shut up, you love me."

When she tried to swat him away, he pulled her in for a hug. It felt like old times, their playful banter and mutual exasperation melting into familiarity. As usual, her frown softened, and she let herself sink into the warmth of his arms.

The past two years without him around had been tough. Just holding him now reminded her that he was here, that he wasn't just a figment of her imagination. She closed her eyes, feeling the steady beat of his heart, savoring the feeling that he was real, that everything would be okay.

Eunha buried her face into his chest as he rested his chin on her head, his hand rubbing gentle circles on her back. "I missed this," she murmured.

"I missed this, too," Namjoon replied, squeezing her tighter. "And saving your butt, heroically," he added, earning another shove from her.

"You're awful," she mumbled.

"Says the devil herself," he shot back, grinning.

"Shut up. Your breath stinks." She clamped a hand over his mouth, and he playfully chomped down on her fingers. Soon enough, both of them were laughing, bickering like kids.

"Get your hand off my face!"

"And yours out of my mouth!"

Suddenly, a groan interrupted them both. "And get me out of this mess, for God's sake!"

Both of them froze.

"Did you just turn religious, or was that Minji?" Eunha asked, looking horrified at her cousin, who stood drenched in something she didn't want to identify.

Namjoon shook his head. "Eunha, I think you left out the part where Minji got, uh, involved in all this?"

She shrugged, sheepish. "It's a long story."

"I'm all ears," he replied.

"No, you're not. If Aunt Hae Ji sees him like this, she'll kill me."

"So?" Namjoon raised his eyebrows.

"So, help me clean this up before she gets home!"

Namjoon rubbed his ears with mock pain. "Is that any way to ask for help, Eunha? Try some magic words, maybe a little politeness?"

She sighed. "Fine! Namjoon, would you please help me clean up this disaster?"

"Aww, since you asked so nicely," he said, ruffling her hair. She swatted his hand away. "Take Minji to his room and run him a bath. I'll tackle the kitchen."

"You're the best, annoying brother!" she squealed, tackling him into another hug.

"And you're the biggest handful," he mumbled.

"Hey!" she objected. "I'm the best sister you could ask for! You've said that every birthday for, like, two decades now."

He rolled his eyes at her triumphant smile. "Yeah, yeah, don't flatter yourself. Now go, before I change my mind."

Grimacing, Eunha took Minji by the least dirty part of his shirt and led him out, carefully stepping over the puddles on the floor.

Once she was gone, Namjoon surveyed the kitchen with a sigh. The frying pan still smoked on the stove, mystery liquids splattered across every surface, and something he couldn't identify dangled from the ceiling. He scratched his head and sighed, grabbing a mop.

When he finally finished, his back ached, and he straightened slowly, feeling much older than his years. Leaning against the counter, he thought, That settles it. She should be banned from the kitchen for life—just like me.