I woke up refreshed as always while Bella was still cocooned under three layers of blanket like a reluctant caterpillar refusing to evolve.
Normally, the first thing a person does after waking up is stretch, yawn, maybe check the time. Me? The first thing I did was decide to be a good, caring cousin. Truly selfless. Noble, even.
Which meant, of course, waking up my beloved Bella.
I tiptoed to her bedside like a saint on a mission, clasped my hands together, and whispered sweetly, "Good morning, sunshine. Rise and shine. The world is waiting for you."
No movement. Not even a twitch.
I tilted my head, smiled angelically, and then added under my breath, "Hehehe… time for evil cousin duty."
"Bella," I whispered dramatically, standing by her bed. "Civilizations have risen and fallen. Dinosaurs have gone extinct twice. Your pillow has seen more saliva than a Saint Bernard. And yet you sleep."
A muffled groan. Then a pillow smacked me in the face.
"Go away," she muttered. "It's Saturday."
I held the pillow like evidence in a courtroom. "So this is how you treat your loyal alarm clock? I demand justice."
She yanked the blanket tighter. "I demand five more minutes."
"Bella Swan, it's already eleven-thirty."
That earned me a death glare through tangled hair. "Stop sounding like my mom."
I smirked. "If I were your mom, you'd be dressed, fed, and at piano lessons by now. Be grateful I'm just your charming cousin."
Mission: Perfect Morning
Leaving Bella to rot in her blanket cocoon, I pranced into the bathroom. Quick shower, teeth brushed, skin glowing like a skincare commercial. I slipped into my comfiest house clothes soft cotton shorts and a loose top but somehow still managed to look like I was auditioning for a lifestyle magazine spread.
I stared at myself in the mirror, flicked my damp hair back dramatically, and grinned. "Flawless. Again. Honestly, it should be illegal."
Walking back into Bella's room, I crossed my arms at the sight of her still snoring. A thought struck me.
If I'm going to be the best cousin, I should help her build better habits. Healthy sleep schedule. Morning energy. The full package.
Then I smirked. And if I'm going to be the worst cousin, I should also wake her up in the most annoying way possible.
"Two birds, one stone," I whispered, steepling my fingers like a cartoon villain. "Muahaha."
I marched over and yanked the curtains open. Cold winds streamed in like divine judgment.
Bella groaned and buried her head under the blanket. "Why do you hate me?"
"Correction: I love you. That's why I'm saving you from your sloth tendencies."
She mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, "I hate you more than Mondays."
"Oh no, no, no," I chirped, yanking the blanket halfway off. "Come on, rise and shine. Birds are chirping, pancakes are waiting, the world is spinning...."
"The world can spin without me," she snapped, clutching the remaining blanket like it was life support.
I leaned down so my face was inches from hers. "You're missing out on pancakes shaped like smiley faces."
Her eyes cracked open a sliver. "That's… bribery."
"Correction," I said, grinning, "that's called good parenting. Now, get up before I start singing."
She sat up, horrified. "You wouldn't."
I took a deep breath, already belting the first note of an off-key pop song. Bella slapped her hand over my mouth.
"Fine! I'm up. Just...stop."
I pulled away, smug. "And that, my dear Bella, is why I'm the superior cousin."
She squinted at me. "No, that's why you're evil."
I gasped in mock offense. "Evil? Me? Please. I prefer 'efficiently persuasive.'"
By the time Bella shuffled downstairs, looking like a zombie who'd lost its last shred of dignity, I was already in the kitchen. The smell of butter and syrup filled the air like a victory banner.
On the table sat a tower of glorious, golden pancakes some round, some vaguely shaped like countries I couldn't identify.
I slid a plate across the table, topped with syrup in the shape of a lopsided smiley face. "Behold, my masterpiece."
Bella blinked blearily at it. "That's… disturbing."
"It's called art, Bella. Picasso would cry if he saw this."
She poked the pancake with her fork. "Picasso would sue."
I clutched my chest. "Rude. You wound the chef's delicate soul."
Despite her zombie shuffle and sarcasm, she took a bite without further complaint. That, in my book, was a win. I leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching her.
"See? You're welcome. Breakfast of champions."
She chewed, swallowed, then gave me the kind of slow nod that meant she didn't want to admit I was right. "It's… not bad."
"Not bad?" I gasped. "This pancake carried the emotional weight of my entire childhood. And you say 'not bad'?!"
Bella smirked slightly, eyes still heavy-lidded from sleep. "You don't even like pancakes that much."
"Details," I said quickly, waving my spatula. "What matters is I slaved over a hot stove to provide for you."
She gave me a flat look but couldn't hide the way her shoulders relaxed as she dug into another bite. For all her grumbling, she looked… comfortable. At home. Like she didn't have to put on a mask or explain herself.
The thought made me soften, though I covered it up by plopping into the chair across from her.
We got into a very serious debate about whether pancakes still counted as breakfast when it was nearly noon.
"It's brunch," I declared, flipping my hair. "A luxurious, cosmopolitan meal."
"It's laziness," Bella deadpanned.
I narrowed my eyes. "Say that again, and I'll garnish your salad with chocolate chips next time."
Her fork froze midair. "You wouldn't."
"Oh, I would," I whispered darkly, leaning closer like a pancake villain.
Bella burst out laughing actual laughing, not just a polite huff and it filled the kitchen in a way that made my chest ache in the best way.
When she finally calmed down, she shook her head and muttered, "I feel like… this is the first time in a long time I've had this. Like a normal morning. Just… being home."
I reached over and stole a piece of her pancake. "Well, get used to it, Swan. This is what life with me looks like: chaos, carbs, and unsolicited affection."
She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered.
We flopped in the living room like two professional slackers auditioning for a reality show. Bella curled up with a book, her face half-hidden behind the pages. I claimed the remote like it was the crown jewel of Forks.
Click. Weather channel. A stern man gesturing at rain clouds.
Click. Cartoon reruns. A talking sponge screaming about jellyfish.
Click. An infomercial about a blender that could "change your life."
I leaned forward, eyes wide. "Bella," I whispered solemnly. "What if… what if my destiny is to own that blender?"
She didn't even look up. "Please stop."
"Think about it smoothies, soups, salsa. That's three S's of success. I could open a café. 'Amara's Magical Blends.'"
Bella turned a page. "You'd burn the café down within a week."
I gasped. "How dare you. That blender has a safety lock, Bella. A safety lock."
Her sigh could have powered the entire electrical grid of Forks.
My phone buzzed against the cushion. I picked it up without thinking, then groaned the second I saw the name.
Lucien.
Hey, Amara. Free today? Want to hang out?
I stared at the screen, expression flat as a pancake.
(Oh yes, let me just waltz into danger with Mr. Eternal Brooding, whose idea of small talk is probably "tell me about your blood type." Hard pass.)
I typed back: Sorry, busy.
Not two minutes later, another ping. Tomorrow then?
I threw the phone face-down on the couch like it had betrayed me personally.
Bella glanced over her book, eyebrow arched. "Boy trouble?"
"Persistent telemarketer," I said casually.
She gave me a knowing look, the kind that screamed she didn't buy it for a second, but she let it go.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table like it was possessed. I ignored it. Bella peered over her book.
"Your phone's having a seizure," she muttered.
I picked it up. Text from Lucien.
Lucien: Hey, Amara. Free today? Want to hang out?
I stared at the screen, expression flat. Internally, my brain was already screaming: Oh yes, because what I really want to do on a peaceful Saturday morning is dive headfirst into vampire drama. 'Sure, Lucien, let me abandon my pancakes, hop in your gloomy shadow-mobile, and spend the day listening to your tragic backstory about the year 1723. Hard pass.'
I typed back the politest lie I could manage: Sorry, busy.
Two seconds later another ping.
Lucien: Tomorrow then?
My eye twitched. Tomorrow? Tomorrow was also sacred. Tomorrow was for Bella, snacks, and me dramatically narrating infomercials until she threatened to hit me with a frying pan. Not for broody vampires who thought "staring intensely" was a personality trait.
I tossed the phone face-down on the couch like it had personally offended me.
Bella raised an eyebrow over the top of her book. "Who keeps texting you? Your secret admirer?"
"Persistent telemarketer," I said casually, waving a hand.
Bella didn't even blink. Just gave me that patented Swan look the one that said I don't believe you, but I also don't care enough to argue.
She went back to her book. I exhaled in relief.
Nope. Not today, Lucien. Today is a no vampire drama zone. No cryptic messages. No brooding lectures about destiny. No surprise rooftop appearances at midnight. Just me, Bella, and maybe some popcorn. Even fate can wait until Monday.
My phone buzzed again. I hurled a throw pillow over it like that would solve my problems.
"Very persistent telemarketer," Bella murmured without looking up.
"Relentless," I agreed, sinking deeper into the couch.
By late afternoon, Bella declared we had to "restock essentials." Which, in Bella-speak, meant notebook paper, gum, and possibly a new pack of pens if they had colors that didn't look like hospital supplies. I jingled my Audi keys theatrically. "I'll drive."
She snatched them out of my hand like a prizefighter. "Nope. We're taking my truck."
I put on my gravest face. "Bella, your truck is older than both of us combined. Riding in it is a health hazard. It has character, yes, but also questionable suspension and a radio that thinks the 1980s are modern."
"You'll survive," she said, shoving me toward the passenger side with all the confidence of someone signing a waiver for a theme park ride. "Besides, it's authentic."
Authentic was truck-speak for "it coughs, sputters, and has its own personality disorder."
Once strapped in, I surveyed the truck's interior: seats tattooed with mystery stains, a dashboard that groaned like it had arthritis, and fuzzy dice swinging like a charm against doom. The seatbelt clicked with attitude, and the air smelled faintly of pine and old fries.
Bella turned the key. The engine coughed, wheezed like a chain-smoking grandpa, then grudgingly decided to live another day.
This is cruel," I muttered, gripping the dashboard like a life raft. "Too young, too beautiful to die in a vehicular tragedy."
Bella smirked. "Relax. You'll live. Probably."
"Probably? Comforting."
"Worst case," she said, "I'll bury you with fries and your hairbrush."
"Put the fries in my hand," I deadpanned. "It's important."
The truck rattled down the street, announcing us with bangs, clanks, and a backfire that sounded like sarcastic applause. My Audi would've glided. This thing stomped.
At a red light, Bella cranked the static-filled radio. Some 2004 pop song crackled through. She tapped the wheel, casual. I sang off-key.
"Stop. You sound like a dying walrus."
"It's called art," I argued.
We hit a pothole. Both of us flew an inch. I screamed. She laughed. "See? Fun!"
"Fun is not the word."
At the General Store, Bella killed the engine. The truck wheezed like it needed CPR.
I stumbled out, checked my reflection (priorities), and muttered, "If this thing eats me, eulogy starts with: 'She lived beautifully. Her fries were always warm.'"
Bella shoved me toward the door. Behind us, the truck sat like a battered war hero ugly, stubborn, and totally Bella.
Back home, we collapsed on the couch with a giant bowl of popcorn the sacred glue of our cousin-bond. Bella popped in a rom-com DVD, the kind with bad lighting and worse dialogue.
Five minutes in, I was already heckling.
"Wow, look at them falling in love because their hands touched over a grocery cart. Groundbreaking."
Bella buried her face in a pillow. "Can you not ruin everything?"
"I'm improving it," I declared, mimicking the hero's dramatic whisper. "Bella… your love is the only coupon that never expires."
She snorted so hard popcorn flew out of her mouth, which, naturally, I pointed out in great detail. She tried to glare, but her shoulders shook with laughter.
Eventually, the movie droned on, and so did I, until mid-joke I dozed off. Bella, rolling her eyes for the millionth time, soon followed. We ended up passed out on the couch me starfished, her curled up, the popcorn bowl miraculously balanced between us like a fragile peace treaty.
A boring Saturday by definition. Hilariously perfect by execution.
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