Short Stories of Long Tails

by Weaselface

Summary:

What does it mean to grow up? To become an adult? Is it measured in rising careers, growing families, blinding fame? How do we move on from loss, or fight through hardship? How do we build love on unsteady ground, and who do we become when the people we grew up with start to grow in different directions?

This series of snapshots follows the Chipmunks and Chipettes in the years after high school, capturing both the pivotal and everyday moments that shape them. As their paths begin to diverge, they’re faced with the joys and struggles of adulthood—grief, love, ambition, identity. Through it all, one question remains: do the bonds of childhood and family withstand the tests of time, distance, and change?

Now with Accompanying Art!

Notes:

This actually started as somewhat of a side project character study to help me deal with the writers block I have for my main Chipmunks story, as well as a good opportunity to better understand the characters and their mannerisms. It has now spiraled into a multi-chapter collection of stories that I find at times to be more captivating than the main work it was inspired by. I hope to explore some nuanced themes with familiar characters in a fun, emotional, and engaging way. Some chapters will be long; some short. Some will tackle difficult questions, while some will hopefully make you laugh. Hopefully, above all, they will make you smile as you see your favorite characters in a new, more complicated light.

Chapter 1: A Day at the Beach

                                                                                                                                           

Jeanette lounged into the fabric sunchair as the midday sun radiated through her fur and warmed her very being. The sound of softly breaking waves and ocean breezes intermingled with music from the Bluetooth speaker at her side. To her left, Simon sunk into his sunchair, the book in his hands a stark contrast to his swim shorts and bare fur chest. To her right were her two sisters: Eleanor and Brittany. Eleanor gently rubbed her inflated stomach as she sat upright in her sunchair, looking lovingly out to Theodore and Alvin who playfully splashed each other in the shallows of the ocean. Her frilly swimsuit, in combination with the flowing coverup over her shoulder, was doing its best to hide her stomach; but she was very pregnant at this stage.  

Brittany, on the other hand, looked like a chipmunk supermodel as she sunbathed on a towel. Brittany had always been the most fashion and beauty conscious of her sisters, but age had done nothing but make her more appealing. Her fur gleamed in the sunlight; her short ponytail flowed playfully across the towel; the dark sunglasses over her eyes and chiselled facial features made her seem intense and confident; and the revealing pink bikini perfectly accentuated her well-toned body. She looked every bit the popstar she had become over the years, and Jeanette self-consciously tightened the shawl that covered the lower half of her own swimsuit. 

Pulling her attention back to the ocean, she giggled under her breath as she watched Alvin attempt to tackle his youngest brother into the waves, only to be quickly overpowered by Theodore. His transformation into adulthood had been the most shocking. No longer was he the squat, chubby youngest brother; he now rivalled Simon in height, and his broad shoulders and strong legs made Alvin look as though he were still a teenager as they wrestled. The bodyfat never really disappeared, and he still sported a decent belly, but the added muscle mass helped to spread it around his body more evenly. Jeanette wondered if it were simple genetics or the rigors of owning and operating a bakery that had shifted his body so. 

Alvin looked almost exactly how Jeanette had remembered him. His fur was a little darker, and he was ever so slightly taller, but the cheeky smile that so defined his personality still shone through. While not as broad as Theodore, or as tall as Simon, Alvin – like Brittany – was impressively toned. If you looked close enough, you could clearly see the distinct lines of his muscle’s underneath all his fur. Jeanette mused on the conversation she had dived into as the pair collected her and Simon from the airport after their flight to California from Boston.  

“It’s not the same as when we were teenagers,” Brittany sighed, clinging to Jeanettes arm as they walked through the airport. “When we were the Chipmunks and the Chipettes, just being singing chipmunks was enough. Going solo is a whole different beast. We have to look the part of popstars in every way. Gym six times a week, strict diet plans, a schedule completely dictated by our manager…it’s a lot harder than it was when we were teenagers.” Jeanette hated the idea of having to stay fit for the demands of an industry, and it made her glad she decided to walk away from her own musical career. Besides, as much as she had enjoyed performing with her sisters, it was never really her passion – not like Brittany. For all her complaining, Jeanette recognised the subtle look of pride in her sisters eyes. She had dreamt of this since she was a little girl living in Australia; if anything she likely enjoyed the rigorous path to success. But Jeanette did wonder if she had envisioned herself doing it solo. 

After high school, it became immediately apparent that it was going to be difficult to continue the two musical groups. Both Simon and Jeanette had been accepted to colleges on the east coast, and the idea of flying across the country every week for a rehearsal or a show while trying to earn their degrees was too daunting, leading them to be the first two to officially retire from the Chipmunks and the Chipettes. Eleanor and Theodore followed suit shortly after. The passion for cooking that Theodore had developed in his later years of high school had slowly blossomed into a bustling catering business, and with the pair starting a relationship and getting married, their life trajectory also pulled them away from music. 

There was no animosity held after the two singing groups officially disbanded, only the love and support of siblings and good friends. Alvin and Brittany both began their solo career’s under the guidance of Dave, while the others all slowly filtered off in their varying life directions. 

Jeanette held onto a small bastion of her music career for a time, mostly driven by her passion for the acoustic guitar. What had started as a simple hobby between lectures of playing guitar and writing heartfelt songs had slowly grown into a part time career for her. But, as the demands of her master’s degree increased, the time she had to dedicate to her more professional musical side decreased, leading her to walk away from the life – though she never truly put the guitar down for good. Besides, now that she was a master’s graduate and employee in the industry of her study, she had far more exciting prospects ahead in her life. 

“Change the song, please!” Brittany’s sudden groan pulled Jeanette from her reverie. Her ears tuned into the Bluetooth speaker, and she recognised the familiar singing voice of her sister bellowing forth. 

“This is from your new album, is it not?” Simon joined the conversation without looking up from his book. His uncanny ability to hold a conversation while continuing to read had always bewildered Jeanette. “I haven’t had the chance to give it a proper listen yet.” 

“I’ve done nothing but listen to it for the past three months! I came here for a break from music.” Brittany’s tail swished back and forth with irritation as she leaned over from her reclined position to fiddle with the Bluetooth speaker, advancing it to the next song in the playlist. Simon simply chuckled and resumed his silent reading. 

“You’ve changed, Brittany,” Jeanette spoke. “You used to love listening to the songs we made as the Chipettes.” Brittany shot her sister a vile look, and Eleanor stifled a giggle behind her back. But before Brittany could retort, all attention was pulled to Alvin and Theodore who re-joined the group. 

“No, she’s still like that,” Alvin chuckled as he wiggled his ear in an attempt to dislodge stuck water. “Still in love with the sound of her own voice.”  

“You’re one to talk,” Brittany mumbled as she moved her icy glare over to Alvin. Alvin seemed unfazed, however – his trademark cheeky grin spreading from ear to ear.  

“She’s not sick of listening to her own songs,” Alvin grinned, “she’s sick of the reminder that she is stuck in the number seven spot on the charts while some other chipmunk currently dominates the number one spot.” 

“That’s not it!” Brittany squealed in annoyance – though Jeanette recognised her sister’s evasive tone. “I don’t think about your stupid songs at all.” 

Alvin clicked his tongue and nonchalantly turned away from Brittany to feign aloofness. “You would think by now that you would be used to forever chasing my tail.” To accentuate his words, he flicked his tail – brushing it against Brittany’s nose and making her launch to her feet.

“I’ll rip that tail right off you!” she screamed, leaping after Alvin as he rushed away with a mischievous giggle. 

As Brittany chased Alvin through the sand and into the white foam of the waters, shouting obscenities and grasping for Alvin as he effortlessly evaded capture – all while chuckling as if it were all a game – Jeanette could do nothing more than smile. She felt a great warmth wash over her that wasn’t due to the heat of the sun, but by a sense of nostalgia.  

“This takes me back,” Simon wistfully sighed, finally putting his book down to watch the warring chipmunks. “Feels like we’re back at Dave’s house on a sunny Saturday morning. Those two haven’t changed one bit.” Though Simon’s comments were innocent enough, mention of Dave cast a shadowy silence among the chipmunks. Even with time things were still tender. 

“I think they’ve changed a lot,” Theodore’s ever surprisingly deep voice – at least, deep for a chipmunk – caught everyone’s attention. He leaned over the back of Eleanor’s sunchair, draping his arms over her shoulders and lightly leaning his chin on the top of her head as he looked out to the sea. “They’ve always been close, but now they seem closer than ever.” 

“We are talking about the same chipmunks, right?” Simon cocked an eyebrow at his younger brother. “Alvin and Brittany; notoriously large ego’s; always at each other’s throats…” 

“Their love language is fighting. That’s just how they show each other they care.”  

“If you say so,” Simon shrugged and moved his attention back to his book. Jeanette knew that Theodore had always been very in tune with his emotions and the emotions of those around him, so she was inclined to believe him…but she would never understand, as she watched Brittany and Alvin wrestle in the waves, how that could possibly be a display of affection.  

“I need to check on lunch; does anyone need anything from the house?” Theodore stretched his arms above his head as he turned away from the beach. 

“A drink would be nice,” Eleanor smiled. Theodore Gently kissed his wife’s forehead before trudging through the sand and back up the hill towards the house. Jeanette followed him with her gaze until her eyes settled on the marvel of a building nestled just behind the sand dunes. 

She was still in awe of the luxurious beachfront house. It was like something straight out of a designer magazine. An array of sunbeds sat across the deck, overlooking the waves and sand. Behind them, vast windows and wide sliding doors opened the house to nature, joining the beachfront to the interior of the house seamlessly. The kitchen and Livingroom alone were easily as large as Jeanettes entire apartment back in New York, and twice as lavishly furnished. The laminate wood floors gleamed under plush fur rugs and cloud like couches, and the white tiled splashback of the kitchen contrasted perfectly with the rich oak benchtop of the kitchen island counter. The second floor held four bedrooms, equally as stylish as the living spaces below – and with even more stunning views of the ocean. It shared no direct neighbours, only the very corner of the nearest house could be seen past the brush covered sand dunes. It truly was a sanctuary, a marvel of modern architecture and a statement of decadence. Still, Jeanette noted, with all its modern style and isolated charm, it paled in comparison when compared to his mansion home back in Los Angles. 

“They might have the same personalities, but it seems not everything is like those sunny Saturday mornings you remember, Simon.” Jeanette sighed wistfully as she craned in her sunbed to drink in the visage of the beach house.  

“It certainly is impressive,” Simon mumbled, not looking away from his book for a moment. Jeanette found this slightly frustrating.  

“How much do you think a place like this would have cost Alvin?” Eleanor questioned in a low voice, shooting a careful glance out to the warring chipmunks in the sea foam.  

“An isolated beachfront property in California; the land value alone would be astronomical.” Simon answered. While the Chipmunks and Chipettes had seen significant success in their musical careers when active, it paled in comparison to the astronomical success Alvin had experienced with his solo career. Brittany was no slouch by any means, but compared to Alvin…well, it was almost unfair to compare them at all. 

Jeanette was about to continue her questioning until she caught her tongue as the warring pair trudged over. Brittany collapsed into her towel with a defeated sigh and Alvin hummed ominously as he approached.  

“Put down the book, Simon,” He whined. “Maybe try enjoying the outdoors a little…” 

“I can do both,” Simon confidently retorted without his gaze moving away from the words in his hands. Alvin returned a dissatisfied expression at this answer, putting his hand on his hip as he studied his older brother. Once again, a wicked grin cast across his face and he silently crept through the sand and closer to Simon until he finally threw his hands around his waist and, with surprising strength, lifted the tall chipmunk clear off his seat.  

“Time for swimming lessons, big brother,” Alvin grunted as he manhandled Simon across the sand – his protests loud as he squirmed and attempted to escape. 

“Alvin!” Simon shouted. “Please! This book is on loan from the university; I can’t get it wet!” 

“Better drop it then,” Alvin chuckled, “because you’re going in that water.” Simon panicked for a few moments before throwing the book towards Jeanette who almost fell out of her chair to catch it. She dusted the few specks of sand from the cover of the thick tome on physical chemistry and watched as Alvin carried his brother into the waves, cackling maniacally as he did so.  

"You should visit us more often," Brittany remarked, reclining on her back and shielding her eyes with dark sunglasses, her ponytail splayed across the towel. "He's been itching to flaunt this beach house ever since he bought it. And, well, he misses tormenting his brothers."  

"That's not exactly an admirable trait," Eleanor observed, watching as Alvin playfully dunked Simon into the waves before joining him.  

“I just want to remind everyone that, since you all moved away, I’ve had to deal with this on my own,” Brittany whined. “If he has an off switch, I haven’t found it yet.” 

"Do you and Alvin come here often?" Jeanette inquired, her curiosity about the house still piqued. 

Brittany sighed lightly but remained in her sunbathing position. "In the summer, maybe two or three times... depends on tour schedules and deadlines." 

"And in the winter?" 

"Skiing at Lake Tahoe," Brittany waved her hand dismissively. "He has a small cabin in the mountains—much smaller than this place." 

"I never imagined Alvin to be so... materialistic," Eleanor added. "He's always collected guitars and instruments, but they seemed more like tools than possessions to him." 

"Oh, the houses are tools for him too," Brittany said, sitting upright and removing her glasses to better address her sisters. "Don't get me wrong, Alvin loves flaunting his wealth, but the houses are all part of his music-writing process." Jeanette stared quizzically at her sister before shifting her gaze between Alvin, currently dunking Simon, and the beach house behind them. She couldn't fathom how a beach house and a winter cabin could contribute to creativity.  

"They're canvases for him," Brittany continued, noticing Jeanette's puzzled expression. "Alvin writes a lot of music; like, a lot. Not just for himself but for other artists too... he even writes for me, from time to time. If he writes music in that home studio back in his mansion, day in and day out, the songs start to get stale and uninspired. Sure, he writes at the record label studio as well, but if you've seen one recording studio, you've seen them all," Brittany pulled a face at the mention of recording studios. "They aren't exactly inspiring spaces for creativity – not like this," she gestured to the tranquil ocean before them. The sun warmed them, partially obscured by a stray cloud. It was truly serene. "He tells me he just wants a weekend away from the city," Brittany continued, "but I can tell when he has the itch to write music with a new canvas. He gets... strangely quiet."  

"He always invites you to join him?" Eleanor questioned. 

"He still doesn't do well being alone for long periods of time," Brittany sighed, her words suddenly heavy. "He's gotten much better, but in the quiet times, he..." Brittany's voice trailed off, touching on a sensitive subject. A silence fell over the sisters, interrupted as Simon finally managed to struggle free from Alvin's grip, stomping through the sand looking like a drowned rat. Alvin gleefully skipped behind, his fur equally soaked. 

"Let's keep this conversation to ourselves," Brittany's voice lowered significantly as she watched the approaching brothers. "He still isn't comfortable talking about it with others." 

"Only with you," Jeanette quickly added with a smile. Brittany shot her a dangerous glare for a moment that softened into a half-smile. 

"What's with all these serious looks!" Alvin proclaimed, arms spread wide in disbelief as he rejoined the girls. "We're meant to be celebrating! You all used to be so much fun, remember?" He scanned each of them until settling his gaze on Brittany. "Well, except for you." 

Brittany retaliated by hurling his red towel at his face with surprising force. "Towel down, rat boy; you look like the creature from the deep lagoon with wet fur." 

"What exactly are we celebrating?" Simon questioned, annoyance lacing his tone as he reached for the towel Jeanette offered him. 

"Uh, duh!" Alvin rolled his eyes, gesturing to Eleanor. "Lots of things. I don’t know if you noticed, but Eleanor is about to have a child." 

"Children," Eleanor corrected. "There is definitely more than one kicking around in there." 

"Brittany is about to embark on her largest tour ever!" Alvin continued. 

"It's just all of America, Europe, and Southeast Asia; nothing too grand," Brittany attempted nonchalance, her tone belying her clear sense of achievement. 

"Jeanette is off birthing trees and planting animals... or whatever it is you actually do on those environmental trips." 

"I'll be in Boa Vista, Roraima,” Jeanette explained – always happy to detail her work. “We will be surveying ethical deforestation to make way for agricultural land and determining areas for reforestation in order-" 

"Nerd stuff, got it," Alvin rudely interrupted, causing Jeanette to roll her eyes. Finally, Alvin gestured to Simon. "And you're... you're doing that... thing. You know, with the... umm." 

"I'll be starting my associate professorship at Columbia University," Simon grumbled. 

"That's it!" Alvin clicked his fingers before pausing. "Wait... you're moving to Columbia? I thought you were moving to New York?" 

Simon glared at his brother, Jeanette slapped her forehead, and Brittany added, "This is what I have to deal with…every day." 

"Columbia University is in New York, Alvin," Theodore's gentle voice caught everyone's attention as he rejoined the group from the house, holding a tray of glasses filled with a sparkling red liquid that he handed out one by one. "I thought we could try this pomegranate kombucha I made. It's still a little flat though." 

“Look,” Alvin took a glass and shook his head about in an attempt to re-rail the conversation. “All I’m saying is our lives are much busier now. We might…” his voice trailed off for a moment as he considered his words, and Jeanette noticed a subtle shift in Brittany’s posture. “Who knows when we will all have enough free time to get together like this again.” 

There was a silence that fell over everyone as they realised the reality of Alvin’s words. They had always been a close nit family, but over the years and with the addition of distance their lives had slowly started to pull apart. 

“Just because we aren’t together doesn’t mean we’re apart,” Theodores voice broke through as he laid the empty tray down on the sand. He turned his glass over in his hands, analysing the bubbles as they floated in the red liquid. “We’re always going to be brother’s – and sisters.” 

“And it’s not like we’re uncontactable,” Simon added to the conversation. “We’re all just a phone call and a flight away.” 

“Well…” Jeanette awkwardly rubbed her neck. “Boa Vista doesn’t exactly have the greatest reception…or an airport.” Simon shot her a look that conveyed just how little she was helping the conversation, so she quickly added, “b-but I’ll only be away for six months.” 

“Take me with you,” Brittany whispered to Jeanette, desperation in her eyes. Alvin chuckled at this and kicked some sand into Brittany’s tail, making her waggle it in frustration. He then pondered on his drink for a moment before looking up to the group with a smile. "A toast," he cheered, "to babies, to international tours, to nerd work... and also Columbia, but not the country... and-" 

"Summarize!" Brittany shouted, holding her glass aloft. "We haven’t got all day." 

Alvin faltered, instinctively looking to Simon for guidance. Simon pondered briefly before simply stating, "to the future; whatever it may hold." 

A silence settled over the group as they contemplated Simon's simple toast. It was short yet surprisingly effective, and Jeanette couldn't help but smile - no one could. They each raised their glasses and, in a unison voice that spoke of familiarity and camaraderie, they all cheered. 

"The future!" 

Notes:

Well, I hope you enjoyed the introductory chapter that lays the foundation for some of the world I hope to build. I hope to touch on many core themes across these chapters that don't traditionally get explored in the core series. Growing up can be complicated, messy, and sometimes very hard. But it can also be beautiful in the way we change and evolve as adults navigating our new worlds. I find the characters truly fascinating and feel there are so many stories left untold about their complicated lives. I'd love to hear your opinions moving forward :)
Thanks for reading.

Chapter 2: A Busy Valentines Day

Theodore rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he trudged down the stairs of his shopfront home. The stairway, separating the living quarters above from the business below, was lined with a set of smaller, handmade stairs along the rim to allow for easier passage for tiny chipmunk legs.

Much of the house was renovated in this fashion – a tiny home built within a larger dwelling. Eleanor was a master craftsman and took pride in her ability to model most daily use items to fit their size. She sewed all their linens, crafted their beds and tables, weaved baskets, and carved cutlery. There was very little she couldn’t create with her own two hands. It made inhabiting and navigating the human sized home much more manageable.

Emerging at the bottom of the stairs, Theodore flicked the light switch and illuminated the wide bakery with a few flickers of an old fluorescent light, drinking in the visage of the business he had worked so hard to build up. Three stout workstations made up the centre of the room, adorned with mixers, bowls, and utensils. Around the rim of the room were kitchen benches, sinks, and shelves stacked with jars and bottles of ingredients. One wall showcased shelves burdened with heavy sacks of flower and other powders, while another wall was lined with ovens. Tucked away in a corner was a door leading to a cool room filled with various refrigerated goods. At each station was a short, hand-crafted ladder that allowed Theodore access to all the utensils necessary for his work, and every utensil was accompanied by a smaller counterpart. Some items – the mixers, blenders, food processors, and ovens – were out of Eleanor’s skill level to create and were subsequently professionally made, but the adjusted stovetop burners, pans, whisks, and injectors were all her creations.

Theodore took one quick look out the shops window and into the street plaza outside. It was still pitch black – the quietest moment of the very early morning – and as such, completely empty. Running a bakery meant starting the day early. People wanted their breakfast treats to be fresh and warm, and that meant starting the baking process before the crack of dawn.

He climbed the ladder to his preferred station, switching on the exhaust fans as he passed the switch, before donning his white jacket, apron, and tall hat. Today was going to be a busier day than normal: Valentines Day. This meant chocolates, cakes, and other sweets were to be the prime focus. That didn’t mean he could neglect the daily staples: croissants, jelly doughnuts, and the Texan classic pecan pie still needed to be prepared. Though it was a daunting amount of work, Theodore’s smile shone with undimmed enthusiasm as he deftly arranged his tools and ingredients, his movements practiced and swift. He bent to scoop flour from the hefty sacks that lined one wall, his dream fully realized in the early morning buzz of his bakery. From his first culinary class in sophomore year, his passion had been palpable—initially sparked by his love for eating, it was no shock to those who knew him when he developed a flair for cooking. Cooking was both a science and an art for Theodore; he revelled in the precision required to follow complex recipes exactly, crafting familiar tastes with exacting care. Yet, it was the creativity of culinary arts that truly captivated him, the subtle personal touches he added to recipes that allowed him to express his imaginative spirit daily. His inventive approach had indeed propelled his bakery to local fame. The unique selling point—“full-sized taste, bite-sized meals”—captured the hearts and palates of Houston's busy populace. Theodore’s diminutive stature had inspired him to condense the grandeur of full meals into delectable miniatures, each bite bursting with the essence of its larger counterparts. Mini quiches, tiny pies, small-scale cakes, and petite sweets that could be savoured in one or two bites without losing any of their robust Flavours had not only set his bakery apart but had also made it a beloved staple among the community.

There was a kind of magic to it, Theodore thought as he measured out ingredients into a bowl to make the first batch of dough for the day. It wasn’t just a matter of taking a recipe and reducing the measurements. There was an art to adjusting ratio’s, cutting techniques, mixing styles, and cooking times that needed to be experimented with. While this art extended to everything he cooked, he found, with time, that the highest impact was felt in the world of baked goods. Baking was already a fine science, so making the minute adjustments needed to work at such a small scale yielded the highest gains in flavour and texture.

As Theodore meticulously arranged his diminutive pans atop the specially designed gas burner adaptors, a familiar clunk from the deadbolt at the back door caught his attention. He looked up to see Milo, his apprentice, enter the bakery, keys swinging casually from a lanyard around his finger.

“Morning Milo," Theodore greeted the tired-faced young man, who was dressed in a crisp white chef's jacket similar to his own. Milo, while not yet a seasoned baker, was a dedicated student from the nearby culinary institute, brimming with enthusiasm though occasionally scatterbrained—a trait Theodore remembered from his own early days.

"Morning Chef!" Milo's voice boomed through the quiet bakery, causing Theodore to slightly wince at the volume.

"I've told you before," Theodore replied, his tone light but firm, "you don’t have to be so formal with me."

"But that's how it's done at the big kitchens, and you’re the head chef. I've got to show my respect," Milo insisted, eager to adhere to professional norms.

"It's four in the morning, Milo. It's okay to relax the formalities now and then."

"Ok chef," Milo replied, instantly catching his slip and wincing as he did so. Theodore simply offered a strained smile in response.

"Was the grocery delivery out back?" Theodore shifted the conversation back to the tasks at hand.

"Just got here as I was parking."

"Good. Start by stocking those ingredients and then get the baking stations ready and the ovens heated," Theodore directed, aware of the busy day ahead. "We need everything running smoothly today."

"Yes Chef!" Milo responded with characteristic vigour before darting back outside to handle the groceries.

As the morning unfolded, Theodore's bakery hummed with activity. Following Milo's early arrival, the next to step through the door was Bruno, the pastry cook. With his age came a perpetual scowl that could easily mislead the unacquainted, yet Theodore knew well the warm-hearted disposition that lay beneath his gruff exterior.

Shortly after, Olivia made her entrance. As the bakery’s aspiring chocolatier, fresh from culinary school and bubbling with entrepreneurial dreams, she soaked up every nugget of wisdom Theodore shared. Her respect for him was evident, hanging on his every word whether he was discussing the finer points of tempering chocolate or the intricacies of business management.

As the first light of daybreak filtered through the bakery windows, the Delaney sisters arrived. These high school siblings typically worked alternating shifts at the counter and coffee machine. However, with Valentine’s Day coinciding with a busy Saturday, Theodore had called them in together, anticipating the need for extra hands to manage the increased foot traffic and flurry of holiday orders. Their chirpy demeaner, bleach blonde ponytails, and penchant for school gossip reminded Theodore a lot of his sister-in-law, Brittany.

As the team prepped for the day, they joked and gossiped. Theodore had never wanted to be a boss, so he fostered an environment that felt more like a family home than a workplace. Besides, smiles and laughter always seemed to seep into the dough; any food made with love and joy were always tastier than those made under harsh conditions.

As the clock struck seven and the doors swung open, the bakery was immediately alive with the bustle of early customers. The Delaney sisters efficiently managed the influx, taking orders and preparing coffees with practiced ease. Bruno, with his customary focused expression, artfully arranged freshly baked pastries in the window display, each puff of steam a promise of warmth and flavour. Meanwhile, Olivia meticulously crafted chocolates and prepared glazes, adding exquisite touches to the bakery's more sophisticated offerings. Milo, ever the diligent apprentice, darted from one station to another, assisting wherever necessary to keep the operations smooth.

Theodore, confident in the skills and training of his team, offered only occasional guidance. Their familiarity with the bakery's signature miniaturized treats allowed him to delegate routine tasks and concentrate on special orders for the day. Among these, a set of six bite-sized red velvet cakes demanded his attention. While the baking process was straightforward, the decoration required a steady hand and a keen eye for detail. Knowing these cakes were intended as a Valentine's gift from a young boy to his sweetheart added a layer of sentiment to the task. Theodore, ever the romantic, invested extra care into these cakes, ensuring each one was perfect, both in taste and appearance.

As the morning rush intensified, Theodore found himself delegating and instructing his staff more and more. The bakery's atmosphere shifted palpably as the team transitioned from the relaxed camaraderie of the early hours to a more structured and intense focus on the tasks at hand. Training and experience shaped the staff's movements into a precise ballet of efficiency and speed. The air was filled with the sound of "yes chef!" echoing in response to Theodore’s directions—a chorus of commitment that, while reflective of the culinary world's traditional respect for hierarchy, was somewhat at odds with Theodore's more informal leadership style.

Theodore understood the importance of this formal structure during peak times; it helped maintain discipline and efficiency when the bakery was at its busiest. Despite his personal preference for a less hierarchical interaction, he recognized that for his staff, formally trained in the rigors of culinary schools, calling him "chef" was a sign of professional respect. Nonetheless, he gently insisted they use his nickname, Theo, in quieter moments, reinforcing the familial spirit he cherished.

During the brief calm just after the lunchtime rush, Theodore took the opportunity to concentrate on a late order of five bite-sized cherry pies. This was a recipe he was still tinkering with as he measured sugars and adjusted his notes on the laptop at his station. Achieving the perfect consistency for the filling was challenging; it needed to be neither too coarse, which would render it lumpy, nor too fine, which could make it soupy.

In the midst of the bustling kitchen sounds, Theodore’s acute hearing detected a chorus of squeaky voices and the scurrying of small claws, interrupted suddenly by a loud crash as metal hit tile. Silence briefly overtook the room as he turned to see two tiny male chipmunks and one female chipmunk standing amid a spilled bowl of sugar, wide-eyed like deer in headlights.

“Finn, Markus, and Hazel!” Eleanor’s unmistakable voice rang out from the staircase, capturing the whole kitchens attention. “What part of ‘don’t disturb your father while he’s working’ wasn’t clear to you?” She made her way through the kitchen, the staff parting before her, as she led another, even smaller chipmunk by the hand. “And now you’ve made a mess, too? I hope you all have a good excuse.”

“W-we were just trying to help,” Hazel, the female of the trio, stammered. “It was Finn’s idea.”

“Was not!” Finn countered.

“Was too,” Markus supported Hazel.

Theodore, watching from his perch on the prep table, smiled broadly at the sight of his three children. They stood awkwardly, trying to obscure the sugary chaos below. He knew without a doubt that Hazel had orchestrated this little incursion; her leadership tendencies often drew her brothers into trouble, reminding Theodore of his own childhood escapades with his brother Alvin.

“You know you little troublemakers aren’t meant to be in the shop when it's open,” he said, his tone stern yet affectionate as he stepped down from the table. “The kitchen is no place for a mischievous group of four-year-old chipmunks.”

“Almost five,” Hazel quickly corrected.

“Sorry, Theo,” Eleanor said, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, her expression one of sympathetic frustration. “I turned away for just a moment and the little rascals got away from me.” Theodore responded with a tender kiss on Eleanor’s cheek then bent down to lift Cora, younger than the others by two years, who was hiding behind her mother’s skirt.

“Cora, where’s your twin sister?” he asked gently. Cora just sucked her thumb, scanning the room.

“Ivy is upstairs with Lila being nerds,” Hazel interjected, earning a swift rebuke from Eleanor. “Well, it’s true! Lila just reads books and never plays!”

“That’s probably because your idea of playing usually means getting into trouble. It’s bad enough you’ve led your brothers astray; we should be thankful Lila has the sense to keep herself and your younger sisters out of your mischief.” The three siblings looked down, shuffling their feet guiltily.

“We just wanted to help dad,” Finn said, his voice quivering with emotion.

Exhaling deeply, Theodore handed Cora back to Eleanor, knelt before his children, and gently placed a hand on Finn’s shoulder.

“Today is a busy day, but once we close, we can all play together. What do you say?”

“Really?” Markus exclaimed, his voice full of hope.

“But for now, you three need to head back upstairs... Also, apologize to Milo for the mess,” Theodore instructed. The three chipmunks murmured apologies upwards to Milo, who seemed to be experiencing a cuteness overload. The entire staff watched the tiny chipmunks with adoration, the cuteness of young children amplified by their miniature size.

After handing Cora off to Markus and ensuring the kids were safely on their way upstairs, Eleanor turned back to Theodore with a smile that spoke of both camaraderie and genuine interest. "How are things going down here?"

"It's been a busy day," Theodore responded with a weary sigh. "Valentine's Day always is. People love giving sweets to their sweethearts, it seems."

"Speaking of..." Eleanor's voice trailed off as she ascended the ladder to Theodore’s workstation. He followed her, curiosity piqued. She reached for the laptop he had been writing recipe notes in, opening a web browser to access the family’s group messaging app. "Brittany sent this image to me this morning."

The image that appeared was a breathtaking view of Los Angeles from the balcony of Alvin's expansive mansion. Centred in the photo, on a quaint table, was a beautifully decorated pink cake. Icing on the top layer read ‘congratulations on one hundred million streams,’ and below it, in much clumsier script, ‘you smell’—prompting Theodore to raise an eyebrow.

"I’m glad the cake made it safely... but I didn’t write that last part."

“Don’t worry, Brittany knows that was an Alvin addition,” Eleanor reassured him, shaking her head as she continued to gaze at the photo. "Alvin orders her a custom cake to celebrate her latest hit single, then adds that? Those two have the strangest relationship."

"You know what they’re like," Theodore chuckled, amused by the pair’s quirky dynamics. "They act like they're the coolest of us all, but when it comes to their love for each other, they’re even more reserved than Simon and Jeanette. They honestly think they’re hiding their relationship well from us."

"Isn't that the truth," Eleanor giggled, closing the laptop with a soft click. She looked around the bustling kitchen. "Need any help down here?"

"We've got everything under control for now," Theodore assured her, his tone appreciative. "Just keep the kids entertained until we close up."

"Ah, I see. The hard job," Eleanor quipped, her laughter mingling with the kitchen's clatter. With a fond smile, he leaned in to give her a quick kiss, her giggle resonating like a clear bell in his ears, brightening the room. It was a sound he cherished deeply, one that could dispel any gloom.

"Well," Theodore said, reluctantly pulling back to survey his workspace. "Time for us to get back to work."

"Yes, chef," Eleanor teased with a playful wink, joining in the spirit of the kitchen’s formalities while adding her personal touch of warmth.

As the clock struck two, the Delaney sisters flipped the sign to 'Closed' and locked the doors, marking the end of a bustling Valentine's Day at the bakery. Exhausted but satisfied, Theodore instructed his staff to tidy up their stations and secure the ingredients, opting to postpone the usual thorough clean-up since the bakery would be closed tomorrow. Spirits were high among the staff as they finished up, pleased with the day’s successful trade.

Theodore spent a few quiet moments alone in the bakery, straightening up before he ascended the stairs to re-join his family for the evening. True to his word, he devoted several hours to his most energetic children, engaging in board games and playful chases around the living room, igniting laughter and shouts of joy. Cora and Ivy were still too young to participate, simply content to watch and giggle. Meanwhile Lila simply read her books.

Later, moving into the kitchen of their apartment, Theodore decided to cook something savory after a day dominated by sweets. He made fresh pasta for a creamy linguini, embracing the contrast to his usual sugary creations. While he had built his business on baking, he still loved the variance of all forms of cooking.

Dinner was a communal affair, enjoyed around the sturdy table Eleanor had crafted, where each family member shared stories from their day, further strengthening their bond. Even Lila, typically reticent and bookish, joined reluctantly, encouraged by Eleanor who insisted she leave her book behind to fully engage with the family.

Bedtime proved challenging, especially for Hazel, whose boundless energy resisted the end of the day. Yet a firm word from Eleanor was enough to send her scampering to her bed. Eleanor’s authority was undisputed; when she spoke, the household listened.

As Theodore tucked Finn into bed, the boy’s curious voice broke the quiet. “Dad, why can’t we help you in the bakery?”

“You’re too young,” Theodore chuckled. “It’s too dangerous for little ones. You could get stepped on.”

“But you’re little too,” Finn pointed out, leading Theodore to tickle him over the blanket, prompting a burst of giggles from his son.

“But I’m still bigger than you. Once you’re as big as me, you can help.”

“What if we never get bigger?” Hazel piped up from her bed.

“You will,” Theodore reassured her as he adjusted her sheets. “It might take some time.”

“How much time?” Hazel persisted.

“Who knows,” Theodore shrugged. “It could take years, or it might happen tonight while you sleep.” This idea seemed to thrill Hazel, who immediately burrowed into her pillow, trying to will herself to grow as she closed her eyes.

Theodore’s gaze softened as he watched his children in their neat rows of beds, his heart swelling with love. Ivy and Cora were already sound asleep; Finn, Markus, and Hazel were now struggling to keep their eyes open. His gaze lingered on Lila, who still clutched a book. Gently taking the book, he set it aside.

Using sign language, he communicated, It’s time for bed, sweetheart.

Can I please finish the chapter? Lila signed back earnestly. Lauriel has just reached the cavern of lost souls.

It will be there tomorrow. You need your rest now, Theodore signed, his unspoken tone gentle yet firm.

Lila’s expression faltered slightly. When will Auntie Jeanette come back? she signed, a hint of sadness in her eyes.

Auntie Jeanette is still away for work. It might be a long time until she can visit again, Theodore signed back, offering a comforting smile. Reluctantly, Lila lay down, her small form retreating under the covers. Theodore felt a twinge of sadness at her resigned look but left it for another day, kissing her forehead and wishing all the children goodnight before turning off the light – though leaving Finn’s nightlight on – and quietly closing the door.

He crossed the living room and settled into the couch beside Eleanor, who was engrossed in a detailed spreadsheet of bakery costs and ingredients on her laptop. "All tucked in?" she inquired, glancing briefly from her screen.

"For now," Theodore replied, a hint of amusement in his tone. "I’m sure Hazel will try her usual antics a few times, but what is new..."

"We need to keep her away from Alvin," Eleanor muttered with a slight groan. "She’s already enough like him. Imagine the things he could teach her if given the chance; she’d be a menace."

Theodore chuckled, draping his arm around Eleanor and resting his cheek against her shoulder. A moment of silence passed before he spoke again, his voice softening. "Lila misses Jeanette. She keeps asking when she will visit again."

"I can see why," Eleanor sighed, her fingers pausing over the keyboard. "Lila’s love for books definitely comes from Jeanette. They share that quiet demeanour—it’s perfect for Lila."

Reflecting on his daughter, Theodore sighed deeply. Lila, the smallest of their first litter, was born with significant hearing impairments, leading her to live in a world far more silent than that of her siblings. Her affinity for books was a natural outcome, providing her silent worlds that required no hearing to enjoy. Jeanette, with her vast library and similar love for literature, was an ideal companion for Lila. However, she lived across the country and was often overseas for months at a time – coordinating environmental reclamation projects in countries Theodore had never even heard of. It was a rare moment when Jeanette had time to visit, though she made sure to send Lila plenty of letters and books. Theodore wished he could engage more deeply with Lila’s reading interests in Jeanettes stead, but her pace and comprehension were astonishingly advanced for her age.

Eleanor’s voice broke into his thoughts. "Do we need to order more butter for the bakery? The spreadsheet suggests we’re okay, but the stock seemed low when I checked this afternoon."

Theodore glanced at the laptop screen displaying the intricate spreadsheet. Eleanor’s meticulous management of their business finances kept the bakery operations smooth, allowing him to concentrate on his culinary creations. "We’re fine," he assured her. "There’s a whole tub in the walk-in."

"Thought so," Eleanor murmured, saving her work and closing the laptop with a definitive click. She turned to face Theodore fully, her expression shifting to one of playful affection. "Now that you’re done tucking the kids in, I think it’s about time you tucked me in."

The sultry twinkle in Eleanor's eyes made Theodore's heart flutter, and he let out a nervous giggle before leaning in to kiss her deeply.

As he held his wife close, Theodore looked around the living room lit by the flickering glow of the television. Six children asleep in the next room, a successful business below, and the love of his life by his side. This was everything he had ever wanted. If only his brothers could buy the houses across the street, life would be utterly perfect, he thought wistfully.

Yet, he knew that perfection was elusive, and he was content to settle for almost perfect. After all, it was more than enough for him.

Notes:

Eleanor and Theodore have always been the characters I've had the most trouble with. At a surface level, they aren't the most interesting of characters. But, once I started to dig a little deeper - looking beyond the surface - a started to understand them more and more. Now, because of this series of short stories, they are two characters I feel I know like we're old friends.
In the modern animated series, Eleanor struck me as incredibly resourceful and in control. I loved that about her, and it clearly transfers here through her discovered passion for DIY projects. If any character said "I'll figure something out," I would believe it to be Eleanor the most.
I hope you enjoyed the first look at the children, as they play quite a role grounding these short stories. We will certainly be seeing more of them moving forward.
Thanks again for reading, I hope you enjoy.

Chapter 3: A Strange Saturday Morning

Notes:

Sorry for the delay. This was actually meant to be a Simon centric chapter, but it wasn't quite finished and I've been a bit distracted these past few weeks...getting married.
So, what was meant to be chapter four is now chapter three. luckily, the "slice-of-life" nature of the storytelling allows me to swap and change the chapters around freely.

One small authors warning: While the story is rated teen, this chapter does talk about some adult topics. there is nothing explicit, but if you are sensitive to talk about intimacy, be warned

Brittany’s senses ever so slowly came back to her as the pull of the morning tugged at her mind. The bliss of deep sleep drifted away – images vanishing from her mind as a dream faded into nothing more than a few vague memories of…something to do with bicycles? It had already fluttered away into nothingness. The lure of comfort kept her eyes closed and her head firmly pressed into the pillow, but her other senses were already acclimating to her surroundings. The distant sound of lawnmowers and songbirds; the faint smell of chlorine and stale sweat; the soft touch of satin sheets against her fur. It was all familiar – comforting, even – but quite noticeably not home. With these sensory clues, she was able to piece together her location. She wasn’t in the comfort of her own home; rather, she lounged in the familiar satin sheets of Alvin’s wide bed.

She stretched out her hand, searching the sheets for the Chipmunk in question, but opened her eyes when her probing turned up no results. The space beside her lay empty – the Wine-Red satin sheets folding around her outstretched fingers like sand. With a frown, she lifted her head up and adjusted the pillow so she could sit upright. Where was he?

Looking at the clock on the nightstand showed the time to be a hair past ten – a late start to the morning by Brittany’s standards. Her head ached ever so slightly from dehydration, and her mouth was dry and foul tasting. Closing her eyes once more, she dipped into the depths of her memory, trying to recount the steps of her night.

It had been a record label party; she easily remembered that much. An occasion for the executives of the music label, to which She and Alvin were signed, to mingle and celebrate the start of Brittany’s upcoming tour at the end of the week. They plied them with drinks, food, and aggrandising words that felt disingenuous at best. It was an annoying duty of success that Brittany needed to weather to keep up appearances. She was fine with her contract to the record label; far too busy to even consider other options. Having to indulge these fat old men while they drank too much, shouted obnoxiously, and smoked like chimneys felt like an exercise in patience. There was no way Brittany would have been able to manage had it not been for Alvin.

She scratched her ear and pushed further into her memory. She remembered leaving the restaurant on the back of Alvin’s diminutive electric motorbike; arriving at his mansion; stoking the fire and putting on some music, and then…Brittany blushed as the rest of the night finally came back to her.
She once again looked across the bed and sighed at its enormity and emptiness. Her scale in comparison to the human sized mattress made her seem as small as she felt.

Finally, Brittany decided to take control of what was left of her morning, pushing the sheets aside and dropping down off the bed. The first step of the day was going to be a shower; there was a distinct smell that lingered about her that needed to be dealt with.

She moved across the large bedroom and towards the ensuite, picking up the breadcrumb trail of her discarded clothing that littered the floor from the bedroom door to the bed. Ducking through the ajar ensuite door, she tossed the clothes into a hamper – a small wicker fruit basket – before climbing the plastic ladder up to the bathroom sink so she could examine the state of her fur in the mirror. To no surprise, she looked dishevelled – riddled with bed hair and sweat stuck fur…among other things.

She briefly prodded and poked her face, checking for signs of wear or blemishes before moving from the sink to the custom platform that extended into the shower – following it around the tiled walls and to the tap handles. With a brief amount of balancing between hot and cold, Brittany found a nice temperature and began to wash away the signs of last night.

The memories flowed through her as the water cascaded over her fur, dragging down her tail with its weight. She leant her hand against the pristine white tiles and hung her head low, a bittersweet smile cracking across her lips. She didn’t feel any shame; it certainly wasn’t the first time she had woken up in his bed. But something about this morning – his absence, the soft morning light peeking through the blinds, the tranquil, mundane sounds – left her feeling empty; longing for more connection. She had a sense for what was driving these feelings, a mixture of biological and emotional factors, but she pushed it to the back of her mind. It was too early to be dwelling on the unavoidable.

After a long, steamy shower, Brittany quickly towelled down her fur and moved back into the bedroom. She glossed over the few clothing items she kept tucked away in his draws and hung up on his hangers, but nothing appealed to her until her eyes settled on one of Alvin’s shirts – a simple grey band shirt that she slipped over her head. He was ever so slightly taller than her, and the shirt was loose and stretched, so it acted more like a short dress for Brittany. Finally, she took a moment in the mirror to tie her hair into a ponytail before dipping out from the bedroom.

Alvin’s mansion perfectly matched his ego: enormous, elaborate, astonishingly expensive, and far too large for his minuscule stature. The glistening marvel of modern architecture clung to the cliffside overlooking the bustle of Hollywood. Spanning over three levels, its striking white and grey walls, floor to ceiling windows, and wide terrace space jutted out from the natural landscape – a statement of white on a backdrop of green bushes and rocky cliffs.

As Brittany descended from the top floor, her fingers trailed through the cool streams of the waterfall sculpture nestled in the centre of the floating spiral staircase. Her gaze drifted over the unusual artworks lining the walls—pieces Alvin likely had little hand in choosing, given his lack of interest in art. Most of the mansion bore the mark of an interior decorator’s touch, every detail selected for sleek, modern luxury. The deep leather couches, thick wool rugs, marble countertops, and stone dining table gave the estate an air of sophistication, but Brittany couldn't shake the sense that it felt more like a staged showroom than a home.

What struck her most was the absence of any real accommodations for chipmunks. In contrast to her own apartment, where every room, sink, and piece of furniture was thoughtfully designed to suit her small stature, Alvin’s mansion catered almost exclusively to human proportions. At first glance, you’d hardly know a chipmunk lived there. Only a few minor modifications—small ladders, adjusted door handles, and lowered light switches—hinted at his presence in the vast, human-sized space.
Brittany paused for a moment at the bottom of the stairs to drink in the spectacular view framed in the floor to ceiling windows that ran the entire span of the living space. Wide bifold doors lay open, joining the inside of the of the house with the wide terrace space effortlessly. Sparkling at the edge of the terrace was the crystal blue infinity pool and jacuzzi that hung perilously over the edge of the hill and underscored the view of downtown Los Angeles in the far distance. She had spent many nights lounging in the sunbeds at the side of that pool, sipping champagne and drinking in the lights of the city so far below, trying to pinpoint the tower that held her penthouse apartment in Beverly Hills, though never confidently identifying it from such a distance. Many nights spent with Alvin – talking away the world as if they were the only two chipmunks to inhabit the entire planet. Many moments of argument; many moments of intimacy…It would be some time before she would feel that sensation again.

Brittany violently shook her head to clear her thoughts. Why was she so emotional this morning? With a sigh, she moved across the living space, past the kitchen, and down the next flight of stairs to the lowest level of the enormous house.

As this level was partially nestled into the cliffside, natural light was harder to come by, and the corridor that split left and right at the base of the stairs was lit entirely by downlights. Brittany briefly took a left at the corridor to poke her head into the garage. It looked comically large housing nothing but Alvin’s small collection of scaled down vehicles. Two sports cars and three motorbikes, each miniature versions of their larger counterparts, were lined up in the centre of the room. They were in complete working order, but far from road legal – not that it ever stopped Alvin from driving them. He was especially fond of his motorcycles. Brittany hated riding on the back of them – clinging to Alvin’s waist in fear for her life as he rode with reckless abandon. Plus, the helmet messed with her hair and the wind puffed up her tail.

After confirming Alvin wasn't in the garage, Brittany retraced her steps along the corridor to the estate’s last room: the den. This was Alvin’s favoured area within the residence, a spacious chamber adorned with dark carpets and grey walls. It was cluttered with a variety of playthings and devices – pinball machines, video game systems, a billiards table – centred around a deep-set circular sofa and an assortment of beanbags. A colossal screen dominated one wall, surrounded by Alvin’s displayed trophies and honours. The walls were festooned with his achievements, including gold and platinum records, Grammy and music industry awards, and framed album cover posters. Tucked away opposite the entrance was an inconspicuous red door, crowned with a lit "recording" sign. The soft throb of music leaked from behind it, prompting Brittany to cross the den and gently push the door open.

As Brittany entered Alvin’s recording studio, the blast of music engulfed her. Unlike the rest of the mansion, this room stood out for its unique design. Once a guest bedroom, Alvin had quickly transformed it into his creative space. The sleek marble and concrete gave way to timber floors and deep red fabric walls, with sound-absorbing panels and a specially treated ceiling to control acoustics.

In one corner, a jumble of instruments for both chipmunks and humans—drum sets, guitars, keyboards—sat alongside a sprawling array of modular synthesizers, which Brittany fondly called "Alvin’s wall of blips and bloops." Here, Alvin spent hours crafting electronic soundscapes. On the opposite side stood a grand piano, with a miniature version perched atop for chipmunks. At the far end, a glass wall revealed the vocal booth, while the centrepiece of the studio, Alvin’s recording console, occupied the "sweet spot" of the room.

A small leather chair sat on the console’s oak armrest, where Alvin, focused intently, monitored the playback of the track.

The first thing Brittany noticed as she made her way across the room and towards the recording console was the song that was playing through the speakers. She certainly hadn’t expected to hear her own voice bellowing forth – a song she and Alvin had tinkered with months ago. She leapt up and onto the console, and it took Alvin a few moments before he noticed her – holding a finger up to pause her as he focused on the music.

Brittany took the moment to inspect the adornments of the console. His favourite guitar lay haphazardly on one of the consoles faders – plugged in and ready for input. To the right of the dual monitors was a single framed picture of Alvin and his brothers on a stage, an enormous crowd in the background of the selfie. Sitting just under that was a single polaroid that sprang a warm smile across Brittany’s lips. It was a simple memory, but a powerful one: an image of herself and Alvin sitting on the railing of the Santa Monica Pier, the theme park glittering in the background. They weren’t lovingly holding hands, posing, or gazing deep in each other’s eyes; they were simply looking thoughtfully out to the setting sun just out of sight. It was a simple moment of their late teens that Brittany still thought on to this day.

Brittany’s smile slowly disappeared as her gaze wandered across the desk and to the other framed picture on the right: a framed photo of Dave. Her heart sank as she looked at the portrait of the man that had so shaped her life. His easy smile shone through the photo, reminding her of simpler times living in his small bungalow in East Hollywood. Her gaze fell from his face and to the gold plaque at the bottom of the frame.

‘Remember; less is more,’ were the words engraved into it. It was one of the many little phrases Dave would repeat ad nauseum; so common in fact that she could hear it clearly in his voice. Only now did she miss hearing it.

“I still hear him say that to me, every time I pick up a guitar,” Alvin’s voice cut through Brittany’s reverie. She was so lost in memories that she hadn’t even noticed the music had stopped. “He used to say that every single time we wrote music together. It was kind of annoying actually.” Brittany turned to look at Alvin in his chair. Though the music had stopped, his attention was still firmly on the screens as he clicked away with the mouse in his hand.

“He only said it so much because you never listened,” she commented as she moved to the back of his chair, leaning her arms on the headrest.

“I was listening; I just didn’t understand what it meant back then. How could less possibly be more? More is more. I was pretty stupid back then.”

“You still are,” Brittany’s quip elicited a short chuckle from the red hoodie clad chipmunk. It was rare to see him wearing his old hoodies nowadays. She felt, in the silence that followed, that the morning had taken a depressing turn as they reminisced on their late guardian, so Brittany moved the conversation away. “You’re bringing this old song back to life? I thought we agreed this was a lost cause.”

“Maybe,” Alvin muttered. “I don’t know; I woke up this morning with an idea fresh in my mind. I thought if I tried a different genre, I might be able to make it work…”

“It sounds good.”

“It’s still not quite right,” Alvin remarked. “It’s missing something, like its empty.” Brittany mumbled out a knowing sound as she looked at the complicated mess of audio recordings on the screen. It was clear by the multitude of tracks in the recording that Alvin had been working on this for several hours. “I was just feeling a bit inspired this morning,” he continued.

Brittany, sensing a moment of opportunity, allowed a mischievous grin to unfold on her lips. “About this morning...” She pivoted his chair to face her, then crawled into his lap, positioning herself atop him. Alvin looked up with curiosity as she leaned in, elbows on his shoulders, her hands cradling his face. She drew closer, pressing a gentle yet profound kiss on his lips, sparking a surge of electricity within her. Pulling back slightly, she gazed into his bewildered and stunned eyes. “If I ever find myself alone in your bed after waking up again,” she swiftly caught his jaw, ensuring he met her intense stare, her voice shifting from seductive to stern. “That will be the last time we ever have sex again, got it?”

“Got it,” Alvin responded, his expression squished by her firm grasp.

Easing her grip yet maintaining contact, Brittany affirmed, “Good.” She then began idly drawing circles on his hoodie. “Just so we're clear.”

Alvin let out a nervous laugh, avoiding her steady look until his eyes finally landed on her attire. “Is that my shirt?”

Brittany let go of his face to grasp the shirt's edges, stretching it out as though scrutinizing it for the first time. “Is it? I hardly noticed.”

“Half of my wardrobe is somehow crammed with your clothes, and yet you keep stealing my clothes. You’ve already taken half of my hoodies, now you’re starting on the shirts?” Brittany felt a defensive blush cross her face as she was reminded of the small collection of red hoodies tucked away in a bottom draw in her apartment.

“You don’t like it when I wear your clothes,” She purred as she let her hand trace up from his chest to tease the fur under his chin. “I can always take it off if you like?”

Brittany didn’t wait for the sarcastic answer she knew he would supply, instead choosing to silence him with another kiss - far more passionate than the last. She let her hands press and grope at his hoodie as she poured a morning’s worth of loneliness directly into his lips. His warmth was inviting, and her mind filled with a familiar haze as she let her body start to move back and forth in his lap. This was the connection she had been longing for ever since waking up. His hand gently caressed her hip, and Brittany desperately wanted it to move further…but it never did. It seemed to lazily settle in one place, and he failed to return the kiss with the same level of passion she offered.

That’s when she heard it; the frustrating sound of clicks, just to her left. She pulled from the kiss and opened her eyes to see Alvin leaning his head slightly to see the screen past her, his free hand guiding the mouse on the armrest of the chair.

She wanted to hit him. He had a beautiful girl in his lap, basically throwing herself at him, and he was too preoccupied with his music. It was frustrating, but annoyingly typical behaviour from Alvin.

“Nothing else matters when you’re writing music, does it?” Brittany sighed as she collapsed her weight into him, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“Sorry, Brit. I just…don’t want to lose the idea while it’s fresh in my mind.” Even Alvin’s answer seemed phoned in, and Brittany could do nothing more than blow a heavy raspberry of exasperation. When Alvin was in the zone, nothing could distract him from his music. It was inspiring in a way; Alvin’s dedication to his craft was unmatched. But it also worried Brittany as it dredged up memories of darker times.

“I get worried you know,” She whispered. “When you get focused like this…it reminds me of when Dave…you know.” Alvin didn’t respond, but she recognised the subtle shift in his facial expression that betrayed his emotions. Even after all these years it was still a sore spot for him.

“The last thing Dave told me was to never stop making music,” his voice was soft, and he didn’t look away from the screen. “Back then…I took that phrase too seriously. I let it get in the way of life. It’s different now, I promise.” Brittany let out a soft breath, not feeling the need to respond to his answer. She could see herself that this wasn’t the obsessive musical writings of those darker times. This was just a man passionate about his craft.

She breathed out a soft “ok” of resignation but didn’t move from her position. She was quite comfortable now and didn’t want to surrender his warmth. She tried her best to let the feelings simply drift away, hoping to enjoy the moment, but her mind was a cloud of strong emotions now, and without the distractions of lust, she couldn’t take her thoughts away from her worries. With a whimper, she pushed her face deep into his hoodie, savouring the smell.

“Alvin, do you love me?” She mumbled into his chest.

Alvin let out a heavy sigh and dropped his arms to his sides. “You are Extra clingy this morning. What’s got your tail in a twist?”

“It’s just a question,” she said without pulling her head from his chest. “If you can’t answer it-”

“When does your tour start again?” Alvin’s sudden question terminated Brittany’s words.

She paused for a second, annoyed at being interrupted. “Tuesday,” She murmured.

“And how long is it?”

“Two months in Europe and one month in Southeast Asia. We might add dates in Japan and South Korea if the ticket sales are there, so that would add another week to the tour.”

It was clear Alvin had picked up on the root cause of Brittany’s turbulent mood, at least the emotional side of it, and he chuckled under his breath. “That explains it,” he stated. “Three months is a long time to be away from home.”

Brittany shot her head back so she could look the chipmunk directly in the eye. “Three months is a long time to be away from…” She let her impassioned response teeter off. Even she thought that was too corny to say. She leaned back down and resumed hugging the boy. “It just gets kind of lonely on those tours. Don’t get me wrong, I’m surrounded by people almost twenty-four seven, but they’re, like, coworkers. There’s no one I really feel close to when I’m on tour…” She hummed loudly to push down a well of tears that threatened to fill her eyes. Her hormones were all over the place this morning. “I miss when we were kids, and it was all six of us together. Running around the country in the tour bus, Dave shouting at us to do our homework on the drive between shows; it never felt like work…it never felt lonely.”

“I miss it too,” Alvin admitted without looking away from the screen. “I think more than anything I miss my brothers…and Dave.”

Brittany looked up to his face and she could see the slightest hint of forlorn in his eyes, but his concentration was still well placed on his work. The one constant that had followed Alvin through his time performing with his brothers to now was his dedication to his music…that and his immature nature. So much else had changed with the years; some for the better and some for the worse.

“Come with me,” Brittany blurted out, making Alvin finally pull his attention away from the screen to shoot her a curious glance. “Join me on the tour. You don’t have to perform or anything; just keep me company. We can go sightseeing in Europe, food tasting in Asia…” Brittany looked desperately into his eyes, and he returned a gentle but hesitant look.

“Brit…You know I can’t just up and leave town for months,” He explained. “I’ve got deadlines to meet.” Brittany had a sense her hail mary was going to be a longshot, but it still hurt all the same. With a defeated sound, she once again collapsed into his chest with a grumble. “You’ll be home before you even miss me,” Alvin offered with a chuckle, though Brittany noted his unfocused tone as his attention once again diverted to his screen.

“I miss you right now…” Brittany’s words were barely perceptible as she whispered into his hoodie, and they went unanswered. She tried a few last resorts to grab his attention: rubbing her hair against his nose, grinding her hips into his lap. They elicited no response and Brittany finally conceded defeat.

“Fine,” She groaned as she pulled herself out of his lap and moved to the side of his chair. “I know a losing battle when I see one.”

“Let me finish this part of the song and then maybe we can go get some breakfast or something,” Alvin offered in a disinterested tone. Brittany had barely a fleeting interest in food right now. Her body was telling her she craved something else.

“Very well,” She spoke. “You can have another hour to your music. After that, come join me in your hot tub. I think I need a nice relaxing soak.”

“The hot tub?” Alvin questioned without looking away from the screen. “You really have taken over my wardrobe. I didn’t even know you kept swimwear at my house."

Brittany’s smile cracked wickedly across her face as the foolish Alvin fell directly into her trap. She moved behind his chair, grasped his shoulders, positioned her mouth right beside his ear, and whispered, “I don’t…”

It took a second for the implication to settle into Alvin’s mind, and once it did, he knocked the mouse off the armrest of his chair in shock. Brittany didn’t wait for an answer, simply dropping down off the audio console and making her way towards the door. “One hour, Alvin; don’t keep me waiting.”

*

The next three days were a whirlwind of passion and closeness. Brittany and Alvin hardly left his sprawling mansion, fully immersed in each other's company. During this time, their activities were dominated by a single theme: Sex.

Every corner of the house witnessed their unrestrained encounters. From steamy moments in Alvin's hot tub to romantic escapades under the stars on the balcony, they shared relentless passion. Their failed attempts at cooking often ended in playful intimacy, and even their arguments were intense, always resolving in even more fervent reconciliations. It wasn’t always moments of intense carnal desire. There were quiet moments cuddled up on the couch with a movie, life affirming discussions overlooking Los Angeles from the balcony, phone calls with Brittany’s manager in which Alvin lied through his teeth about not knowing her whereabouts. Overall, it was about spending time together…it just so happened that those quiet moments often seemed to lead to sex shortly after. Brittany's desires seemed insatiable, driven by something deeper than just loneliness. It was almost as though she were building up a reserve of intimacy that she could hold onto for the duration of her long tour. But, through it all, Brittany wouldn’t have changed a thing. It was exactly how she wanted to spend her last moments before leaving on tour.

After three intense days, they found themselves exhausted, sprawled on the living room carpet after concluding another round. As the days had ticked by, the frequency of their passion had grown; as their last day together before Brittany’s departure, their escapades had gone well into the night.

"Ok, that's it!" Alvin exclaimed, sprawling out on the plush carpet, breathless and sweaty. "Anymore and I think I'll dissolve into dust."

Brittany, not quite ready to stop, climbed onto his stomach, resting her head on his chest, and playfully kissing his collarbone. "You're giving up already?" she teased.

"Ok, now I know you're trying to kill me," Alvin laughed. "I'm going to need a blood transfusion at this rate. You're going to have to give me a break."

The quiet of late night surrounded them, the soft glow of the television and a lamp the only lights in the room. Brittany nuzzled into Alvin's neck, her voice soft, "I think I might be in heat." She finally admitted to herself. She had been suspecting as much over the past few days, given her overwhelming urges.

"You think?" Alvin replied sarcastically. "We’ve done nothing but have sex for three days, Brit, and you say you might be in heat…" Brittany blushed, aware of her biannual cycles that heightened her desires, making them nearly uncontrollable. This heat was particularly intense, exacerbated by the impending loneliness of her tour. Of course luck would have the cycle starting right as she was leaving…

Alvin adjusted their position slightly, but Brittany held him close, murmuring, "Just stay like this for a little while longer." He sighed but settled back, accommodating her need for closeness. Time passed silently until Brittany glanced at the clock. "I’ll need to leave in a few hours," she mumbled. "Flight leaves at seven. I still haven’t even packed."

"I’ll drive you to your place and then to the airport," Alvin offered, which Brittany quietly acknowledged.

As the silence stretched, Brittany clung to him, her lips finding his neck again. "I’m really going to miss this," she whispered.

Alvin responded by flipping her onto her back, looking intently into her eyes. "I do, by the way..." he finally confessed.

"What?" Brittany responded, confused by his seemingly random admission.

"On Saturday you asked if I, y-you know, loved you; I do. I know we don’t exactly have a perfect relationship; we argue more than anyone else I know…I’m not even sure that what we have can even be called a relationship.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully and Brittany playfully pushed his chest with a giggle. It was true that they had never officially agreed to anything. They had been intimate since high school, on and off, but never made any official declarations and denied everything when questioned. “What I’m saying is we’ll never be like Theo and Elle, but that doesn’t mean what we have isn’t…I don’t know…cool?" Brittany couldn't help but laugh softly, her face flushing with affection. Alvin's vulnerability was rare, a side of him she cherished deeply. She suspected she may be the only sole to ever see this side of him.

"That was pretty corny," she joked softly, her smile tender. “But I guess I agree. Whatever this is…it’s pretty cool.” Alvin leaned in for a gentle, lingering kiss, a moment of peace amidst the chaos of their emotions.

"I’m going to miss this too," he whispered as they parted, sealing their sentiments with the quiet intimacy of the moment. But, quite suddenly, his tone changed. “And if you tell anyone I said all that, I’ll kill you myself.” That’s when Brittany noticed the wild blush heating his face.

She burst out laughing and pulled him in close. “You’re so stupid,” She chuckled. “You’ll fuck me in every room of your house, but blush like a schoolgirl at the mention of love and affection? You’re so immature.”

“Oh yeah?” Alvin responded to this teasing by tickling Brittany, making her writhe about underneath him. Their laughter echoed around the halls of Alvin’s Mansion until it severed into silence, their conjoined lips muffling all sounds but some stray squeaks and moans.

They separated, assessing each other’s willingness. Brittany quickly darted her eyes once more to the clock before returning her gaze to Alvin. “I think we have time for one more round.”

Notes:

Hope you enjoyed this one; it's actually one of my favourite chapters I've done so far.
You will certainly see as this story continues that I enjoy writing for Brittany and Alvin the most. I think because they are by far the most complicated of all the chipmunks.

Hopefully more once I'm back home. For now, let me know your thoughts :)

Chapter 4: A Matter of Responsibility

Notes:

I'm sorry this one took a while. It's a somewhat important chapter and I wanted to get it right. I'm still not sure I have, but you can only rewrite a chapter so many times before you have to bite the bullet and move forward.

Simon had always felt a particular pull toward trees. There was something timeless and comforting about them, a quiet allure he couldn’t fully articulate. Maybe it was an animalistic instinct, or a simple sense of nostalgia for his childhood home. Or perhaps it was just the solitude they offered, a calm retreat from the relentless pace of university life. Whatever the reason, whether he perched in the branches of a towering pine or nestled in the generous limbs of an old elm, like the one in Harvard Yard today, Simon always felt at ease in a tree.

On cool autumn afternoons like this, with classes behind him and some time before his next commitment, he’d choose a good book, climb a tree that suited his mood, and settle in. Today’s choice was a hefty, dust-covered tome from the science library’s back shelves—a gripping account of the race to discover element 118. Three labs, three countries, all competing to forge an entirely new element, if only for a fraction of a second. The Narrative alone was gripping, but the science behind birthing elements so unstable that they couldn't exist naturally anywhere else in the entire universe was what truly grasped Simon’s imagination.

It was utterly captivating …too captivating, Simon thought with a sigh as he once again caught himself being sidetracked from his initial goal and the main reason he had chosen the largest elm in Harvard yard that afternoon. For today he had not climbed the tree to simply read, but rather to tackle a looming challenge.

With a reluctant sigh, he tore his gaze from the text wedged in the crook of a branch, focusing instead on the tiny unbanded smartwatch in his hand. A typical mobile phone would be anything but mobile for a chipmunk, but a bandless smartwatch was a perfect alternative that fit comfortably in his hands and was easily tucked away into the custom backpack he’d carried since high school. It was one of the many innovations Dave had thought up to make life as a chipmunk in a human world more bearable. Though it lacked the power of a full-size phone, it offered the essentials—messaging, calls, internet access—all of which he’d been leaning on heavily as of late.

His thumb hovered over browser displaying a list of potential careers with a hesitant flick. Chemical Technician—too entry-level; Drug Lab Chemist—intriguing in theory, but the work was much grimmer than he’d prefer; Chemical Cleaning Specialist… wasn’t that just a glorified janitor?

Simon grumbled louder than he had expected. He shouldn’t be too surprised; anything worth entertaining required a minimum of a master’s degree and an expectation of a speciality field of chemistry. A simple Batchelor’s of Chemistry didn’t seem to go far in the Californian job market, even if that bachelors came from the prestigious halls of Harvard.

The whole affair left a sour taste in Simon’s mouth that he had to shake his head to ignore. Even if it wasn’t the ideal path, it was the one that faced him currently.

The sudden vibration of the watch in his hands startled him for a moment before he noticed the message notification pop up on the screen. With a flick of his thumb he enlarged the chat conversation

David – Room is all setup for arrival; I believe Jeanette is organising both your flights. Let me know what time you need me to collect you from the Airport. Looking forward to having you both back for the Holidays, and to celebrate you! I know you don’t like too many gifts, so if you can think of anything you might want for a combined graduation/birthday gift, let me know.

Simon felt a weight fall over him as he read the message from his guardian. It was a mundane transmission, sure, but it held a massive unseen weight that crushed Simon’s stomach. This was not going to be an ordinary trip back home…in more ways than one.

A familiar melancholy gnawed at him as he tore his gaze from the watch to look once more at the chemistry book, nearly tempted to lose himself in its pages again. But before he could fall back into the text, a voice interrupted him.

“Simon? Is that you up there?”

He glanced down, irritation briefly flashing across his face. But that disappeared when he noticed the brown suit and red bowtie—a signature look belonging to none other than Professor Stubbs, the Dean of Sciences for Harvard.

“Professor!” Simon stammered, scrambling to his feet on the branch.

“There you are,” Stubbs said with exasperation, hands on his hips. “I’ve been looking all over campus for you. I nearly started checking fallen leaves, thinking you might be one of them. Your fur does tend to blend into the foliage this time of year.”

Simon’s chest tightened at the unexpected tone. Stubbs was a serious man, but rarely did he sound genuinely annoyed. “Am I…in trouble?” Simon ventured cautiously.

“You bet your tail you’re in trouble,” Stubbs said, exasperated. Simon’s heart skipped—trouble was something he’d rarely encountered, at least, trouble of his own making. He glanced at the book, guilt flaring.

“I... I shouldn’t have brought the library book into the tree. I’ll return it right away—”

Stubbs waved him off. “No, no, I don’t care about some dusty old book.”

“Then what is it?” Simon asked, confused.

“It’s about your application,” Stubbs replied, his voice hard. “I’ve spoken to every professor in the science division, and not one has seen your doctoral application. The deadline is next week, and you’re the science departments golden child. There isn’t a professor at Harvard who wouldn’t want you in their doctoral program…If I find out you’re thinking of transferring your doctorate to Yale, or, heaven forbid, Caltech—”

“No, no, Professor,” Simon said, hands raised defensively. “I wouldn’t betray... I’m just...” His voice trailed off as he struggled to explain, not particularly keen on discussing the complications in his life with the Dean.

“Then what’s the hold-up, my boy?” Stubbs asked, his tone softening slightly. Simon rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact. His gaze landed on his smartwatch, then on the book nestled in the branches.

“I’m... still deciding on a department,” he said at last. “All the professors offer such interesting specialties, and I want to choose the one that’s best for my future career.” It was a blatant lie, but he hoped it would suffice.

Stubbs narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Simon’s answer, but eventually nodded. “Well, don’t lose yourself worrying about job prospects. You have a real future in science, whatever the field. A PhD in any field can open doors. Choose a field that genuinely interests you.” He glanced at the book beside Simon with a hint of a smile. “But don’t miss that deadline!” he added sternly. “You have an exceptional future ahead, Simon. I would hate to see your potential wasted.”

Without waiting for a reply, Stubbs turned and walked away, his footsteps fading quickly. Though his words had been few, they lingered with Simon like the pain of a stubbed toe. He sat back on the branch with a heavy sigh, watching the Dean disappear into the distance.

If only life were as black and white as simple indecision.

After his meeting with the Dean, Simon found even his favourite tree offered no solace, and he moved to wander aimlessly through the campus, his mind heavy. The weight of the impending deadline made every step feel like a farewell. Each corner of the university seemed etched with memories, fragments of his life for the past four years.

He paused in the science department, the walls echoing with the monotone cadence of lectures he'd once endured. The labs beckoned next, their chemical tang a sharp reminder of hours spent experimenting, failing, and occasionally triumphing. Outside, the Harvard quad stretched before him, its lush green grass a vivid canvas of lazy afternoons under the sun. Finally, his steps took him to his dorm room. The sight of its worn furniture and cluttered desk conjured a flood of late-night study sessions, his roommate's exasperated sighs mingling with the faint hum of desk lamps.

Every space carried a piece of him—a mosaic of effort, growth, and camaraderie. Yet now, those memories felt like relics, tinged with a bittersweet ache. Simon swallowed hard. He was going to miss this place more than he ever thought possible.

Lost in his thoughts, Simon barely noticed the passage of time. By the time he shook off his reverie, the sun had already dipped below the horizon, draping the campus in the cool, blue hues of twilight—and leaving him conspicuously late. Quickening his pace, he headed toward the small pub tucked discreetly at the base of an old faculty building—his final stop for the evening.

The Queen’s Head Pub had always been a paradox: worn yet welcoming, ramshackle yet rich with tradition. Student-run and nearly as old as the university itself, it was a place where time seemed to stand still. Its peeling walls, perpetually sticky floors, and tattered booths might have deterred newcomers, but to Simon, they exuded a kind of rugged charm. This wasn’t just a pub; it was a sanctuary, a haven for students and faculty alike to escape, celebrate, or simply exist.

As he stepped inside, the familiar din of a bustling evening enveloped him. The clinking of glasses, raucous laughter, and snippets of shouted conversations filled the air. At the bar, staff worked in hurried harmony, pouring ales and balancing trays. A group of rowdy students crowded around the corner television, their cheers rising and falling with the rhythm of the football match onscreen.

Simon’s gaze drifted toward the small stage at the far end of the room. An inconspicuous man in black crouched over a tangled mess of cables, methodically setting up microphones and sound equipment. The scene was comfortably chaotic—just as he remembered. The Queen’s Head was alive, vibrant, and completely itself. A fitting place, he thought, to close this chapter of his life.

Simon’s ears flicked at the sound of his name being called, and he turned to spot the lively group crammed into a corner booth, waving at him with exaggerated enthusiasm. For a moment, he hesitated, adjusting his glasses and steadying himself before weaving his way through the crowd with the practiced ease of someone used to avoiding being stepped on.

As he reached the table, Simon hopped onto the splintered surface, earning a round of cheers from his friends.

“There he is—the birthday boy!” Jamal, the tallest and most boisterous of the group, greeted him with a grin, his deep voice commanding attention.

Before Simon could respond, a familiar blur of purple darted forward and enveloped him in a tight hug. Jeanette’s scent—a mix of lavender and something sweet—was instantly recognizable, and Simon felt heat rush to his face. Her embrace lingered just long enough to send his thoughts spinning before she pulled away, muttering a soft, “Happy birthday,” with a shy smile. Jeanette’s gaze darted to the floor, her blush rivalling Simon’s as they both avoided eye contact, caught in the sudden intimacy of the moment.

“I was starting to think you forgot your own birthday,” Isiah chimed in with a grin, breaking the tension. The youngest of the group, he sat with a soda in one hand while gently rubbing Izzy’s back with the other. The blonde girl at his side was hunched over a textbook, her face twisted in despair.

“Sorry, lost track of time,” Simon replied sheepishly. “Besides, it’s not really my birthday.” He rubbed the back of his neck as the group raised their brows in curiosity. “Growing up in the wild, my brothers and I didn’t exactly keep track of things like birthdays. When we joined society, our guardian decided it was something we needed. There is nothing particularly special about today—a totally random choice.”

“There he goes again,” Hannah drawled, her signature dry tone drawing a chuckle from the group. “Humble bragging about his Tarzan upbringing.” She leaned back in her seat, her fingers lazily tracing the rim of her pint glass as her frazzled red hair seemed to catch stray rays of light. As an English Literature major with a razor-sharp wit, Hannah’s banter was a constant source of amusement—and occasional exasperation—for Simon. They shared a particular style of dry humour that made them instantly compatible.

“Tarzan was a human raised by animals, integrating into society. I’m an animal raised by humans, integrating into society. Completely different concepts,” Simon quipped, deflecting her jab with a casual wave. “As a Literature major I would expect you to know better.”

Hannah raised her glass with a smirk. “Happy birthday, Simon,” she said, her tone softer now.

Simon nodded with a warm smile. “Thanks, Hannah.”

Before the moment could settle, Jamal’s booming voice cut through the noise. “Drinks!” he declared, startling Simon and Jeanette. “What kind of twenty-first birthday would this be without drinks?” He pointed dramatically at each member of the group. “Hannah, another beer. Izzy…” He trailed off, glancing at the girl still glued to her textbook. “Maybe a shot of vodka to bring her back to us. Sodas for our under-agers.” He gestured toward Jeanette and Isiah, who both offered amused smiles. Finally, his finger landed on Simon. “And for the birthday boy?”

Simon’s eyes flicked toward the towering wall of bottles behind the bar. “Just a cranberry juice, thanks,” he said.

“Not happening,” Jamal replied flatly. “Your choices are beer, cider, or spirits. No way I’m letting you stay sober on your twenty-first birthday.”

“I’m not getting drunk,” Simon countered firmly. He had dabbled in alcohol at a few chaotic parties Alvin had dragged him to in their later years of high school, but he wasn’t a fan of its effects.

“Get him a dark ale,” Hannah suggested with a mischievous grin. “Feels right for our resident professor.”

The familiar nickname drew laughter from the group, but it also seemed to snap Izzy out of her daze. She lifted her head from the book, her eyes wide with desperation as she stared at Simon.

“Simon, you have to help me!” she blurted, her voice tinged with panic. “I need you to do that thing you do where you make this gibberish make sense!”

Simon instinctively stepped back as Izzy frantically pointed to the mess of symbols in the textbook before her.

“Izzy, are you sure engineering is the right undergrad for you?” Isiah asked gently, offering her a comforting pat on the back. “You’re not very good at any of the science units. If it weren’t for Simon, you’d probably have flunked out by now.”

Izzy whimpered, looking on the verge of tears, but Simon raised his hands in reassurance. “Hey now, Professor Woodland’s physics module is notoriously hard. The unruly nature of physics throws a lot of people.”

“Throws some people,” Hannah murmured, her voice low but deliberate. Simon shot her a playful glare, though the corners of his mouth twitched. Hannah’s teasing about his record-high grades never seemed to end.

“Please, Simon,” Izzy pleaded. “You make it all so easy!”

Before Simon could respond, Jamal stepped in, wrapping an arm around Izzy and gently guiding her to her feet. “Let the professor enjoy his birthday,” he said with a grin. “Come on, let’s get you a drink.”

Izzy let out a defeated sigh but didn’t resist as Jamal led her toward the bar. Simon and Jeanette exchanged a knowing look. Physics was one of the many courses Simons Chemistry degree and Jeanettes Enviromental Studies degree shared, so they understood the difficulties Izzy was facing. Yet, beneath it all, they both suspected Izzy might not be cut out for it.

“You can’t teach them all, Professor,” Hannah quipped, finishing her beer with a flourish.

Simon sighed, knowing she was probably right. Still, the nickname and the responsibility it carried weighed heavily on him, a reminder of the role he had taken on as a mentor to his friends.

“Are you going back to California for your birthday,” Isiah asked.

Simon barely had time to process Isiah's question before the mention of California caused his stomach to twist. Home was a complicated topic, fraught with unresolved emotions and unspoken tensions. He shot a cautious glance at Jeanette, hoping to gauge her reaction.

Jeanette hesitated for a moment but then answered. “We’re going back on Sunday,” she said, her voice measured. “Two of our siblings are about to move permanently to their new home in Houston, so we’re making a big family gathering of it before they leave. We’ll stay right through Thanksgiving. Our guardian is…” Her voice faltered, her words trailing off as she glanced downward, clearly struggling with the weight of what she wanted to say.

Not wanting to see Jeanette distressed, Simon stepped in. “Our guardian is a bit emotional about the whole affair. With so many of us now leaving home, we’re hoping to start a yearly tradition of gathering for Thanksgiving,” he explained. His tone was light, almost optimistic, though the weight of his unspoken doubts lingered beneath the surface. “We’ve always been a tightly knit pseudo-family, so the house only being home to half its usual chipmunk cacophony must be jarring for Dave.”

“A third,” Jeanette corrected in a genuinely confused tone that had Simon bite his tongue. “Alvin and Brittany make only make a third of us, not a half…it's unlike you to get simple maths wrong.”

Her concerned look made Simon fluster. “Y-you’re right—silly miscount.” The giggle she offered seemed to end the line of questioning, but it lingered with Simon. She was right; he didn’t get simple math wrong. She just didn’t yet know all the factors of the equation.

The moment of reflection was broken by Jamal and Izzy’s return, bearing drinks for everyone. Simon was handed a shot glass of dark, slightly bubbling liquid, which he sniffed cautiously, his nose wrinkling slightly. Hannah let out an amused huff.

Jamal stood tall, raising his glass high. “To our illustrious professor!” he declared. “Without whom many of us would have failed by now… and some of us still might.” He nudged Izzy, who scowled in response. “Here’s to your birthday, Simon, and to the many more drinks you’ll have here at the Queen’s Head as you chase your doctorate.”

The group clinked their glasses together, their cheerful voices echoing through the pub. Simon winced at the end of Jamals toast, but forced a faint smile as Jeanette gently tapped her tiny glass of soda against his. Her smile was radiant, a mixture of pride and joy, and Simon felt a faint warmth bloom in his chest despite his unease. He muttered a soft, “Thanks,” and took a tentative sip of the ale. It was a very bitter taste, but not an entirely unwelcome one.

The sound of a gruff voice bellowing from across the bar cut through the moment like a knife. “Jeanette!” The room quieted briefly as patrons turned toward the source of the voice. Simon and Jeanette followed suit, spotting a tall man with a thick beard and a poofy man-bun leaning over the bar. A damp tea towel hung over his shoulder, and his apron was dusted with spills. He pointed to the stage with a nod, his expression expectant.

“Ah, cheese and crackers!” Jeanette exclaimed, her flustered tone drawing a chuckle from Simon. It was the closest she ever got to swearing. She turned to him, her hands wringing nervously. “I’m sorry, Simon. I thought you’d get here earlier. I promised Alverez I’d play a few sets tonight. I thought we’d have more time to celebrate your birthday before—”

“Jeanette,” Simon interrupted gently, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. His touch was hesitant but steady. Over the years Simon had learned that Jeanettes intricacies lead her to over worry from time to time, and she often needed a simple reassurance to remind her that not everything is a big deal. “Don’t be sorry. I love watching you perform. Play me a song—it can be my birthday gift.”

The words came out with surprising confidence, and Simon felt his cheeks flush as soon as he finished speaking. But his sincerity had an immediate effect. Jeanette fidgeted with the sleeve of her sweater, her nervous energy softening into a shy smile.

Then, as if suddenly remembering something, Jeanette turned and dropped to her knees, rummaging through her tiny backpack. “Oh! I almost forgot!” she said, her voice muffled as she searched. A moment later, she pulled out a small parcel wrapped in purple parchment paper and thrust it into Simon’s hands. Their fingers brushed briefly, and Simon noticed the slight tremble in hers.

“I-it’s nothing too special,” she stammered, rocking on her heels as she spoke. “Just… just a little something for your birthday.” An awkward giggle escaped her lips as she took a few steps back. “A-anyway, I should… I should probably go. You know… perform.”

Before Simon could thank her, Jeanette hurried off, practically leaping from the table and rushing toward the stage. Simon sat frozen, staring at the gift in his hands, his heart pounding wildly. His gaze flickered between the small parcel and Jeanette, now setting up on the stage across the room.

“That may have been the cutest, most awkward interaction I’ve ever witnessed,” Isiah deadpanned, his voice carrying the perfect mix of monotony and amusement. “Seriously, can you two just start dating already? I don’t think I can survive another four years of you two nerd-flirting.”

Simon’s face turned beet red, his hand flying up to rub the back of his neck in frantic, futile motions. “W-we’re not—” he stammered, but his protest fizzled into silence as he struggled to string together a coherent response.

“We’re not dating, we’re just friends, it’s not like that, She doesn’t like me,” Jamal mocked Simon’s voice with exaugurated gestures that made the table laugh. “Four years we’ve had to watch this song and dance! You can keep lying to yourselves all you want, but you ain’t fooling any of us. So, shut up and open the damn cute present.” Jamal’s final words were biting, even if said in jest, but the table nodded in complete agreement—all but Simon.

Simon carefully unwrapped the parcel, revealing a mess of soft knitted cotton within. Perched on top was a small, handwritten note. He unfolded it, his eyes scanning the delicate script:

 

Simon,

I’m not much of a knitter, but Eleanor taught me enough to make this. You know as well as I do how cold it gets here on the East Coast during the winter, so I thought this might serve to both warm you and—hopefully—inspire you, even a fraction as much as you’ve inspired me.

Happy birthday.
–Jeanette

 

Simon took a deep breath, clutching the note close to his chest as his heart thudded against his ribcage. Beneath the paper lay a scarf—a long, uneven weave of blue and purple thread. The stitching was imperfect, clearly the work of a beginner, but it was the thought—the love—that emanated from it, filling him with a warmth he couldn’t quite describe.

Then his eyes caught the words knitted down the length of the scarf: Dr. Seville.

A sharp pang of guilt struck him. How many times had he joked about earning that title in conversations with Jeanette, laughing off the immense pressure it carried? And now, here it was, lovingly immortalized in her gift, a tangible representation of the faith she had in him. Yet to Simon, it felt more like a painful reminder. This scarf, for all its care and sincerity, might be the closest he would ever come to being Dr. Seville.

The gentle strumming of a guitar rose from the stage, pulling his gaze upward. A ripple of applause spread through the bar as the lights dimmed, leaving Jeanette illuminated in their soft glow. She sat perched on a stool, her worn acoustic guitar resting on her lap, and a microphone as large as she was tilted toward her face. She looked small yet radiant under the spotlight, her fingers plucking out a few test notes as she murmured something into the mic.

Simon’s chest tightened, a bittersweet ache rising with each plucked string. The moment was beautiful.

“Simon,” Hannah’s voice broke through his thoughts, low and deliberate. Her tone was firm but quiet, keeping their conversation private. He glanced briefly at the others, who were engrossed in chatter about Izzy’s latest academic woes. Knowing exactly what was coming, he stepped closer to Hannah.

“You haven’t told her yet, have you?” she asked, her sharp eyes flicking toward the scarf still clutched in his hands.

Simon sighed deeply, his fingers tightening around the fabric. “I don’t need the lecture,” he muttered. “I’m already giving myself one.”

Hannah leaned forward, her voice dropping further. “Simon, you have to tell her. I don’t know why you’re dragging this out, but the longer you wait, the worse it’ll be.”

“I know,” Simon admitted, his voice low. “I just…” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to ease the tension coiled there. “I’m worried she’ll hate me for it.”

Hannah’s laugh was soft but incredulous. “Simon, don’t be ridiculous. That girl adores you. You could set fire to her textbooks and she’d probably find a way to blame herself for leaving them near an open flame.”

Simon’s gaze dropped to his feet, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks. He knew Jeanette held him in high regard—too high, he sometimes thought. While he respected her deeply, their dynamic had evolved over the years into one where she often deferred to him. He would never take advantage of that trust, but it made the weight of his decision all the heavier.

“That being said,” Hannah continued, her tone sharpening, “if you spring this on her at the last minute, it’ll break her heart. She might forgive you, but I sure as hell won’t.”

“Noted,” Simon mumbled, rubbing his neck again. Jeanette was the darling of their friend group, the one they all instinctively protected. If he hurt her, he’d become a pariah.

Hannah leaned back in her chair, her expression unreadable as she sipped her beer. “You know what I think?” she mused, her tone deceptively casual. “I think you haven’t told her yet because once you do, it’ll all become real. And deep down, you know you don’t actually want to do this.”

Simon let out a low growl of frustration. Her words cut too close to the truth for comfort. “Whether I want it or not isn’t the point,” he said flatly. “It’s a matter of responsibility.”

“Whatever you have to tell yourself, Simon.” Hannah’s expression softened, and she leaned in again, her voice losing its edge. “But she deserves to know,” she said quietly. “Not because you owe it to her—though you do—but because she cares about you. She deserves the chance to understand…for that matter, if anyone can talk you out of this stupid decision, it’s probably her.”

Simon didn’t respond. His gaze drifted back to the stage, where Jeanette had just begun her first song. The room quieted, her voice filling the air with a gentle melody that wrapped around him like a blanket. This wasn’t like the polished group performances of their youth; this was raw and vulnerable, just Jeanette and her guitar. The lyrics cut deep, reflecting her innermost thoughts and emotions. Simon was mesmerized, as he always was when she performed. Memories of her practicing in his dorm room while he studied flooded his mind, tugging at his heartstrings.

Jeanette’s eyes met his briefly from across the room, and she smiled. It was a small, radiant expression that made his chest tighten and his senses buzz. The thought of disappointing her stung in a way that made his entire body ache.

With a frustrated groan, Simon drained the rest of his drink in one swift motion, slamming the glass onto the table with a sharp clink. The sound drew the attention of the group, but Simon didn’t meet their curious gazes.

“I’m going to need another drink,” he muttered, standing and heading toward the bar before anyone could stop him.

The hours slipped by unhurriedly, each drink thinning the group bit by bit. Isiah was the first to leave, muttering something about feeling out of place as the only one too young to drink. Jamal and Izzy followed shortly after, citing “studying” as their excuse. As they walked out together, Hannah leaned toward Simon with a knowing smirk.

“That’s the third time those two have left together,” she murmured.

Simon chuckled but didn’t respond, filing away the observation for future teasing. He watched as Jeanette floated between their table and the stage during her breaks, her presence as warm and familiar as ever. Their conversations were brief but lively, and Simon found comfort in her easy smiles.

Hannah, as close to him as a sister now, kept their dialogue flowing naturally, their bond needing no crutch of forced conversation. Simon drank sparingly, slowing down whenever he felt the faint buzz of inebriation. He disliked how alcohol dulled his senses and preferred to remain present, especially tonight.

By the time Jeanette’s final set concluded, the pub had swelled with the rowdy pre-clubbing crowd, the air thick with noise and energy. Hannah drained her last drink, offering a casual wave as she excused herself, leaving Simon and Jeanette to slip out into the night together.

Their dorms lay on opposite ends of the campus, but Simon walked Jeanette home, as he always did after late-night study sessions or performances. The gesture had become so routine that Jeanette no longer protested, simply falling into step beside him. The cold wrapped around them like a blanket, and Simon tugged the scarf she had knitted closer to his neck. Its warmth was a quiet reminder of her thoughtfulness.

Their walks were usually filled with conversation, but tonight Simon was uncharacteristically quiet. His thoughts churned, tangled with guilt and indecision. It wasn’t until Jeanette’s voice broke the stillness that Simon realized they were already near her dorm.

“It’s definitely getting colder,” she remarked, her breath puffing into the air in small clouds. “Maybe I’ll ask Eleanor to make us some mittens.”

Simon smiled faintly, his fingers brushing against the scarf. “Why don’t you try to make them?” he suggested. “You did a great job on this.”

Jeanette’s cheeks flushed as she laughed softly. “You’d feel differently if you knew how many failed attempts it took to make a straight scarf.”

They chuckled together, their laughter dissolving into the crisp night air. Jeanette’s voice softened as she spoke again. “But…I-I’m glad you like it.”

Simon tightened his grip on the scarf, staring at the ground. “It’s the best gift I’ve ever received,” he admitted, his tone raw with sincerity.

Jeanette smiled warmly, her gaze softening. “I was worried at first that you might apply for a master’s instead of a doctorate. But then I remembered how much you’ve talked about earning your doctorate. I knew you wouldn’t change your mind so suddenly.”

Simon’s stomach twisted. Her words, so casual and kind, felt like a dagger to his resolve.

“W-what if I did?” Simon’s voice was barely above a whisper, but Jeanette tilted her head curiously, urging him to continue. “What if I did change my mind? If I decided to give it all up—would that bother you?”

Jeanette hummed thoughtfully, her chin resting in her hand as she glanced at the stars. “I’d be surprised, sure. It’s what you’ve wanted for as long as I’ve known you. But…I’d just want to know why.” She turned to him, her smile soft and encouraging, pulling an answering but hollow smile from him.

They rounded the final corner to her dorm, the wet grass squelching beneath their feet. The building loomed ahead, its windows glowing faintly in the night.

“Should we bring back a souvenir for Dave?” Jeanette asked, her tone light.

Simon huffed a quiet laugh. “Dave probably has enough Boston snow globes and Harvard flags to last a lifetime. I don’t think he needs more.”

Jeanette giggled, pausing at the stairs leading up to her dorm. “I suppose you’re right. Besides, there’ll be plenty of chances for souvenirs in the next few years.”

Simon’s heart sank, her words pressing on him like a weight. He couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye, the usual hum of campus life subdued by the late hour.

Jeanette reached out, her cold fingers brushing against his cheek before playfully tousling his fur. Simon flinched slightly but met her gaze. Her radiant smile cut through the icy night, sending a warmth rushing through him despite the chill.

“Your fur’s getting long,” she observed, flicking a strand before pulling her hand back. “I’ll cut it for you when we’re back from Los Angeles, if you want.”

She didn’t wait for a response, turning and bouncing up the stairs, her guitar case bobbing on her back. “Thanks for walking me home, Simon. I’ll text you tomorrow about the flights.”

Simon stood frozen at the bottom of the steps, fists clenched tightly as Hannah’s earlier words echoed in his mind: If you do this without telling her, you’ll break her heart.

Simon exhaled deeply, his breath visible in the icy air as he looked down, his bare toes brushing against the cold concrete of the steps. His heart felt like it was being squeezed, but he knew he had to speak.

“Jeanette…” His voice was barely a whisper, soft enough that Jeanette paused on the third step and turned to face him. Her expression shifted to one of gentle curiosity, her glasses catching the faint glow of a nearby lamppost.

Simon swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet her gaze with a determined but hesitant expression. “I’m not going to be coming back to Harvard,” he said, his voice measured and low, each word feeling heavier than the last.

Jeanette’s smile faded, replaced by a look of quiet concern. She didn’t speak, giving him the space to continue.

“After graduation,” Simon went on, “I’m moving back to California. For good. I’ll find work, move back into Dave’s house…” His voice trailed off as he searched her face for a reaction. He hadn’t expected her to cry or stumble over her words—Jeanette wasn’t like her sister Brittany. But he had expected something more than the steady, searching look she gave him now, her arched brows hinting at the faintest trace of emotion.

The silence stretched uncomfortably between them, and Simon felt a pang of longing for her to yell, to protest, to do anything. The stoicism unnerved him more than anger ever could.

“Is this about Dave?” Jeanette finally asked, her voice gentle but firm.

Simon took another deep breath, his chest tightening. Conversations about Dave had become a delicate dance as of late, but tonight wasn’t the time for caution. “Dave is dying,” he said bluntly. The words landed with the weight of a truth too heavy to ignore. “You know it, I know it… What matters now is how we deal with it. Some of us will be able to process it, and others…” His voice faltered, and he didn’t finish.

Jeanette’s eyes flickered briefly, looking away for the barest moment before returning to his. That fleeting glance was all Simon needed to know she understood who he meant.

Simon stepped up one stair, closing the distance between them, and Jeanette matched his movement by stepping down. Now they stood just feet apart.

“I have a responsibility, Jeanette,” Simon said, his voice firm. “I have to be there for them. I can’t do that from across the country. If that means I need to put my education on hold for a few years…so be it.”

Jeanette’s lips pressed together as she considered his words, her gaze lifting briefly to the night sky. The faint sound of distant laughter and shouts from other students occasionally punctuated the quiet around them, but for the most part they were in their own world. After a long moment, she dropped down to the first step, standing level with Simon, and reached out to take his hand in hers.

“You’re a good big brother, Simon,” she said softly, her voice warm, a gentle smile touching her lips. “But sometimes, it makes you a bit of an idiot.”

Simon blinked, startled. A small, indignant squeak escaped his lips before he could stop it, earning a soft chuckle from Jeanette.

“Have you talked to Dave about this yet?” she asked, her tone light but probing. Simon hesitated, and she continued. “Or Alvin? Do you really think he’d let you give up your studies for his sake? Honestly, Simon, you’d probably make things worse by doing that.”

Simon stumbled over his words, his carefully rehearsed arguments unravelling like loose thread. Everything he’d planned to say seemed suddenly hollow in the face of Jeanette’s calm logic.

“Simon,” she continued, squeezing his hand gently. “Alvin and Theodore became adults today—same as you. They’re not kids anymore. We’re not kids anymore. You don’t have to keep putting your life on hold to protect us.” Her voice softened further as she looked away briefly, gathering her thoughts before returning her gaze to him, now steady and resolute. “You’re right. The next few months will be hard…for all of us. I-I'm not saying it's going to be easy, but the dynamics have changed since we were younger. Theodore has Eleanor—she’d move heaven and earth to keep him happy. And Alvin… well, as complicated as their friendship is, Brittany and Alvin look out for each other. In their own strange way. But I...” Jeanette's eyes drifted down as her voice trailed off.

She pulled her hand back, fidgeting with her sleeve as she always did when she struggled to find the words. A rosy blush spread across the bridge of her nose, barely visible in the dim light before a girlish sigh left her lips. “You don’t have to be the perfect older brother anymore, Simon. You don't always have to be the responsible one. You just have to be… you. And the Simon I know belongs right here, following his passion for science—for education. He belongs here...w-with me.”

Simon’s heart pounded suddenly, the rhythm almost erratic. For a moment, it felt as though he’d forgotten how to breathe. His eyes locked on Jeanette—her glasses catching the faint glow of moonlight, her tail swishing nervously behind her as she avoided his gaze in her shyness.

Of course, she was right. She was always right. Simon had always been called the smart one, and academically, he lived up to the title. But Jeanette’s brilliance went beyond textbooks. Her emotional maturity, her ability to cut through the fog of his thoughts with simple truth—that was what made her remarkable.

Jeanette cleared her throat softly and looked back up at him. “If you go back to California, I’ll understand,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I’ll miss you, but I’ll understand.” She reached out again, taking his hand with both of hers. “I’ll support you in anything, Simon. As long as it’s what you want.”

Simon froze, her words echoing in his mind. As long as it’s what you want. The question repeated itself over and over: What do you want?

His free hand moved almost on its own, gently cupping her cheek. Jeanette flinched slightly at the unexpected touch but didn’t pull away. Her gaze remained locked on his, steady and warm.

And then, Simon did what he never thought he’d have the courage to do. He leaned in, his lips brushing softly against hers. The kiss was gentle, hesitant, lingering for a moment before he pulled back. His lips were chapped from the cold, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was Jeanette.

“That,” he murmured, his voice shaky as he stared at her motionless figure. “That’s what I want. That’s what I’ve wanted for a long time.”

He braced himself for rejection, for anger, for awkward silence. What he didn’t expect was for Jeanette to spring to life, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his with surprising force. Simon stood frozen for a second before wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her closer.

Their embrace lasted what felt like an eternity, the quiet of the night now charged with a vibrant energy. When they finally pulled apart, Jeanette rested her forehead against his, her breath warm against his skin.

“I’ve wanted you to do that for even longer,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Simon let out a nervous laugh, his face burning with a mix of embarrassment and exhilaration.

Jeanette smiled, her voice soft but teasing. “And now you can’t go. Because If you move to California, you’d leave me here alone. That’s not very responsible of you, Simon.”

Simon chuckled, his arms tightening around her. “I never want to leave you alone,” he admitted quietly, his voice filled with newfound conviction.

Jeanette sighed happily, leaning into his embrace. “If that’s what you want, then I support you,” she murmured.

Notes:

if it is not already obvious with the addition of this chapter, This story is not told in chronological order. Time jumps around quite a bit from chapter to chapter. I've tried to include features in each chapter that might help to indicate where they sit in the timeline, so hopefully it doesn't lead to too much confusion.

Thankfully, now that I've finally overcome this hurdle of a chapter, the next few are done and ready to go, pending some last minute checks. So, updates will be much more timely for a while.

Thanks for taking the time to read this story, by the way. I never had much intention to actually release these stories. but even a few kind words and some spirited conversation about character development is wonderfully inspiring.

Chapter 5: A Worrying Summons

Theodore graciously thanked the rideshare driver as he exited the car onto the sidewalk. The driver had been amiable, showing a keen interest in his two unusual talking animal passengers. Theodore, used to such curiosity due to his and his companions’ public profiles and their musical past, handled it with grace. He understood that, even with Alvin and Brittany being household names by this point, encountering talking chipmunks during everyday errands could still be a novelty for most, so he always welcomed questions. Throughout the ride, he maintained a friendly demeanour, in contrast to his wife, who was noticeably colder, her frustration almost radiating through her fur. As they approached the formidable private school, Theodore felt compelled to offer her a comforting gesture.

“Let’s just hear what they have to say before we jump to any conclusions,” he suggested soothingly, hoping to ease the tension. “Perhaps it won’t be as bad as we think.”

“I’ve heard you say that too many times now, Theo,” Eleanor responded tersely, shrugging off his hand as she continued briskly toward the entrance. “It’s always as bad if not worse than we think.” Theodore wanted to respond, to reassure her, but he knew she had a point. This was not their first time being summoned by the school for a discussion, and each previous occasion had indeed turned out to be serious. With a sense of trepidation, they crossed the main gate, passing by the well-kept grounds of the prestigious institution.

As they passed by the classrooms, Theodore could feel the curious gazes of both students and faculty, but he chose to ignore them. Their destination was the administration building located at the far end of the school’s quadrangle. The campus was steeped in history, its red brick façade chipped and weathered from years of exposure, yet it possessed a quaint charm that blended elements of traditional English and American architecture. Vines draped the walls of one building, crawling up over the windows and roof, reminiscent of the university on the east coast where his older brother had earned his doctorate.

They reached the administration building after their scenic walk. Unlike the older structures, this building was modern. Theodore and Eleanor had to jump a bit to activate the sensor of the automatic glass door. As they entered, they were greeted by the blast of air-conditioning and the busy ambiance of office work—phones ringing, printers humming, and the rustle of papers, a stark contrast to the still bustling but distinctly different sounds of Theodore's bakery. With practiced confidence, they approached the reception desk, using a nearby chair to help them leap up. The young receptionist noticed them immediately, flashing a broad smile as she wrapped up a phone call.

"Theodore!" she exclaimed, causing a couple of other staff members to glance up from their tasks. "I’ve been meaning to thank you for that goodie basket you sent over last week. It disappeared before lunchtime—it was so delicious!"

Theodore blushed and shuffled his feet slightly. "I’m glad you all enjoyed it. I can send another basket if you’d like?"

"I would never say no to more treats from the best bakery in town," she replied with a light smile, which slowly faded as her eyes settled on Eleanor, whose expression had softened only marginally.

Theodore rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat. "So, whose office are we meeting in today? Counsellor? Head of house?"

"I’m afraid it’s the principal today," the receptionist grimaced, glancing toward a closed door opposite her desk. "They are in there now, waiting for you." Eleanor buried her face in her hands, letting out an exasperated sigh, while Theodore clicked his tongue in frustration. The school hadn’t provided details over the phone—they seldom did. Who they were meeting with usually indicated the severity of the issue; counsellors typically handled minor academic concerns, heads of house dealt with disciplinary issues, but a summons to the principal's office often spelled disaster.

Theodore politely thanked the receptionist before he and Eleanor made their way across the room toward the principal’s office. As they approached, Theodore noticed a line of students sitting in chairs outside the office, each appearing rather roughed up—some in swim team shirts, others wearing baseball caps, all looking dishevelled, drenched, and marked by bruises and remnants of food. This was an ominous sign.

Pushing open the heavy door, which creaked loudly, the pair entered the quiet room. A large desk dominated the centre, with two chairs on one side and an elderly gentleman in a light grey suit and deep red tie seated on the other. His expression was a mix of sympathy and sternness as he watched the chipmunks climb onto the chairs and then onto the table.

Theodore’s gaze immediately shifted to his own children huddled on the desk. Finn, Marcus, and Hazel were grouped together, their blue school blazers soaked, forming small puddles beneath them. Finn's tie was askew, Hazel's skirt was torn at the corner, and a blackberry seed was stuck behind Marcus's ear. They all looked down, their faces showing a mix of anger and fear, avoiding their parents' eyes.

This scene was not entirely new to Theodore; the three were often in mischief together. Hazel usually led their antics, but they all participated equally and faced the consequences as a unit. However, the presence of Lila on the opposite side of the desk was unexpected and troubling. Like her siblings, she was drenched, but her expression of intense anger was unusual for her. Typically, Lila was the model student among them, often only noted for perhaps being too engrossed in her books. Theodore's heart sank as he considered what serious incident had led all four of his children to sit soaked and distressed in the principal's office. What could have possibly happened to involve Lila, the usually calm and collected one, in such a predicament?

The principal's voice was heavy with fatigue as he started, "Thank you both for coming down on such short notice. I’m sure you understand I wouldn’t have called you here if it weren't important.”

“What have they done this time?” Eleanor’s voice was sharp, her question aimed more at her children than the principal.

“There was an incident in the cafeteria this afternoon,” the principal continued. “It appears your children initiated what turned into a sort of gang war between the swim team and baseball team that quickly escalated into a cafeteria-wide food fight.”

“They did what?” Eleanor’s voice rose, barely containing her fury, making the four tiny chipmunk’s flinch.

“It wasn’t like that!” Hazel quickly interjected but was silenced by Eleanor's stern gaze.

“How exactly did they start this fight?” Theodore asked, his voice calm, trying to mitigate his wife's anger.

The principal sighed deeply, straightening in his chair. He was a broad-shouldered man, his office adorned with a proudly displayed flag and framed medals, suggesting a military background. “I’m still piecing everything together, but it appears Hazel decided to confront a student, Jack from the baseball team. She reportedly yelled something about ‘throwing some stones of her own’ before pelting him.”

“You threw a stone at him?” Theodore gasped, turning his shocked gaze to his daughter, who avoided eye contact.

"Stone fruits, to be precise," the principal corrected. "It started with a cherry thrown by Hazel, which Jack responded to with a peach. Being on the swim team, Hazel quickly rallied her teammates, and they joined in with a pummelling of plums. Jack, as captain of the baseball team, had his teammates retaliate with a barrage of blackberries... Thankfully, we managed to intervene before the cantaloupes came out." He let out a huge sigh and buried his face in his hands. "What was supposed to be a refreshing, fruit-filled day to celebrate national health week quickly devolved into a real-life session of Fruit Ninja."

“That explains the mess,” Eleanor muttered as she plucked the blackberry seed from behind Marcus’ ear, flicking it away. “But why are they soaking wet?”

“It seems Finn and Marcus were not satisfied with just throwing fruit,” the principal continued, straightening his tie. “They decided to build what I can only describe as a chipmunk-sized ballista out of rubber bands, pencils, and a protractor to enhance their firepower. I'd almost be impressed with their engineering skills and ingenuity if it had worked as intended. Instead of launching fruit at their targets, the contraption fired straight up, knocking out a fire sprinkler and triggering every sprinkler in the cafeteria, flooding the entire area.”

Eleanor's voice rose sharply, her frustration palpable as she confronted the children. "What on earth were you thinking!" she exclaimed, her finger pointed accusingly at the trio known for mischief. "Starting fights; wasting food; destroying property... I don't even know where to start with this one! Your father had to close the bakery early because of this; did you even think about the consequences of your actions?"

"We didn’t start the f-fight," Finn's voice trembled, on the verge of tears, contrasting with his siblings who remained stoically silent. Theodore exchanged a look with the principal, whose expression conveyed a mix of disappointment and frustration. Yet, Theodore was puzzled by another aspect of the situation that didn't seem to fit.

"I can't begin to say how sorry I am," Theodore said, his tone conciliatory. "There's no excuse for their behaviour, and I assure you they will be punished... but I need to understand what Lila's role was in all this. It seems very out of character for her to be involved in these... shenanigans."

The principal folded his arms and adjusted his seat, his gaze lingering on Lila, who sat apart from her siblings. "This is the part of the puzzle I'm still trying to piece together. Lila didn’t engage in the food fight, but right after it stopped, she suddenly attacked Hazel quite aggressively."

Theodore swiftly turned his attention to Lila, his surprise evident. He reached out, gently but firmly turning her to face him before signing, Did you attack Hazel? Lila didn't respond; instead, she just glared over at Hazel, who shot back a scornful look.

Theodore was stunned. Violence was uncharacteristic of Lila, who, while occasionally irritable—especially towards her more boisterous sister—had never been aggressive. Something about this didn't make sense, and the underlying tension between the sisters hinted at deeper issues yet to be uncovered.

Theodore scrutinized each of his children, noting the evident tension between Lila and the rest. While Lila's quiet demeanour and disability often set her apart, her current withdrawal was unprecedented. Hazel, known for her mischievous nature, wasn't one to instigate conflicts without reason, and Finn and Marcus typically only joined in if they believed it justified. Theodore surmised Hazel had perceived a valid cause for her actions, though the specifics were unclear, as was the reason for Lila's disturbance by it.

“Finn,” Theodore said gently, kneeling and placing a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You said you didn’t start the fight, is this true?”

Finn's eyes, filled with unshed tears, met his father’s. He struggled with confrontation and was poor at concealing his feelings. “W-well… kind of,” he stuttered. “We d-d-did throw the f-first fruit… but…but…”

“We were defending Lila!” Hazel interjected passionately.

At that moment, Lila stood abruptly, signing rapidly, I didn’t ask you to.

“You don’t have to ask! You’re my sister; if someone is bullying you, they have to answer to me!” Hazel retorted fiercely.

“And me!” Marcus added, rising to stand by Hazel. Lila's frustration was palpable; she threw her hands up, her tail fluffed in anger.

“Jack was bullying you, Lila?” the principal asked in a clear, gentle tone, making sure his words were lip-readable for Lila. She paused, considering, then signed her response. Eleanor promptly translated for the principle.

“Jack isn’t bullying me,” Eleanor relayed. “Jack isn’t like that. He is a nice boy.”

“My tail he isn’t bullying you!” Hazel exclaimed, swiftly pulling Lila's backpack from her shoulders. Theodore tensed, ready to intervene, but Hazel stopped after seizing the bag. “If he isn’t bullying you, then explain this.” She unzipped the backpack and emptied its contents onto the desk. Books, pens, and worksheets spilled out, accompanied by numerous crumpled paper balls. “All week he's been throwing these at Lila; all week! He doesn’t even talk to her; just throws these at her all day.” Theodore observed Lila as she gazed forlornly at the collection of paper balls on the desk. The situation clearly affected her more deeply than she let on.

"Is this true, Lila?" the principal inquired, his tone gentle yet concerned.

Lila looked up at him and began to sign. Eleanor, ever attentive, translated, "It's not like that. Jack means well. He doesn’t know how to speak with sign language."

"That doesn’t explain nor justify throwing paper at you. Why didn’t you mention this to a teacher?" the principal pressed, seeking to understand the full context. Lila shuffled nervously, the room falling silent as all eyes were on her, waiting for her to continue. Instead of responding, she looked back up to the ceiling, signalling her withdrawal from the conversation; if she couldn’t read their lips, she couldn’t hear their words.

It still didn’t add up for Theodore. Lila was soft and kind, certainly, but not likely to simply shrug off bullying. Plus, it was such a strange form of bullying. Simply throwing small wads of paper at someone, while annoying, was a relatively small and easily ignorable act. The fact that there was no other form of escalation beyond this seemed peculiar. And the way Lila spoke about Jack was also off. She seemed almost defensive of the young man – not something you might expect from the recipient of bullying. There was still a missing piece to the puzzle that seemed just out of reach.

He looked down at the wads of paper, picking one up and turning it in his hand as the defensive bickering of Hazel faded into the background of his consciousness. It seemed strange that the bully would take the time to make paper balls so small. Surely it would be quicker and far more devastating to throw full sheets rather than tearing them into tiny balls…That’s when he noticed the faint mark of black ink from a protruding corner of paper. He unfurled the ball to reveal the written note within.

Do you think Lauriel will be able to retake Felen Lothran from the beasts?

The handwriting was rough, likely due to the difficulty of a human hand writing in such small text. Theodore grabbed another wad of paper and unfurled it.

I think Duhran Raa was the prince lover that Faaen was dreaming about in chapter four. Do you agree?

Theodore grabbed a third ball and unwrapped it like the last.

I hope Lauriel will make it through the mine of gorgal-goth. When will the author finish the third book!

Theodore was jolted back to reality by a gentle touch on his shoulder. He turned to find Eleanor leaning over him, her eyes scanning the unfolded papers spread out before him. The room had fallen silent, with all eyes fixed on him.

"Duhran Raa, Lauriel... these sound like fantasy characters," the principal remarked, his voice tinged with curiosity. Theodore recognized these names instantly; they were from 'The Mountains of Infinity,' a series that Lila had read obsessively. Theodore remembered his initial discomfort when she began reading it, given its mature content and unflinching portrayals of intimacy and violence. Her reading ability and understanding of nuanced themes had always been advanced for her age.

He looked up at Lila, who was smiling softly down at the papers, her arms hugged around herself and her tail curled protectively around her waist. After a moment, she caught Theodore's encouraging nod and straightened up, ready to explain.

"Jack likes to read 'The Mountains of Infinity,'" Eleanor translated Lila's signs. "But none of the baseball team read at all. He saw me reading the books one day and tried to ask me about them, but he couldn’t understand my sign language. So, he wrote me a note, and I wrote one back...and we talked like that for a while."

"Wait," Hazel interjected, "Jack is a nerd?" Theodore cleared his throat loudly, instructing Hazel to promptly close her mouth. Though Eleanor usually carried the strict tone, Theodore had his own effective way of imposing silence.

"That’s exactly why we started sharing the notes in secret," Lila glared at her sister while Eleanor continued translating her explanation. "You jocks all think reading is nerdy, I knew you would tease him for it. So, I started to slip the notes into his locker, and he...he isn’t very smart sometimes. He means well, but this was his way of avoiding getting caught passing notes." Lila turned her gaze to the principal, who had been quietly absorbing the story. "When Hazel started a fight with Jack, I got so angry because I was scared he would stop talking with me. I have never met someone who likes the books as much as I do. I didn’t want to lose my friend…I don’t have many friends because I can’t talk to them."

The room fell deathly silent as Lila lowered her hands to her side and looked down at her feet. Theodore felt a whirlwind of emotions, but among them, sadness stood out the most. From the moment they found out Lila would be profoundly deaf, he had known she would face struggles in her life. He did everything he could to make life for her easier, learning sign language and making sure the whole household signed as easily as they spoke, but her life outside the safe walls of their home was out of his hands. He felt crestfallen.

"Lila..." A whimpering voice broke the silence. Expecting it to be Finn, Theodore was surprised to see it was Hazel, usually so full of pride, struggling to hold back tears. Her hands clenched into fists, her body tense as she fought the urge to cry. After a moment, she rushed forward and enveloped Lila in a tight hug. "I’m s-s-so sorry! I thought—I thought he w-was being mean to you," she stammered, her voice breaking with emotion. Lila, taken aback at first, soon returned the embrace, her own eyes moistening.

Theodore's heart swelled with warmth as the siblings' misunderstanding was resolved, restoring harmony within the family. Finn and Marcus quickly joined the hug, and the four siblings comforted each other with whispered apologies.

Turning to his wife, who shared a warm smile with him, Theodore then looked at the principal, who, although smiling, had a complex expression that hinted at deeper thoughts.

"That solves the mystery, I suppose," the principal remarked. "Not where I expected this meeting to go, but certainly an interesting narrative." He cleared his throat loudly, signalling the siblings to break their hug and line up. "While I am glad you have reconciled, your actions are still under scrutiny. I have a flooded cafeteria and two sports teams covered in fruit viscera...there will need to be punishments."

"Whatever you deem fit," Theodore quickly agreed.

The principal rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then a mischievous smile spread across his face. "For starters, you will all be cleaning the mess you made in the cafeteria."

"Yes, sir," Finn, Hazel, and Marcus responded in unison. Lila simply nodded, accepting the decision.

"And you’re all grounded for the next two weeks," Eleanor added sternly. "No video games, no television, and no books." This last punishment seemed to hit Lila the hardest, as she had never been grounded before.

"If it is alright with you, Miss Seville," the principal interjected before Eleanor could continue. "I might have a solution that both serves as punishment and keeps them away from books and screens for a few hours at the least." Eleanor looked at him curiously, then nodded for him to continue. "I assume all four of you know sign language?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Finn confirmed. "Though Markus is the worst at it."

"Am not!" Markus protested, but Eleanor’s silencing gesture prevented any further argument.

"It seems to me," the principal continued, "that we as a school are lacking in education around deafness and sign language here at Rutherford. I believe it’s time we remedy this and include sign language as one of the languages of our curriculum.” At this statement, Lila’s eyes lit up. “ Until we can source suitable teachers, I think having you four teach sign language to the swimming and baseball teams will be a suitable public service to pay off your punishment."

Notes:

After some heavier chapters, its nice to have a bit of fun with a more simple tale.

When I initially started these short stories, I had envisioned Theodore being a Psychologist. He has always come across to me as a great listener with an excellent understanding of the emotions of those around him. But, as I worked with the character more and more I came to realise I could have my cake and eat it to--pun certainly intended. I could show his creative side through his passion for cooking while showing his emotional maturity through the way he treats his family. I think this combination is just right for Theodore.

This is just a little peak into the lives of the kids, though Ivy and Cora are noticeably absent in this one (don't worry, they get plenty of development as we move forward). While I love working with these characters, and we will learn more and more about them as time goes on, I'm very aware that they should be there to enhance the stories of our main characters.

Hope you enjoyed this lighter tale.

Chapter 6: A Visit to the Hospital

Notes:

Too many long chapters lately; time for a short one.

Brittany tried to shift her left leg as she settled into the hospital pillow, but a sharp stab of pain quickly halted her attempt. The dull, constant ache was bad enough; any movement made it unbearable. The medication helped, but she wasn’t going to try moving again anytime soon. 

"Let it rest," Kenny urged from her bedside, his eyes dark with the tiredness that seemed to come with his job. The small private hospital room was barely wide enough for the bed and the chair he occupied. On the table beside the bed, both Kenny’s phone and Brittany’s smartwatch buzzed incessantly with messages, a constant reminder of the situation. 

Brittany blew the hair out of her eyes and reclined further into the pillow. Normally she loved being the centre of attention; her career thrived on it. But now, she wanted nothing more than to hide away and talk to no one. She was so embarrassed. 

Her attention shifted to the door as a perky young doctor entered, her blue scrubs crisp and her stethoscope casually draped around her neck, pinning back her dark ponytail. She held a manila folder, glancing at its contents. 

"Well, as expected, it’s broken," the doctor said in a chipper tone that irked Brittany. "Specifically, you have an oblique fracture to your tibia." 

"Is that serious?" Kenny asked. 

"Not particularly," the doctor replied. "We’ll set it in a cast, and you’ll need to stay off it, but it should heal nicely in a few months." 

"A few months…" Brittany muttered to herself. She had expected as much, but part of her had hoped for a quicker recovery. 

"At least you waited until the last show of the series to pull this stunt," Kenny joked. Brittany’s dangerous glare was answer enough. 

"If you’re ready, I can start on the cast. It’ll be the smallest one I’ve ever made, that’s for sure!" The doctor’s joke fell flat, and her laughter faded into silence as Brittany glowered at her. She wasn’t in the mood for ‘small-chipmunk’ jokes. With a few awkward gestures, the doctor excused herself, and Brittany huffed in frustration. She just wanted to get this over with. 

"She’s just a little starstruck, Brittany; no need to be so terse," Kenny said. "Even in a hospital, you’re still a celebrity." 

"Tell you what," Brittany snapped. "Let’s break your leg and see how pleasant you are." Kenny, unfazed, barely raised an eyebrow. He had been her manager long enough to recognize a Brittany tantrum. 

Not getting the reaction she wanted, Brittany sighed and folded her arms, turning away from her manager. She glanced at her buzzing smartwatch. She would have to call her sisters; better they hear the news from her than some gossip column. Perhaps she could use this downtime to visit them. She guessed she could garner two months of sympathy from each of them before they grew tired of her. Two months in Houston with Eleanor, enjoying Theodore’s cooking and her nieces and nephews. Then two months in New York with Jeanette, soaking up culture. Not a bad plan, given the circumstances. 

A loud crash snapped Brittany from her reverie, and her attention swung to the doorway as a symphony of shouts and more crashes followed. 

“Grab him!” shouted her personal security guard. Another metallic crash drowned him out. 

“Easy, big fella,” a higher-pitched, familiar voice followed. “Just tell me where she is, and we can both go our own way.” 

“You can’t be back here!” another voice called. “This area is for patients only.” 

“Like hell I can’t!” the squeaky voice challenged. “You ever been bitten by a chipmunk? Can you be sure I don’t have rabies?!” 

Brittany winced as another loud crash rang through the hospital corridor. She turned to look at Kenny, whose deadpan expression confirmed her suspicions. “In here, idiot!” she called out. 

There was another small crash, a few shouted curses, and then a sudden red blur as Alvin leapt through the doorway and onto the bed, followed closely by her security guard and a flurry of hospital staff. The guard moved to grab Alvin, but Brittany quickly raised her hand to stop him. 

“It’s alright, he’s with me… unfortunately,” Brittany announced to the now crowded room. Silence followed as the crowd cautiously eyed Alvin, who dusted off his red leather jacket and shot a smug grin at the security guard. 

“Better luck next time, bigfoot,” Alvin teased. 

“Slippery little…” The guard let his words trail off before leaving the room, the stunned hospital staff following suit. Once the room was emptied of onlookers, Alvin quickly turned his attention back to Brittany, his eyes wide with concern. 

“Are you okay? What happened? They wouldn’t say anything over the phone, just that you had to stop your show and rush to the hospital. Did you get attacked by a fan or something?” 

“Relax,” Brittany giggled. Seeing Alvin so flustered was rare, and seeing him flustered over her was sweet. “It’s just a broken leg, nothing major. How did you find out?” She looked to Kenny, who shrugged. 

“Don’t look at me; it was probably the hospital. Who do you have down as your emergency contact?” 

Brittany thought for a moment before blushing slightly. “Remind me to update that to your contact information,” she muttered. 

“Why didn’t you call me?” Alvin shouted, making Brittany jump at the sudden increase in volume. “Is it a major break? Does it hurt? What medication have they given you? Are you… what?” Alvin trailed off as he noticed Brittany’s smirk. Her grin was a mix of joy and mischief. 

“You were worried about me, weren’t you?” Her voice dripped with smug superiority, and Alvin quickly became flustered. These moments of vulnerability in Alvin were some of Brittany’s favourite. Of course, she would tease him for it; the opportunities were too rare to let slip. 

“Was not!” Alvin defended, folding his arms. “You’re not… I’m just… how did you even break your leg?” 

Brittany’s mirth quickly evaporated at this question. Heat crept across her face, and she looked at the ceiling to avoid eye contact. The silence lingered before she finally swallowed the lump in her throat. There was no avoiding the explanation. 

“I was performing, and one of the pyrotechnics misfired.” 

“You got hit with pyrotechnics?” Alvin’s eyes widened, and Brittany quickly waved down his conclusion. 

“No, no. It just startled me. I wasn’t expecting it, and it made me jump, and I… I… fell off the front of the stage.” Her final words were barely a whisper, her face as red as a tomato. 

Alvin stared in silence for a long moment before speaking in a flat tone. “You fell off stage?” 

“Yes,” Brittany quickly affirmed. 

“And broke your leg?” 

“That’s about it.” 

“Because you were… startled?” 

“Are you deaf?” Brittany snapped. 

“Are you blind?” Alvin snapped back, though with much more glee. “How do you fall off the front of the stage? We’re chipmunks; jumping and climbing is, like, in our DMA” 

“It’s D N A, and nobody asked for your opinion, Alvin,” Brittany huffed as Alvin started to laugh. She was beet red with embarrassment and wanted to scold him, but as she shifted to do so, her leg shot up a stab of pain that made her yelp. 

Alvin’s demeanour quickly changed, and he rushed to her side, placing his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, sit still!” he hissed, no taunting tone left. “You’re going to make it worse.” 

Brittany wanted to shrug him away, but his genuine concern gave her pause. His warm hand on her shoulder was reassuring, even if it was a bit sweaty. 

“You could have called, by the way,” Alvin turned to Kenny. 

“I didn’t want to distract you,” Kenny replied calmly, clearly practiced at handling his clients. “If I remember correctly, you have a song deadline at the end of the week. How’s that coming along?” 

Alvin examined Brittany’s leg as if he believed he were a doctor. Brittany reluctantly allowed it but was ready to slap him if he caused any pain. “The song for Dave Masters? I finished that, like, two weeks ago.” 

“You told me last week you were still working on it,” Kenny challenged. 

“Because I knew you’d hassle me to pick up another project if you thought I had free time. You know the new Madden game came out last week; can’t a chipmunk have a few days to play video games in peace?” Kenny sighed as he reached for his phone, but didn’t comment. He was used to Alvin’s ways, though Brittany imagined it was still frustrating. “Will you need to wear a cast?” Alvin asked. 

“For a few months,” Brittany sighed, noting with a cocked eyebrow how confidently Alvin was touching her upper thigh. “I was thinking of using the time to visit Eleanor and Jeanette.” 

Alvin let out a doubtful sound. “You’d maybe get a few weeks out of each of them before they kicked you out.” 

Though she had reached a similar conclusion herself moments ago, hearing Alvin say it so confidently, and with such a low estimate, made her swat his hand away. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You’re a nightmare when you’re sick,” Alvin chuckled, settling on the edge of the bed. “Your princess tendencies go through the roof.” 

“You’re about to get thrown off the roof,” Brittany retorted. He had such a talent for getting under her skin. 

“You two are adorable,” Kenny murmured, not looking up from his phone. His tone was sarcastic with a hint of truth, which only fuelled Brittany’s frustration. 

“Thin ice, Kenny,” she warned. “I’m feeling really attacked here. How about a little sympathy?” 

“Relax,” Alvin smiled, reaching for her smartwatch. Even though it hurt, she moved to slap his hand. He had no respect for her private property. “We’ll get this cast on you and take you back to my place, and you can be as big of a princess as you want.” 

Brittany glared at him for a long moment. But his soft smile never wavered, and she softened. As annoying as he was, and as skilled at getting under her skin, she found solace in his offer. While she wanted to disappear from the public eye until her injury healed, the idea of being the centre of his attention for a few months was… tempting. 

“I’m not staying at your place,” she said, folding her arms. “You think I can hop onto all your furniture with my leg like this? We’re staying at my apartment where everything’s accessible. I spent a fortune on that custom apartment for moments exactly like this.” 

“Fine, whatever.” Alvin rolled his eyes. 

“And I want my sisters to visit.” 

“We can fly them in.” 

“And I want ice cream.” 

“We’ll get it on the way home.” 

“I want it now!”  

Alvin turned to Kenny with a flat expression. “See? This is exactly what I was talking about,” he mumbled. “Can you source some ice cream in this hospital?” 

Kenny looked up, offended, before puffing out a breath. “I’m the manager. Ice cream and kind words are a boyfriend’s job.” 

“I’m not her…” Alvin’s defensive tone faltered as he checked the door for eavesdroppers. He sighed and stood, patting down his jacket. “Fine! I’ll see what I can find.” 

As he trudged toward the door, Brittany added one last stipulation. “Make sure it’s strawberry ice cream. Don’t bother coming back if it’s not.” 

Though Brittany couldn’t see his face, the sag in his shoulders and twitch of his ears gave her great satisfaction. Maybe the next few months wouldn’t be so bad after all. 

“The next few months are going to be hell,” Alvin sighed as he left the room. 

 

Notes:

The Mundane moments are where Alvin and Brittany shine, in my opinion. Moments where we can see Brittany's sharp wit and Alvin's tenacity go head to head are such fun moments to write. I love walking the line between "so close they act like an old married couple" and "pretending to hate each other for their image."
Writing out of order often creates situations like this, where my portrayal of Kenny - to me - feels so fully developed because of chapters I’ve already written but haven’t yet shared. As we continue to explore the chipmunks' lives, more of Kenny’s character will unfold—I promise he’s much more than just a stand-in for Dave.

Chapter 7: A Warm Summers Evening

Eleanor emerged from the hatch leading to the roof of her shopfront home, skilfully balancing a tray of drinks in one hand while lifting the latch with the other. She let the hatch fall shut with a metallic clunk and crossed the grey gravel of the flat roof, stepping up onto the wooden deck she had constructed the previous year. This deck, a project that took nearly two months to complete, was now a beautifully functional space. It was large enough to fit six of her custom lounge chairs, a sunken firepit, a barbecue and outdoor kitchen for Theodore, and a bench for family meals in good weather—like tonight. Slatted beams overhead provided shade during the hot Texan days, and string lights woven between them cast a twinkling glow in the evenings. This rooftop oasis, perched atop their two-story business and home, offered a splendid view of the night sky and the street plaza below. It currently sat a little grey and lifeless for her tastes, but she had just planted her first set of vegetables and various flowers into the pots and beds she had constructed, so, with some luck, the roof would be brimming with life and greenery in a few months.

As Eleanor approached the lounge chairs encircling the crackling fire, she presented the tray of drinks. It held three beverages: two flute glasses filled with an orange mixture, a jug containing more of the concoction, and a glass of plain sparkling water.

“Courtesy of Theo: Peach Bellini’s” Eleanor announced, offering the drinks to her sisters. Brittany eagerly took one of the glasses, while Jeanette accepted hers more hesitantly. Eleanor then grabbed the sparkling water for herself and settled into a sun chair, setting the tray aside.

“It’s a shame you can’t partake with us,” Brittany commented, examining her drink.

“I’ve never been much of a drinker anyway,” Eleanor responded. “Now that I’m pregnant, I’ve got a good excuse to turn down drinks at parties.”

“It’s still so surreal to me to think that we’re going to have little chipmunks running around,” Jeanette said, gazing up at the night sky. “I hope they are like us…” Eleanor rubbed her stomach thoughtfully as she sipped her water. She remembered very little about her chipmunk parents, who were likely ordinary chipmunks that didn’t talk or sing. The possibility that her offspring might be normal chipmunks like her parents rather than her and Theodore was a troubling thought.

“I guess we will know for sure in nine months…or, however long it takes for us.” she said confidently, pushing aside her concerns for the moment. Raising her glass, she toasted, “To babies!” Her sisters leaned in to clink their glasses against hers, echoing her toast before taking deep sips of their drinks.

“Theodore is an artist!” Brittany exclaimed, taking another sip of her drink. “I don’t know how everything he makes tastes so good.”

“He says it’s all about consistency,” Eleanor explained. “He blends the peaches and then strains them. He always tells me, ‘Extra small cooking requires extra fine details.’ It’s like his motto.”

“It tastes like home,” Jeanette commented, her thoughts clearly drifting to the peach orchard where she and her sisters had grown up. “Makes me feel guilty for not calling Olivia more often.”

“Alvin and I visited the orchard when we were last in Australia for our tour a few years ago,” Brittany added. "She hasn’t changed a bit. Still enjoying her quiet life.”

“Theo and I called her last week to tell her the good news,” Eleanor chimed in, fondly remembering the woman who had raised them in their earliest years before they moved to America to pursue their dreams. “She’s starting to get a few grey hairs.”

“Oh, I bet she’s overjoyed about that!” Brittany chuckled. The sisters fell silent for a moment, each lost in memories of their childhood days on the orchard. They were just kids back then, and now here they were, discussing Eleanor’s own impending motherhood. How time flies.

“What if we all went back there for a holiday,” Eleanor suggested, “just for a week or so before the babies are due?”

“I’m not sure I will be able to,” Jeanette admitted sheepishly, avoiding eye contact as she rubbed the back of her neck. “My first reclamation project is set to start soon—I’ll probably be away for at least a couple of months.”

“Where are you going again?” Brittany asked.

“Borneo, in East Kalimantan,” Jeanette replied. “We’re working on mitigating erosion caused by a new dam in the area. It’s threatening the habitats of native species.” Brittany nodded, though her expression was somewhat vacant, clearly not grasping all the technical details.

“I’m glad to see your master’s degree was worth it in the end,” Eleanor said with a smile to her middle sister. “You’ve wanted to work in environmental conservation since high school.”

Jeanette blushed but smiled warmly in return. “I’m just happy I get to make a difference in person, not stuck in some office writing research papers for politicians who don’t care. It’s hard work and means I’ll be away for long periods, but it’s what I’ve always dreamed of doing.”

“Following your dreams? Now that I can understand!” Brittany cheered, raising her glass for a hearty swig, prompting laughter from her sisters.

The boisterous sound of music interrupted the sisters' laughter as the floor beneath them vibrated with the beat of drums and the throb of bass. Through the floor, Eleanor could faintly hear the voices of three chipmunks singing in perfect harmony. Well, almost perfect. It was clear two of the three voices were… somewhat out of practice.

"Sounds like the boys are enjoying the family reunion," Eleanor chuckled, prompting an eye roll from Brittany.

"Kenny and I tried to stop Alvin from bringing his guitar," Brittany mumbled, "but getting him to stop playing music lately is nearly impossible. I hope your neighbours don’t mind the noise."

"Not many people actually live in these shops," Eleanor reassured her as she peered over the edge of the roof towards the row of shopfronts below. While many were dual-purpose dwellings, the upper floors were often converted into offices. "We still have yet to meet this Kenny fellow," she added idly.

“It’s so strange to me to realise you haven’t,” Brittany chuckled. “He’s such a massive part of Me and Alvin’s lives lately. every second of our lives goes past his desk. He’s a good manager.”

Mention of managers had Eleanor’s thoughts drifting back to her previous manager and guardian. It brought up thoughts that she considered leaving to lie, but curiosity won over. "Alvin seems to be in high spirits," she ventured cautiously.

A brief silence fell before Brittany cleared her throat. "He’s back to his normal annoying self…almost a shame."

"I was quite worried about him for a while," Jeanette added softly, swirling her drink. "After the funeral…I had never seen him so…quiet."

Brittany sighed deeply, her mood sombering. "Out of all of us, Alvin was the closest to Dave," she said, her voice lowering with the weight of the memory. "When he passed…well, we all know Alvin took it hard. He shut everyone out; me, Simon, Theo…he went to a pretty dark place for a while." Eleanor clasped her glass tightly, looking down. Alvin had always been a beacon of confidence and positivity; to see him withdrawn and quiet was unsettling. Dave’s passing had been tough on everyone, but especially so on Alvin. "But," Brittany’s voice brightened slightly as she looked up at her sisters, "it seems like whatever demons he was fighting, he turned into inspiration. Look where he is now."

"Number one in the Billboard charts," Jeanette noted with a smile.

"Number one on every damn chart," Brittany said, her tone tinged with envy. "That damn album of his is the biggest musical hit in years. I’ve never seen an album perform like it has. Out of the seven songs, four were in the top ten, and the single is only now starting to drop from the number one spot." She clicked her tongue, but a faint smile played at her lips. "Lightning in a bottle," she murmured.

"You’re proud of him," Eleanor said with a teasing grin.

Brittany shot her a look before scoffing. "I’m just glad he’s back on his feet and I can finally kick him out of my apartment."

"I didn’t know he was staying with you," Jeanette chimed in.

"He wasn’t releasing any music after Dave passed, so he couldn’t afford his rent," Brittany explained. "Besides, it was…it was easier to keep an eye on him with him staying at my place." Her expression softened momentarily before she quickly composed herself. "But now he’s making money hand over fist. So, I’ve given him a month to find a place and move out."

"Where was he sleeping in your apartment?" Eleanor teased.

“The couch…” Brittany’s tone suggested any further insinuations would be dangerous.

Sensing the danger, Jeanette inquired, “has he found an apartment he likes?"

"Apartment? He’s looking at mansions!" Brittany almost spat, making Eleanor wonder just how strong Theodore's drinks were. "You should see the size of some of the places he’s been looking at."

"Can he really afford something like that?" Jeanette asked.

Brittany blew the hair from her eyes. "He’s making more money in a day than I make in a month. It’s incredible."

"I had no idea…" Jeanette's voice trailed off in astonishment. "Why did I pay for the taxi from the airport?" she finally asked, eliciting giggles from her two sisters.

The three sisters exchanged warm looks, a comfortable silence enveloping them. It was a stark contrast to their last gathering at Dave’s funeral, and the light-hearted reunion now unfolding was a welcome shift. For the first time since that sombre event, a sense of normalcy was beginning to return.

“Elle,” Brittany spoke up with a mischievous lilt that immediately put Eleanor on alert. She recognized that tone all too well—it usually preceded something bold or controversial. “Now that it’s just us girls, can I ask you something?”

“I’m wary, but go ahead,” Eleanor replied, her curiosity piqued despite her reservations. Brittany leaned over to pick up the jug from the floor, topping off her glass and swirling the contents before taking a sip.

“I’ve been wondering—what’s Theo like?” she asked innocently enough. Eleanor looked at her sister, puzzled by the question’s vagueness. Brittany’s response was to simply form a circle with one hand and, with a finger from her other hand, mimic a suggestive gesture through it.

“Brittany!” Jeanette’s voice cut through the moment, her face flushing with embarrassment as she grasped the implication.

“What? It’s just a question,” Brittany retorted with a smirk. “Isn’t that what late-night girl talk is for? To get a bit… spicy.” Despite her initial shock, Eleanor wasn’t truly surprised. Brittany had always been the provocateur among them, ever curious and boldly unafraid to delve into personal matters, especially those of a more intimate nature. “I’m just curious,” Brittany murmured, her voice lower as she peered into her glass. “I bet he’s gentle.”

Knowing it was pointless to sidestep the conversation, Eleanor glanced at Jeanette, who was now covering her mouth with her jumper’s sleeve, her cheeks bright red yet her eyes twinkling with a hint of curiosity. “You might be surprised,” Eleanor began, deciding to indulge her sister's curiosity. “Yes, he’s gentle, which is what I adore about him. But he’s also become quite strong.”

“He really did have a glow-up after high school,” Brittany noted with a nod.

“It’s a balance,” Eleanor continued, feeling herself starting to blush. “He’s tender, yet there’s a strength to him that’s very… assertive.”

“And his… skills?” Brittany prodded further.

“At first? None existent,” Eleanor admitted. “But he’s improved—a lot.”

“And… size?” Brittany ventured with a grin.

“That’s where I draw the line,” Eleanor declared, her tone final. Brittany paused, considering her sister’s stance, then chuckled softly to herself, taking another sip of her drink. Eleanor was no stranger to Brittany’s teasing; she had dealt with it for years. Over time, she had learned the best way to handle it was to give as good as she got. "And you?" she challenged, causing Brittany to pause mid-sip.

Brittany looked at her with a hint of surprise before lowering her glass. "And me what?"

"Tit-for-tat, Brittany; I've shared mine. Now it's your turn." Brittany looked puzzled for a moment until Eleanor rolled her eyes. "You and Alvin—spill the beans."

Brittany's tail twitched, and for a brief second, her emotions flickered across her face before she regained her composure. "Don't be gross, Eleanor," she mumbled. "Alvin and I aren’t dating—never have been."

"I didn't ask if you were dating," Eleanor clarified. "I’m asking the same question you asked me."

"Gross! I would never… With Alvin? That’s… we're not like that!" Eleanor fixed her sister with a tired look, the silence stretching as Brittany stubbornly held her ground. She glanced at Jeanette, who returned a look of knowing frustration. Brittany fumbled with her words before finally folding her arms and gazing up at the night sky, a faint blush on her cheeks. "We're not, like, together or anything," she began hesitantly. "But we spend so much time together, and… sometimes, we… you know." Eleanor chuckled softly. Brittany could act all confident and in control, but Eleanor knew exactly which buttons to push.

"How often is 'sometimes'?" she prodded.

"Just… sometimes!" Brittany retorted quickly. "When the mood strikes, I guess."

"And this mood you're referring to; does it strike Alvin or you?"

Brittany muttered something under her breath before finishing her drink in one gulp. "For all his endless confidence, he's actually pretty shy with this stuff," she confessed. "So, yeah, it’s usually me who initiates."

"Interesting," Eleanor drawled, watching as Brittany squirmed under the scrutiny.

"Okay, you’ve had your fun," Brittany snapped, her cheeks glowing with a bright blush. "Lesson learned, sorry for prying into you and Theo’s private life." Eleanor smirked, not quite ready to let her off the hook.

"One more question, then I’ll drop it," she said, earning a sharp glare from Brittany. "When did you two first hook up?" Brittany tensed, her tail fluffing out as if she were a cat in a skirmish. She looked nervously at Jeanette, who had been quiet throughout the conversation, then pulled her knees to her chest.

"I don’t like this game anymore."

"Like you said, it’s just us girls," Eleanor pressed gently, her tone less teasing now. "We’re not blind, Brittany—you and Alvin have always been close in a…strange kind of way. I’m just curious when it went from frenemies to…well, frenemies with benefits." Brittany groaned softly, resting her chin on her knees. After a pause, she finally spoke.

"Remember the first music festival we did as the Chipettes?" she asked. "Out in Yosemite, where the Chipmunks played the main stage and we played the smaller one the next night… we camped in the forest for the whole festival." Eleanor thought back, then back further… and then further again. Then, her eyes widened in realization.

"Brittany," Jeanette’s cautious voice finally joined in, "that was sophomore year."

"The end of sophomore year," Brittany corrected.

"We’d only been living with the Chipmunks a few months by then," Jeanette added.

"More than six," Brittany insisted.

"In sophomore year!" Eleanor exclaimed, surprised it had been going on for so long.

"We didn’t go all the way!" Brittany quickly interjected, waving her hands defensively. "Just… fooling around."

"When did you first go all the way?" Eleanor's tone was cautious. Brittany hesitated, clearly nervous.

"…sometime in junior year."

"Brittany!" Eleanor gasped.

"What!" Brittany shot back. "Don’t act all high and mighty; you're the pregnant one!" Eleanor stuttered momentarily, caught off guard. After a brief pause, she sighed, her frustration dissolving into laughter. Brittany soon joined in, and their laughter filled the night, a reminder of their deep bond despite the teasing.

Eleanor’s laughter faded as she noticed a distinct quietness emanating from one third of the trio. Her gaze levelled on her middle sister, who nervously looked to the sky, her hands fidgeting. Jeanette was a quiet, shy creature; Eleanor knew her well enough to recognize this. If she had something to say but lacked the confidence to say it, this was how she would react—almost bursting to speak up as she pushed against the nervousness to do so.

“Well then,” Eleanor prompted, “let’s hear it.”

Jeanette paused her nervous twitching, realizing all eyes were now on her. She looked like a deer in headlights for the longest time before she finally squeaked out a solitary, “Simon and I…” that fell into further silence.

There were a few seconds of contemplation until Brittany finally shouted a resounding, “Shut up!” clearly putting the puzzle pieces together. “Don’t tell me it finally happened.” Jeanette hid her face behind the sleeves of her long purple jumper, her face beet-red.

“I-in college,” Jeanette barely whispered, “we…we started d-d-dating.”

“Hallelujah!” Brittany cheered, spilling part of her drink as she thrust it high in the air. Eleanor took the moment to offer a soft smile to Jeanette in an attempt to reduce her nerves. “I’ve been giving Simon advice on how to get your attention since high school!” Brittany bragged. “I can’t believe it took this long for him to do anything about it.”

“Don’t take credit for this,” Eleanor chided her eldest sister.

“I will!” Brittany proudly boasted. “Alvin and I used to watch you two awkwardly dance around your feelings for each other from afar and roll our eyes. It was so obvious you liked each other.”

“How did you possibly find the time to speculate on their relationship with all the… other things you were doing in high school?” Eleanor’s quip landed with precision, casting a momentary hush over Brittany’s boasting. She offered a gentle smile to her middle sister before redirecting the conversation. “As much as Brittany loves to pry, she’s not wrong. You and Simon have been dancing around this for years. What finally made things progress?” Jeanette, visibly nervous, lowered her hand and took a deep breath to steady herself. She drained her glass, prompting Brittany to eagerly refill it.

“I don’t know,” Jeanette admitted. “One night, after my concert at the campus bar, he walked me home and just… kissed me. It was so sudden.”

Brittany cooed in response, while Eleanor nodded approvingly. “Sounds romantic,” Brittany sighed wistfully. “What happened next?”

“Well,” Jeanette hesitated, raising her hand to cover her face. “We…umm…” Eleanor fought back a giggle, knowing exactly where this was heading from Jeanette’s blush.

“You don’t have to share if you’re uncomfortable,” she offered kindly.

“Like heck she doesn’t!” Brittany interjected eagerly. “We need all the juicy details! A play-by-play of the whole night! I need to know what happened where and for how long.”

Eleanor shot Brittany a pointed glare. “Weren’t you living in a dorm room?” she moved the conversation along.

“Umm,” Jeanette’s voice trembled slightly. “You can…signal your roommates by putting a sock on the door handle; it lets them know that you’re…”

“Bonking,” Brittany supplied with a smirk, reaching out to pat Jeanette’s shoulder. “So, spill! How was it?”

“Leave her alone, Brittany,” Eleanor intervened firmly. Brittany grumbled but relented, sinking back into her chair and sipping her drink.

“It was…nice,” Jeanette admitted softly, her gaze fixed on her glass, a shy smile playing on her lips. Both Eleanor and Brittany softened as they looked at their sister, recognizing the significance of the moment for her. Jeanette’s warmth and nostalgia filled the nights air, tempering Brittany’s teasing.

“We’ve all come a long way since we moved to America,” Eleanor reflected warmly, drawing the attention of her two sisters. They had been closer than most siblings for most of their lives, so as their lives started to drift apart, Eleanor couldn’t help but worry. Knowing now that her sisters had partners they could confide in, like she did with Theodore, eased her worries.

The metallic clunk of the rooftop hatch broke the silence, drawing all eyes to its source. The trio of boys emerged onto the roof, their faces still lit with the remnants of their jam session.

"What's are you ladies talking about?" Simon sauntered over confidently, joining the group beside Jeanette. Alvin headed straight for the fire, while Theodore moved to his wife's side.

The girls exchanged a quick, nervous glance, silently agreeing to keep their conversation private. Then, a chuckle escaped one of them, quickly spreading until they were all laughing uncontrollably, leaving the boys utterly baffled.

 

Notes:

This chapter meandered quite a bit, but I still enjoyed it... I suppose that's the whole point of the "slice of life" genre--enjoyable monotony.

This was one of the very first chapters I wrote for this side project from my main story (that I'll eventually be happy with posting here...eventually). As such, there's a few things that link more heavily to the greater lore: Olivia, being one. I've always felt the Chipettes backstory in the shows cannon to be a bit lacklustre. A few hints here and there over the course of 20+ years. So I've amalgamated some lore and added some variety of my own to the character. Olivia plays a much more impactful role in the other story, but in this series she is just the occasional passing fancy.

The past few chapters have been on the lighter side, so I feel a heavy hitter is on the horizon for the next chapter. we will see what fits nicely ;)

Chapter 8: A Final Farewell

Notes:

Sorry it took a little while. This one...well, it took a bit out of me.

Alvin's compact motorbike growled as it decelerated to a halt on a quiet suburban street, the small but robust engine humming as he steadied himself with one leg. To his right, a chain-link fence bordered the sidewalk, partially obscured by hessian sheets. Through the gaps and holes, a series of dilapidated bungalows came into view, presenting a sombre scene. Bright red signs declaring ‘no trespassing; building condemned’ were spaced evenly along the fence.

Revving his motorbike, Alvin sped off, skirting the edge of the fenced driveway before mounting the sidewalk and rounding a corner. He continued along the fence until reaching a small bush snug against the barrier. Here, he turned off the engine, set his helmet on the seat, and concealed the bike between the bush and the fence to hide it from curious thieves. Slipping through a cut section of the fence, Alvin entered what was now a construction site.

He strolled along the connecting footpath between the bungalows, observing the stark transformation. The once vibrant and welcoming homes were now shuttered and succumbing to neglect. Garden beds that had brimmed with colourful flowers and aromatic herbs were reduced to barren dirt and brittle twigs. The path was cracked and uneven, porches sagged under the weight of water damage, windows were barricaded with plywood, and graffiti marred the faded cladding. At the main gate, three large yellow construction machines loomed, ready to tear down the neglected structures. The court had been condemned six months prior, but only now was demolition underway to make space for new apartments. By the end of the following day, these houses would be reduced to rubble and forgotten memories.

As Alvin neared a particular house, he noted the number—1958—fixed above the door, his home address for nearly a decade. His gaze dropped to a solitary chipmunk sitting on the steps, her chin cradled in her hands, embodying a picture of desolation. She looked up as Alvin approached, managing a weak smile. He reciprocated the smile and joined her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder as he surveyed the slightly ajar door that allowed a glimpse inside.

“You’re actually on time,” Brittany remarked. “A little early even.”

“So are you,” Alvin’s voice was soft.

“I only arrived a few minutes ago.”

Alvin could tell by the look in her eyes that this was a lie, but he chose not to probe her on it. Instead, he moved up the stairs to stand before the ajar door. It loomed in front of him like an imposing waterfall—passable but daunting none the less. 

“It’s okay if you don’t want to do this?” Brittany spoke, her voice tinged with restraint. “I can tell the others; they will understand if this is-” Alvin cut her off with a raise of his hand. Beyond the weight of the dark memories that filled the house, there was one memory above all that lingered on Alvin’s mind—a mistake that he intended to correct, tonight. As much pain as the house brought him, he needed to bear it to correct this mistake. After a pause, he took in a deep breath, gently patted her shoulder, and proceeded through the door into the remnants of his childhood home.

As the setting sun cast its last rays through the boarded-up windows, harsh streaks of light illuminated the dusty wooden floors of the empty house. The absence of furniture amplified every sound, making Alvin's footsteps echo unnaturally off the stark white walls. This home, once bustling with the morning chaos of a family preparing for the day, sibling squabbles, and the vibrant sounds of music and laughter, now echoed with nothing but silence.

Alvin had returned here only a handful of times since he moved out almost ten years ago, but today’s visit felt particularly sombre. With the house set for demolition, this was likely his last time here, making the silence feel almost deafening.

Walking from the living room into the kitchen, the floor transitioned to checkerboard tiles, evoking memories of breakfasts long past. Alvin paused, taking in the empty space where an island counter once stood—a spot he used to climb as a teenager. The countertops, once cluttered with bowls and utensils, were now splintered and bare. A broken window above the sink suggested vandalism, and where the oven had stood was now just a hollow with exposed pipes.

Continuing on, Alvin approached the hallway at the back of the house. To the left was the bathroom, scene of many a morning argument due to its high traffic. To the right was his childhood bedroom—a small space that somehow accommodated two three-story bunkbeds for the six chipmunks. Despite the cramped conditions, the room had never felt crowded; it was a sanctuary from the world outside.

At the corridor's end was the master bedroom, Dave's room. The thought of entering felt too painful, too final, so Alvin turned back, retracing his steps to the living room. The poignant memories of a childhood long passed filled the empty spaces, a stark contrast to the silence that now pervaded the home.

Brittany had wandered into the house while Alvin reminisced and now stood in the centre of the room, her gaze lifted curiously to the ceiling. "I never noticed the beams in the roof," she remarked, aware of Alvin's approach. "Seven years and I never thought to look up." A gentle smile spread across Alvin's face as he joined her, guiding her gaze to a particular spot above.

"See that mark?" he pointed to a blackened area on the ceiling. "I once set off a firework in here. It shot right up into that corner before exploding. It was so loud; Dave came running out of his music room wielding a mandolin, thinking we were being robbed."

"I bet he wasn’t happy," Brittany laughed.

"He threatened to tie me to a bunch of balloons and make me clean the roof until the mark was gone," Alvin recounted. "He was too much of a softie to actually do it, though… he just grounded me for the weekend." Brittany remained silent, her thoughts lingering on the memory of their shared guardian. In the silence Alvin’s gaze wandered, following the wooden beams into the roof until they finally settled on a set of bifold doors set in the wall opposite the kitchen.

The room behind those doors was steeped in nostalgia; even empty and shadowed, it was alive with echoes of the past. Alvin could vividly recall the layout: Dave’s computer desk centrally placed, a collection of guitars and other musical instruments on one side, and the small upright piano tucked beneath the window. Most vividly, he remembered Dave sitting at that piano, fingers dancing lightly across the keys, his face lit with a serene smile.

One particular memory surfaced, clear and poignant—a sunny summer afternoon spent at the piano with Dave, writing songs. Alvin had been strumming his guitar, filling the room with a flurry of notes. "Alvin, less is more," Dave had advised, his voice calm yet firm, a contrast to Alvin's youthful confidence.

"What does that even mean, Dave," Alvin had replied, his voice full of teenage bravado. "You’re just jealous of my mad guitar skills."

"You are a good guitar player, no one is doubting that," Dave had continued, undeterred. "But you're writing songs with your ego, not your heart."

"My…what?" Alvin faltered, not fully grasping the lesson Dave was trying to impart.

"A writer knows many fancy words; a good writer knows to use them sparingly. It’s the same with music, Alvin. Just because you can play fast doesn’t mean you should. A good musician knows when to use fancy language and when to use simple language. Writing songs is about connecting with your audience; making them feel the emotions you want them to feel. If you try to do that with skill alone, you will never make that connection. Remember, less is more. You have to use the notes that come from your heart." Dave had punctuated his lesson by placing a finger on Alvin’s chest, right above his heart.

At the time, the words had seemed opaque to a young Alvin, more focused on showcasing his technical skill than on the emotional depth of his music. Now, with the wisdom of years and the silence of the empty room enveloping him, those words resonated deeply. Alvin only wished he had embraced Dave's advice sooner, while he was still around to see their fruits.

Alvin's reflections on the past dissipated with the comforting touch of Brittany's hand slipping into his. Redirecting his gaze from the distant memories evoked by the music room, he looked into Brittany's eyes, filled with profound empathy.

“If it gets to be too much, just tell me,” she whispered softly. “You don’t have to say anything out loud; just tap my hand a few times and I’ll know. I’ll think of an excuse so we can leave without the others knowing something is wrong.”

Looking down at Brittany, who was only slightly shorter, Alvin was struck by her rare display of empathy—perhaps he was the only one to witness this side of her. He clasped her hand, managing a strained smile. "It’s fine, Brit. Just… lots of memories in this house." They shared a long, silent gaze, slowly leaning in for a kiss, only to be interrupted by the muffled cacophony of chipmunk voices from outside, prompting them to pull apart quickly like embarrassed teenagers.

Alvin focused, trying to make out the heated discussion beyond the walls. “—don’t care what you have to say,” he caught the tail end of a firm statement. “You will find a quiet corner and you will finish your homework until it’s time to leave… I know for a fact you haven’t finished all of it… I don’t care if there is still a week before it’s due. You’ll do as I say until your punishment is finished.”

The door creaked open, revealing Eleanor with Theodore and a flurry of younger chipmunks at their feet. The children's arrival shattered the momentary pause, filling the room with energy and noise. Markus, Finn, and Hazel sprinted into Alvin’s waiting arms, their laughter echoing around the room, while the quieter Lila stayed by Theodore's side. Ivy and Cora, the younger twins, darted towards Brittany.

“Uncle Alvin,” Hazel yelled, beaming as Alvin lifted her and spun her around, her giggles infectious.

“There’s my little rockstars,” Alvin exclaimed, setting Hazel down and playfully gripping Finn and Markus's shoulders. “When did you all get so big?” he teased, pinching their cheeks and jabbing their ribs, eliciting shy giggles from the group.

His attention then shifted to Ivy and Cora, who had moved from Brittany to him. He knelt down, eyeing the strikingly similar twins intently, then pointed to one, tentatively asking, “Cora?”

“I’m Ivy!” the first twin protested with a stomp.

“And I’m Cora!” the second chimed in, mirroring her sister's energy.

“I know, I know!” Alvin laughed, playing along. “I was just testing you two.”

“No, you weren’t,” Brittany teased quietly, her grin sharp and playful, the earlier warmth momentarily receding into mischief.

Their playful banter and the joyful chaos of the reunion briefly filled the room with light-heartedness, momentarily pushing aside the poignant memories that had initially weighed on Alvin’s mind.

“Uncle Alvin,” Hazel's voice called out, breaking through the jovial chaos with a hint of awe. “What position did you play in high school football again?”

“I was a wide receiver,” Alvin responded, his pride evident in his voice. Hazel’s eyes sparkled with excitement, her posture straightening as she prepared a barrage of questions, but Eleanor’s stern interruption halted her momentum.

“What did I tell you just now?” Eleanor’s voice was firm, her words cutting through the room as she set her home-made bag heavily on the ground. The three eldest children instantly looked down, their expressions sheepish, while Ivy and Cora couldn’t help but giggle at the scene.

“Sounds like you rockstars are in some trouble?” Alvin teased, raising an eyebrow.

“They all have detention for a whole week when we get back home,” Ivy declared, her tone laced with evil satisfaction, prompting Hazel to shoot a sharp glance her way.

“All of you?” Brittany chimed in, adding to the interrogation.

“It was Hazel’s fault!” Finn accused nervously.

“Was not!” Hazel retorted quickly. “You’re the one who sprayed whipped cream all over Miss Mellinger’s desk.”

“I only did that to put out the fire you started,” Finn shot back defensively.

“I only started that fire to destroy Markus’ failed test,” Hazel confessed, trying to justify her actions.

“I never asked you to do that!” Markus protested, his voice rising in the mix.

“Enough!” Eleanor’s command echoed through the room, her authority unmistakable. She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling deeply as she addressed the chaos. “You’re all in trouble. Markus, you failed your math test; Hazel, you set fire to your teacher’s desk; and Finn, I don’t even want to know what you were doing with a bottle of whipped cream at school. You all have detention, you’re all grounded, and you all have homework to do… in another room! Give us a moment of peace.” She then unzipped her bag, pulling out a stack of worksheets and distributing them to the children. They each collected their assignments sheepishly and trudged off towards the music room. Even Lila, who had quietly observed the unfolding drama, took a worksheet with a reluctant air and followed her siblings, leaving the adults to recover from the whirlwind of youthful energy and mischief.

Alvin watched the group of chipmunks scurry into the music room, a fond smile playing on his lips before turning back to Eleanor and Theodore. "Regretting having kids now?" he quipped, pulling Theodore into a tight embrace. With Theodores growth over the years, Alvin found he could no longer completely wrap his arms around his brothers broad shoulders.

“They can be quite a headache at times, but they mean well,” Theodore replied, returning the hug. “They make silly decisions for the right reasons. Hazel and Finn just didn’t want Markus to get in trouble for failing the test… I just wish they hadn’t resorted to fire and whipped cream…”

“Reminds me of the time we filled Miss Smith’s desk drawer with barbecue sauce,” Alvin chuckled, reminiscing about their own childhood mischief.

“You did that, Alvin,” Brittany interjected as she joined them, having just finished embracing Eleanor. “We didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“I remember it differently,” Alvin retorted playfully.

“It’s no wonder Hazel idolizes you. She’s like a mini female version of you,” Eleanor commented, half-groaning as she hugged Alvin. “You know she wants to play football now? It seems swimming and table tennis aren’t enough; now, all she talks about is playing football just like Uncle Alvin.”

“Oh really?” Alvin perked up at the mention of football. “Are you going to let her play?”

“I don’t know,” Theodore responded cautiously, his concern evident. “She’s so tiny… I don’t want her getting hurt.”

“I played for four years and I never got hurt,” Alvin argued, his voice firm with conviction.

“What are you talking about?” Brittany almost burst into laughter. “You had a new injury almost every week. It’s a miracle you weren’t squished by a two-hundred-pound defender! Dave had to stop coming to your games because he would almost faint every time someone knocked you across the field.”

Alvin shot Brittany a dangerous look, which she met with a defiant stare of her own. Turning back to Theodore, Alvin placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Ok, so I got knocked down a lot; but I always got back up.” His voice softened as he recounted his cherished football memories, his old helmet and jersey still displayed proudly in the den of his illustrious mansion. The challenge of proving he could play despite his size had been a major motivator for him, and he bristled at the thought of Hazel facing similar barriers.

“We will see what happens,” Eleanor finally said, breaking into the conversation. “They take their football veryseriously down in Texas. Even if they do let her try out, she’s going to have to work hard to make the cut.”

The conversation left a thoughtful silence hanging in the air, each contemplating the hurdles and possibilities that lay ahead for young Hazel, echoing the challenges and triumphs of Alvin’s own past.

The creaking of the door once again drew everyone's attention, and they watched as Jeanette held it open, tucking a brown parcel under her arm. Simon followed, laboriously carrying a gigantic bottle of clear liquid that was easily as large as himself.

"Sorry we’re late," he groaned, adjusting the heavy load. "We had some issues at the store."

"Simon," Brittany started, eyeing the bottle with a mix of amusement and disbelief, "I don’t know what kind of gathering you think this is…" Her voice trailed off as she fixated on the intimidating size of the alcohol bottle.

"There’s no way we can drink all of that, we’ll die before we pass the neck," Eleanor chimed in, finishing her sister's thought.

"No expectations to finish the whole thing," Simon grunted as he carefully set the bottle down with a thud. "This was the smallest bottle of ouzo they had in stock."

"We got some strange looks on the bus here, that’s for sure," Jeanette added, closing the door behind her and joining the group. After exchanging hugs and greetings, she looked around with concern. "Where is Lila?" she asked. "I brought her a new book she might like."

"In Dave’s music room with the others," Eleanor responded, beginning to set out small glasses in front of the imposing bottle of ouzo.

"Gifts can wait until we are all back at Alvin’s place tonight," Simon declared as he unscrewed the cap and, with Theodore’s assistance, began pouring the ouzo into the glasses. "Let's focus on what we all came here for, while it's still here for us to focus on."

Everyone settled into a circle on the living room floor, each holding a glass cautiously. Alvin turned his glass in his hands as if it were a volatile substance. Though no stranger to drinking, this particular beverage unsettled him.

Simon stood, raising his glass. "I just want to say a quick thank you to everyone for making the journey here today. For some of us, the difficulty was one of distance, for others, hardship." His gaze briefly met Alvin's, who grimaced at the acknowledgment. "But I think it’s important that we take this opportunity, while the house still stands, to remember everything it represented to us. In taking time to preserve the memory of the house that raised us, we can also preserve the memory of Dave, whose light filled this house day in and day out. This… chemical solution was Dave’s favourite drink." Simon chuckled. "All those times he told us he was just drinking water, and we believed him."

"Never known water to smell like this," Theodore commented, wrinkling his nose at the strong scent.

"Yes, well, I suppose having to deal with the six of us for as many years as Dave did... I think we can forgive him for indulging from time to time," Simon concluded.

"Enough speeches, Simon," Alvin interjected, rolling his eyes. "You’re not in the lecture hall anymore."

Simon shot him a look that quickly softened, understanding the emotion behind Alvin's brusqueness. Alvin, not wanting to be treated delicately, raised his glass high. "To Dave!"

"To our home," Simon added. Everyone echoed the toast and downed their glasses.

"That is disgusting!" Brittany exclaimed, gagging.

"An acquired taste, certainly," Simon agreed, shivering.

"It’s not very nice," Theodore admitted, understating his dislike.

"Oh Dave…" Alvin sighed, feeling the burn in his throat and the liquorice aftertaste that lingered unpleasantly.

"I… actually quite like it," Jeanette admitted timidly, surprising everyone. A brief silence followed her confession before the room erupted into raucous laughter, the walls echoing with a warmth and mirth that had long been absent. For the first time in years, the house was once again filled with laughter and love, a fitting tribute to the memories it held.

The cheerful atmosphere resonated through the vacant corridors for hours as the siblings and friends swapped stories from their youth. The boys reminisced about life before the Chipettes came to America, while the girls shared high school memories, filled with secretive giggles and playful gossip. Every so often, one of the children would gather enough courage to slip out from the music room, and Eleanor would grant short explorations before ushering them back to the music room for more lessons. Surprisingly, Lila turned out to be the most frequent escapee. Once she discovered Jeanette was nearby, she seemed unable to stay away—communicating through the rapid, graceful gestures she’d used her whole life. Seeing Lila’s delight as she perched on Jeanette’s lap, her hands moving like flickers of lightning, prompted Alvin to silently resolve that he would become a better uncle by sharpening his sign language skills.

“That party really went off the rails,” Simon groaned, referencing one especially chaotic house party from their teenage years. “I’m pretty sure half our sophomore class ended up crammed into our living room.”

“That was definitely the angriest I’ve ever seen Dave,” Theodore chimed in. “I thought he’d blow the roof right off the house when he got home.”

“Alvin!” Simon and Brittany mimicked Dave’s furious shout, both breaking into fits of laughter at the memory.

Alvin rolled his eyes as he swirled the ouzo in his glass and took a cautious sip. “It wasn’t even my party,” he insisted.

“Don’t start that again,” Brittany teased, poking him in the ribs. “You tried to pin it on me back then too, and it didn’t work. Just admit it—you were the one throwing that party.”

“Well, I didn’t invite anyone,” Alvin shot back, “and I doubt Simon or Theodore did.”

“Certainly not,” Simon agreed with a speedy shake of his head.

“That leaves you, Brit, as the most likely culprit,” Alvin concluded, folding his arms as Brittany huffed in feigned offense and turned away with theatrical flair.

A hush fell over the group until Jeanette cleared her throat, drawing all eyes to her. She pressed her hand to the back of her neck—an anxious habit she’d picked up from Simon—and spoke in a halting voice. “Well… since we’re talking about it,” she began quietly, “I… um… well, it might’ve been me who started it.”

“‘Might’ve been’?” Brittany repeated, arching an eyebrow at Jeanette.

Jeanette’s cheeks flushed as she swallowed a large gulp of her drink. “The poetry club needed a place to meet for their ‘poetry party night’, so I offered Dave’s house since he was supposed to be away. But for some reason, they must’ve misunderstood—I guess they thought I was hosting an actual party. Then the rumours spread, and suddenly all these people at school who never even noticed me before were telling me how excited they were to come to my party. We were pretty new back then, and… well… it felt nice to be liked. So I just… went with it.”

As Jeanette finished, she wrapped her arms around Lila, who gazed up with innocent curiosity.

“I was grounded for two whole weeks because of that party,” Alvin said, still sounding a touch astonished.

“And I refused to talk to Alvin for a month,” Brittany added, “since I thought he was blaming me for everything.”

“I’m sorry!” Jeanette blurted out, her guilt evident. “I felt terrible, but Dave was so furious, and I’d never been in real trouble before. I panicked!”

Noticing Jeanette’s distress—and her slightly unsteady state—Alvin flashed a mischievous grin. “Well, I want those two weeks of my life back,” he declared in mock seriousness. “You’re never too old to be grounded, young lady.”

“I’ve got some homework you can do,” Eleanor joked, laughing as she gestured toward the next room. “Go sit with the kids; Markus could really use a tutor.”

Jeanette got halfway up, looking resigned to her fate, but Brittany gently pulled her back down. “Sit, silly. We’re just messing with you.”

Jeanette blinked in surprise. “But… I started a fight between you and Alvin.”

Brittany shrugged. “We fight all the time. I’ve spent at least half the time I’ve known Alvin being mad at him.”

“Only half?” Alvin asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well… maybe two-thirds,” Brittany retorted with a teasing smirk.

At that, Jeanette’s worried look softened, and before long, she burst into laughter, prompting everyone else to join in.

Alvin felt a comforting warmth welling up inside—one not entirely attributable to the ouzo. He found himself almost as happy as he’d been back in his teenage years under this very roof, recalling all the times he playfully teased a naïve Jeanette, butted heads with a strong-willed Brittany, and shared endless jokes with his brothers. Those joyful recollections nearly eclipsed the lingering shadows in each hallway—nearly, but not completely.

“It’s so nice hearing laughter in this house again,” Theodore murmured, leaning his head on Eleanor’s shoulder with a nostalgic sigh. “Just like the old days.”

His words stirred a pang in Alvin’s chest, reminding him of something he still needed to address—an unspoken promise he had made to himself when Simon proposed they all reunite to bid their childhood home farewell. Their last visit here had been during the solemn days following Dave’s funeral, a time marked by stillness and sorrow as they packed away and sold the remnants of their guardians life.

He pulled his knees closer, bracing himself on his arms, and steadied his breathing before speaking. “About the last time we were all here,” he began quietly. The playful conversation hushed, every gaze settling on him. “I… said a lot of harsh stuff back then.” He dropped his eyes as his voice wavered. “I was angry, sad… my mind wasn’t in a good place.”

A subtle pressure on his hand made him glance over. Brittany had reached out, intertwining her fingers with his while her tail discreetly covered their connection. That simple gesture emboldened him, allowing him to raise his head again. He looked across the room, his gaze lingering on Simon. “I didn’t mean any of it,” he went on, his voice finding firmer ground. “I’m sorry for… well, for being a jerk.”

Simon met Alvin’s gaze with a softness that conveyed nothing but empathy and acceptance.

“I know,” Simon replied, the simplicity of his words carrying all the reassurance Alvin needed. None of them had held onto anger after that day; they’d understood how deeply Alvin’s loss of Dave had affected him.

A weighted silence followed, each person lost in thoughts of the man who had guided them all through their youth. Memories of Dave—his humour, his guidance, and his unconditional support—floated through the house, mingling with the reverent hush, reminding them just how much he had shaped their lives and bound them together.

Jeanette broke the growing hush with a soft mumble. “You know,” she began, eyeing the floor, “for what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure Dave always suspected I was the one who hosted that party.” Her features relaxed into a small, reflective smile, and she shifted slightly with Lila perched on her lap. “Right after everything died down, he pulled me aside and said, ‘Jeanette, it’s better to be hated for who you are than to be loved for who you’re not.’”

A weary sigh escaped Eleanor. “One of Dave’s million little proverbs,” she remarked with a hint of exasperation.

“He had a saying for just about everything,” Theodore added with a trace of amusement.

“Everything,” Eleanor agreed, echoing his words.

Jeanette’s expression turned pensive as she tightened her hold on Lila. “I think he knew how guilty I felt for going along with the party, just so people would like me. He always seemed to sense when I had something weighing on my mind.”

Alvin dwelled on Her words. She was right. He was more than a guardian and manager; Dave had a knack for looking past surface mistakes and seeing straight to the heart of the matter, offering exactly the support they each needed.

“I think about that advice a lot,” Jeanette concluded, a powerful silence following her words.

“Measure twice, cut once… but don’t spend so long measuring that you forget to make the cut.” Eleanor broke the silence with her best impression of Dave—hands flying with mock authority. “That was the very first Dave-ism I got when I started experimenting with woodworking.” Her face reflected a blend of exasperation and fondness as she reminisced. “I followed his advice to the letter—always double-checked my measurements, never hesitated to actually cut. I thought he’d be proud each time I finished something without a single mistake… but he just kept repeating that same line, over and over. I couldn’t figure out why.”

She cast a glance at Theodore, who tilted his head curiously. “Then it hit me—he wasn’t talking about my projects at all. He was talking about Theo.”

“Me?” Theodore asked, pointing to himself with feigned ignorance, though a small smile suggested he might have known more than he let on.

Eleanor shrugged, her cheeks warming. “He must have seen me plotting and scheming about how to get you to ask me out through most of high school. We liked to think Dave was oblivious, but clearly, he knew exactly how I felt.”

“We all did,” Brittany interjected with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Your one stated goal when we moved here from Australia was, and I quote, ‘to marry that adorable pudding pop.’”

Theodore’s laugh quivered with slight embarrassment, and Eleanor’s cheeks flushed even redder at the memory. “Well,” she continued, “Dave saw that I was so busy planning every little move—so focused on ‘measuring twice’—that I’d never gather the courage to actually ‘make the cut.’ Once I realized what he was getting at…” She slipped an arm around her husband, who responded by leaning into her, “I asked Theo out and never looked back.”

"You didn't 'ask him out'", Alvin correct with a giggle. "I remember it clear as day. You stormed into the cafeteria at lunch, jumped on the table and announced, 'you and I are boyfriend and girlfriend now', before you stormed right back out again. You weren't asking; you were telling."

"I...I remember it being more romantic than that," Eleanors blush was wild now, but a reassuring hug from Theodore calmed her nerves.

"It was romantic," he comforted. To seal his words he responded with a tender kiss, prompting Alvin to avert his eyes. Catching Lila’s comically scrunched-up face, Alvin stuck out his tongue in mock revulsion. Lila giggled, her amused squeak breaking the momentary hush and adding to the warmth in the room.

“A tree laden with fruit bows low.” Simon broke into the sweet moment with his own attempt at a Dave impression—admittedly worse than Eleanor’s. Everyone turned to the eldest brother, who adjusted his glasses self-consciously.

“That was my go-to Dave proverb,” he explained. “I still think about it every time I step into a lecture hall. At first, in my arrogance, I assumed it was Dave’s way of praising my accomplishments. Turns out, it meant the exact opposite.” He lifted a finger as though concluding a grand speech, only to be met with blank stares. Crestfallen, he lowered his hand and cleared his throat.

“Dave told me that right after I won the chess tournament, took first place at the science fair, and got top marks on the English test… all in a single day.”

A collective murmur passed through the group—everyone understood the significance.

“Oh, you mean ‘I-Day,’” Alvin groaned. He snorted when Simon stared at him questioningly. “Insufferable Day. You were so full of yourself I wanted to pop you like a balloon.”

Simon rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. The reluctant acceptance on his face said it all.

“It seems Dave picked up on my attitude, too,” he went on, loosening his collar. “He was warning me not to be so boastful. His words—‘the smartest person in the room is often the quietest’—still echo in my head. I remind myself every day.”

Brittany, who had been examining her perfectly manicured claws, glanced up with a smirk. “Simon, honey, humble bragging is still bragging. We get it—you’re the brainiest one here. Saying you don’t brag about it is just another way of bragging.”

Simon sputtered, desperately trying to form a coherent defence. After a few false starts, he relented with a deep sigh. “Fine. You’re right,” he admitted in a near whisper. Alvin could see how difficult it was for Simon to swallow his pride.

A light, collective laugh drifted through the group before their focus shifted to Theodore. Now that the reminiscences were rolling, everyone seemed eager to share another piece of Dave’s timeless wisdom.

Theodore tapped his chin as though trying to summon the right phrase. His gaze flicked upward, then settled on his daughter. Smiling, he gestured for her to come over. With a little huff, she slipped off Jeanette’s lap and onto his.

“‘Better a bitter raisin of honesty than a sweet chocolate chip of lies,’” he intoned, trying his hand at a Dave impression—though it lacked the gusto Eleanor and Simon had attempted. Wrapping his arms around his daughter, he rested his chin gently on her head. She squirmed, clearly not thrilled to be used as a chin-rest, but tolerated it. “Dave gave me that bit of advice when we hired our first assistant caterer, before we even dreamed of starting the bakery.”

As Theodore spoke, he signed the story for his daughter without appearing to realize it—he’d been doing it for so long it was second nature. “ As our first hire… well, he wasn’t exactly a skilled cook. But he showed up every day with this big, bright grin and a ‘can-do’ attitude. I was terrified of crushing his enthusiasm by telling him the truth.”

He paused, hugging his daughter a bit tighter, a flicker of guilt crossing his eyes. Theodore had always been the most empathetic of the group—quick to feel deeply and quick to show it. “When Dave saw how I was dancing around the issue, he told me that proverb. It still took me a while to work up the courage, but eventually, I sat our assistant down and was, well… honest.”

Theodore’s voice dipped momentarily. “He quit a week later. I felt awful. But then, a few years down the line, he came back to see me. Told me he’d taken my words to heart, gone back to culinary school, and—get this—he’s now a sous chef at some fancy Los Angeles restaurant. The Little… something.”

“The Little Door?” Brittany almost shrieked, drawing a laugh from the group as Theodore snapped his fingers in confirmation.

Looking thoroughly impressed, Brittany clutched her chest melodramatically. “I can’t even book a reservation at that place! Think you could swing a table for us?”

A round of light-hearted laughter rippled through the room. Theodore offered a polite nod, but conspicuously avoided any promises, leaving the possibility tantalizingly open—and the rest of them amused at Brittany’s unabashed priorities.

Laughter fell once again, this time with all eyes settling on Brittany to continue the trail of stories. Brittany, once she realised all eyes were expectantly on her, met their stares with the same rebellious gaze Alvin had seen countless times. He couldn’t help rolling his eyes, already guessing what was coming.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Brittany finally said, swirling her drink. “Dave never felt the need to ‘proverb’ me. I was perfect.”

A long, weighty silence followed—a silent consensus that none of them believed her. At last, Eleanor broke the standoff by clearing her throat. “Come on, Brittany. We’re all sharing here.”

Brittany held firm, arms crossed against her chest, until the hush stretched so long she gave a frustrated sigh. Taking a hefty swallow of her drink, she grimaced at the flavour, then set the glass down with a resolute clink.

“A swift hare may nap, but a steady tortoise always finishes the race,” she recited. Unlike the others, she made no attempt to mimic Dave’s cadence. Alvin cocked his head in confusion; he couldn’t recall ever hearing Brittany quote that line before, and judging by everyone else’s puzzled looks, they were similarly stumped. Brittany’s shoulders tensed, clearly annoyed that she would need to elaborate.

“Dave told me that during our first solo tour,” she explained. “Even though Alvin and I started off practically equal with this new solo-thing, within four shows it was obvious he was still the main attraction.” Brittany thrust her glass in Eleanor’s direction, and Eleanor obligingly poured another splash from the large bottle. “Everywhere we went, it was ‘Alvin, Alvin, Alvin’—the better performer, the better musician, the better songwriter…just like it was when we were The Chipettes and The Chipmunks.”

Alvin couldn’t stop a smug grin from creeping across his face. It really was the story of their lives—he’d always picked things up quickly, especially music. Brittany caught his smirk and shot him a scalding glance but kept talking.

“Dave noticed it, too,” she continued. “He saw that raw talent-wise, I couldn’t match Alvin. But he also knew I had something else: determination.” She raised a fist as if swearing an oath. “Dave knew that if I put my head down, practiced every day, and worked harder than anyone, I’d surpass Alvin one day.”

Her resolute grin drew nods from all around the room. Alvin found himself smiling, too—proud, even. It was true: everything Brittany had accomplished, she had earned through sheer grit and unwavering resolve. He knew if she set her mind on beating him, she’d find a way eventually. It was one of the things he admired most about her. One of the reasons he loved her…

“And yet,” Alvin sighed in theatrical disappointment, “you’re still not anywhere near me on the charts. Guess you’ve got a long way to go.”

“You just watch, hare,” Brittany shot back through clenched teeth. “This tortoise is breathing down your neck.”

Alvin raised an eyebrow. “You’re a tortoise now?”

Visibly trembling with frustration, Brittany turned away and folded her arms tight across her chest. “That’s exactly why I hate that proverb,” she grumbled. “Who wants to be a tortoise?”

A ripple of laughter ran through the group at Brittany’s outburst, but it died down quickly—almost awkwardly. Alvin sensed the others turning their attention to him, and he dropped his gaze to his lap. The silence stretched on, heavy with expectation. A lump formed in his throat as the bright mood he’d felt while listening to his siblings’ and friends’ memories began to slip away, replaced by a familiar ache.

These weren’t just fond recollections; they were milestones in each person’s life with Dave. Everyone carried vivid snapshots of his impact, just as Alvin did. But did they also feel the same raw sorrow every time they recalled those moments? The same hollow longing?

His hand curled into a fist as the thought gnawed at him. His eyes drifted across the living room toward the doors leading to the music room. Right then, it was full of kids busy with homework—but for Alvin, it was so much more. It was the birthplace of countless memories and countless bits of advice, all of which had guided him through every twist and turn of life. How could he possibly settle on just one?

And yet, as his mind buzzed with a whirlwind of recollections, one phrase kept surfacing. Three simple words he’d heard in that music room, the cornerstone of his entire musical philosophy.

“Less—” he began, but the words were lost under a sudden, deafening crash from the direction of the music room. It sounded oddly tuneful, as if several instruments had collided at once, followed by a small, uncertain voice declaring, “Markus did it!” and an immediate protest of “Did not!”

“What in the world was that?” Eleanor cried, springing to her feet. Theodore followed close behind, scooping Lila up and settling her onto her own feet. The two parents exchanged a look of frustrated familiarity.

“Nothing!” Hazel called out in her best innocent tone, fooling no one. Theodore and Eleanor marched off to investigate, and Alvin—intrigued despite himself—rose as well, the rest of the group trailing in their wake to see what mischief the children had managed to create this time.

Alvin’s breath caught the moment he rounded the corner into the music room. A battered cardboard box lay sprawled open on the floor near the inbuilt closet, spilling out a tangle of small musical instruments like the aftermath of a mini car crash. Confusion flickered across his face—he clearly remembered packing up every corner of the house after Dave’s funeral, leaving no closet unturned. Yet here they were, these forgotten relics from the past.

“Where did you find this?” Theodore murmured in awe as he approached the kids. They hovered around the mess, feigning innocence: Finn stood protectively in front of Ivy and Cora, while Hazel and Markus attempted to hide the box as inconspicuously as possible.

“It… fell out of the wardrobe,” Hazel offered, her voice contriving an air of innocence. “Totally on its own. Just… poof.”

“I suppose the closet just opened its own door, too?” Eleanor retorted, raising an unimpressed eyebrow and nudging Hazel and Markus gently away from the jumble of instruments.

“It was an accident,” Markus whined, eyes wide with worry.

“Is that…” Jeanette darted forward, rummaging through the pile until she uncovered a dainty, hand-crafted ukulele. “My ukelele,” she gasped in delight. “I thought it vanished when I left for college.”

Simon joined her, extracting a colourful toy xylophone from the debris. “We must’ve missed this box back then,” he mused aloud. “Where did you find this again?”

“The top shelf; right at the very back.” Hazel nodded with a proud little grin—at least until she realized what she was admitting to. “I mean… that’s where it fell from. By itself.”

“Sure it did,” Eleanor remarked dryly, testing a small pair of bongos with a gentle tap. She sent Hazel a pointed look, making it clear she wasn’t fooled.

Alvin, on the other hand, barely registered their banter. His focus had zeroed in on a single instrument in the pile: a beat-up acoustic guitar with a fraying red strap. Lifting it out of the heap with careful hands, he felt a surge of memory so powerful, it momentarily stole his breath. It was as though the instrument were alive with memories—he could recount the tale behind every scratch, ding, and chip. He brushed his fingers along the strings and winced at the discordant twang, but the fact that any sound came at all meant they were still playable.

He sank onto the floor without a word, fingers working the pegs to tune the guitar. Each note he plucked brought a new wave of recollection: dusty afternoons spent jamming with Dave, the warm midday sun streaming through the window, the sound of Dave’s piano weaving beautifully around Alvin’s chords.

Laughter… the laughter was the strongest memory. For a brief second, if he closed his eyes, it felt like he was back there—back with Dave.

A small voice tore him from his reverie. “Is that your guitar, Uncle Alvin?” Markus asked. The boy’s gaze gleamed with awe as he took in the old instrument. Alvin felt a flash of irritation at being yanked out of his memories, but the wonder in Markus’s eyes—something so earnest and pure—stopped him cold. It reminded him of someone else who had once stared at musical instruments with that same bright curiosity.

“It was,” Alvin replied softly. Only then did he realize the entire room had fallen still to watch him. “I wrote my first songs on this guitar,” he went on, coaxing gentle chords out of the strings—tunes both familiar and long forgotten. He thought about his current lineup of guitars—sleek, custom-made beauties that cost a small fortune. Yet this worn-out acoustic had birthed the songs that changed his life.

“How do you do that?” Markus asked, settling cross-legged on the floor in front of Alvin. Every strum seemed to enchant the little chipmunk, who looked ready to dive headfirst into music then and there. Alvin had always silently wondered—never bringing it up with his brother and Eleanor. For all their musical history, the kids had never shown much interest in music. Until now.

Alvin’s gaze settled on the corner by the window, where Dave’s piano had once dominated the room. Now it was just an empty patch of floor illuminated by moonlight—no spectral echo, no lingering imprint of the past. All at once, the room lost its air of nostalgia. It was simply a room again.

He realized he was no longer the wide-eyed child perched on a piano bench, soaking up every lesson Dave offered. Instead, he stood there as an adult, looking into the face of a boy whose eyes brimmed with the same musical wonder Alvin once knew by heart.

Turning back, he gently placed the guitar on Markus’s lap, then slipped the red strap over his nephew’s shoulder.

“Let me show you,” he said, moving behind and positioning Markus’s small hands on the fretboard and guiding his other hand across the strings. Markus hesitated before strumming a choppy, off-key chord—his face lighting up as soon as the sound resonated.

Alvin’s chest tightened with emotion. That unbridled joy in Markus’s eyes was likely the same awe Dave had witnessed in a young Alvin. The boy kept strumming with unrestrained gusto, drawing out one feeble chord after another, each attempt brimming with enthusiasm.

It was beautiful.

“You want to keep the guitar?” Alvin asked in a quiet voice, pausing Markus mid-strum.

“R-really?” Markus sputtered, eyes wide. “You’re giving it to me?”

Alvin nodded, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. “Sure. And if you want, I can show you a few tips and tricks, help you learn.”

Markus’s response came in a flurry of excitement, his hand practically vibrating over the strings with anticipation. Alvin swung around to face him front on, his voice softening as he looked the boy in the eye.

“I’ll teach you the most important thing I ever learned,” Alvin said. “A lesson passed down by the greatest musician I’ve ever known.”

By now, every child—and every adult—had inched closer, hanging on Alvin’s every word. He took a steadying breath, remembering how often Dave had repeated this simple mantra, how much it had shaped him and his music.

For a moment, Alvin thought he felt a warm presence behind him, as if Dave himself were still there, nodding in quiet approval. Then the moment passed, leaving only the hum of possibility—and a small boy clutching an old guitar with stars in his eyes.

“Less is more.”

 

 

Notes:

There is a lot of myself in this chapter. My dad was my greatest musical inspiration. He taught me how to play the guitar...and now I own 9 of the bloody things! When I would visit him, we would sit down and listen to the latest song I had written and he would give me his thoughts. But I could always see how proud he was whenever he listened to the music I had made.

He died in my early adult years. Much like Dave in this story, he left behind children old enough to be adults, but not old enough to do it without him. It makes writing the grief the chipmunks would be experiencing much...clearer. The hole they leave behind is often filled with bittersweet memories, especially when they leave you earlier than you might have hoped.

Chapter 9: A Day in the Life

The shrill, metallic buzz of the alarm clock dragged Simon reluctantly from sleep, its grating wail reverberating off the hard walls of his cramped apartment. Each jarring sound seemed to ricochet endlessly until he emerged from under the thin sheet, groaning, and slammed his fist onto the button to silence it.

For a fleeting moment, he considered diving back under the covers to reclaim the comfort of sleep, but his mind was already awake, ticking away. Giving in would only set him back. With a sigh, he pulled at the blinds next to his bed, squinting as sunlight spilled through the narrow streets below, illuminating neat rows of apartments. Outside, a screech of brakes followed by a cacophony of honking horns drew a raised eyebrow from Simon. New York drivers, as impatient as ever.

Throwing the blinds open further, he let the sunlight flood his studio apartment. The light only highlighted the room’s shabby state: peeling wallpaper, scuffed floorboards, and a kitchenette so small it practically shared space with his bed. Simon cast a fleeting glance at the newest section of wallpaper curling away near the doorframe. Reporting it to the landlord would just bring a stream of excuses. The place was a dump, sure, but it was affordable—and in New York, that was a rare thing.

He swung around, dropped off the bed, and padded to the bathroom, noticing as he passed the sink that a new crack had joined the constellation of imperfections across its porcelain surface. He jumped to twist the cold tap of the shower, waiting through the familiar sputtering gurgle before a stream of lukewarm water sputtered out. Hot showers were a luxury reserved for early risers, a scarcity in a building where the entire complex shared one ancient boiler. But Simon didn’t mind. Lukewarm showers had grown on him—refreshing, in their way.

The quick rinse jolted him awake. Towelling himself down, he headed back to his bed, which doubled as a storage unit thanks to the stacks of books beneath it. Books served a dual purpose for those of chipmunk scale: reading material and furniture. Their modularity made them perfect for makeshift tables, shelves, and even ladders. Eleanor had sent him a few handmade comforts over the years—clothes, utensils, even a small pan—but Simon lacked her patience and skill for crafting. And he certainly lacked the extensive funds that had gone into Brittany’s apartment; a custom affair built from the ground up to suit her scale and exacting requirements. No, he was fine with books. Besides, if he ever tired of his book-table or his book-shelves, he could always just take them apart and read them.

He threw on his blue pinstripe jacket, patched elbows and all, before scaling a book stack to reach his kitchenette counter. Opening the minifridge, he retrieved a small jar of yogurt, oats, and blueberries—his go-to breakfast. Cooking had never been his forte, a strange irony given its similarities to basic chemistry. Theodore had tried teaching him the art of culinary precision, but Simon’s felt his brother put too much effort into something as basic as breakfast. He wasn’t making fine art; a solid mixture of carbs, protein, and fats was all he needed from his meals.

Breakfast in hand, Simon settled on his makeshift table with the book Something Deeply Hidden, an engrossing dive into quantum physics. He had started the book the night before and found it nearly impossible to put down. Half a chapter and an empty jar later, the demands of the day pulled him away.

Sliding the book into a gap in his stacks, he slung his small backpack off a nail he’d driven into the wall—adding to the many holes the apartment came with, making it unlikely his landlord would notice or care. The bag was packed with essentials: his smartwatch, papers, notebooks, and a snack bag of nuts. Lastly, Simon grabbed his most peculiar possession: a fingerboard modified with a miniature electric motor.

Tucking the board under his arm and fastening a slightly loose helmet over his head, he tugged the string attached to his door handle. With a groan, the heavy door creaked open, and Simon stepped out onto the landing, ready to face the day.

The raised voices from his neighbour’s apartment greeted Simon the moment he stepped onto the landing. A flurry of angry Spanish curses spilled through the ajar door, sharp enough to make his ears twitch. He didn’t bother translating the barrage—he had heard enough similar exchanges to fill in the blanks. With a resigned sigh, he rolled his eyes, but before he could turn to the stairs, the door burst open.

Out stepped Sofia, his teenage neighbour, swinging a saddlebag over her shoulder. An earbud dangled from one ear, and her dark, curly hair obscured half her face, leaving only her expression of mild frustration visible. She muttered something under her breath as she pulled her shoes on.

"Con mamá, voy a la escuela," she called back into the apartment before noticing Simon on the landing. Her frown flipped into a radiant smile. “Morning, Mr. Seville!” she chirped.

Simon returned her grin with a weary one of his own. “It’s Doc—you know what, never mind.” He waved dismissively, letting the correction slide. “How’s your morning, Sofia? I take it Marta and Luis are still at odds from last night.”

“Totally new fight,” Sofia replied, rolling her eyes as she walked toward the elevator and jabbed at the call button. “Mamá wants Luis to get a real job. He thinks his muffler resale business is going to take off.” She snorted, giving the elevator button another aggressive poke. “I give it a month before the cops start questioning where the mufflers are coming from in the first place.”

Simon watched as the elevator failed to arrive, its absence as dependable as ever. “You know,” he said dryly, “I’m starting to think there was never an elevator in that shaft to begin with.”

Sofia giggled, the sound bright and unguarded, “one day it’ll work.” Turning to the stairwell, she threw a glance over her shoulder. “Need a ride?”

Simon’s smile widened as he climbed onto her shoulder, his small hands gripping the strap of her saddlebag for balance. “Why, thank you, Sofia. Your chivalry is appreciated.”

She started down the stairs with practiced ease, and Simon adjusted his grip as they descended. “I do hope Marta and Luis can resolve things peacefully,” he mused.

Sofia snorted. “You know them. They fight now, they make up later, they fight again tonight.”

Simon grimaced in sympathy. Marta and Luis’s passionate relationship often boiled over, though they did their best to shield Sofia from the worst of it. Still, ‘best’ was a relative term. Marta was a good mother, Simon knew. Luis on the other hand… well, let’s just say he had faith in Marta’s common sense eventually prevailing.

Sensing the topic was a bit heavy for early morning, Simon shifted gears. “How’s the homework coming along? All finished?”

Sofia groaned. “You sound like my Abuela. I’ve got all week to do it. Nobody does their homework right away.”

“I’ll take that as a no,” Simon said with a knowing chuckle.

“It’s not that I don’t want to do it,” Sofia explained. “I just don’t get trigonometry. Seriously, when am I ever going to use that stuff? It’s pointless.”

“You’d be surprised,” Simon replied. “If you still want to be a doctor, trigonometry could come in handy for things like CT scans or neurosurgery. It’s more useful than you think.”

Sofia hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “I’m not sure I want to be a doctor anymore.”

“Oh?”

“Too much math and gross chemistry stuff,” she said with a laugh, oblivious to the pang her words caused Simon. He masked it well. “I think I’d make a good lawyer. I’m great at arguing with Mamá and Luis.”

Simon muttered something inaudible but let the comment slide. “Even so, to be a lawyer, you’ll need a good law college. To get into a good college, you’ll need a strong GPA. And to get a strong GPA—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll need to do my homework,” Sofia cut him off as they reached the bottom of the stairs. She shoved the door open with unnecessary force, stepping onto the bustling Queens street. “You’re such a pest. How can someone so small be so annoying?” Despite her words, her teasing grin softened the blow. Teenagers was such testy creatures.

Simon hopped off her shoulder and landed lightly on the apartment stoop. “It’s a talking chipmunk thing. You should meet my brother,” he quipped. Setting his fingerboard on the ground, he tightened his helmet under his chin.

Sofia lingered for a moment. “Well, if trig is so important, can you come over tonight to help me figure it out? Abuela’s making that pozole you like.”

Simon’s eyes lit up. “You’ve got yourself a deal,” he said, flicking the switch on the fingerboard’s motor. As the tiny engine hummed to life, Simon glanced back at Sofia. “You know, you might actually make a great lawyer after all.”

Sofia giggled, waving as she darted off down the street. Simon smiled to himself, then leaned forward on his board and pushed off, becoming a streaking blur down the sidewalks of Queens.

The miniature skateboard had been a hesitant choice for Simon, born out of necessity. Traversing the streets of Queens on foot was simply out of the question. The distances alone were daunting, but the hazards made it outright dangerous—cats, dogs, aggressive New Yorkers, and even the occasional overly territorial rat. Staying mobile was paramount, and a modified electric skateboard offered a perfect blend of speed and agility. The added motor had been a no-brainer, allowing Simon to zip around with minimal effort, a tiny blue blur weaving through the chaos of the city.

It had taken a few weeks for him to master the board, but once he did, it became an extension of him. Not that he could share his new skill with anyone. If Alvin or Brittany ever caught wind of his skateboarding, the teasing would be relentless. And if Alvin knew Simon had swiped one of his old football helmets to use as a crash helmet? He’d never hear the end of it.

Simon’s small size gave him an edge in navigating the city’s labyrinthine layout. New York wasn’t just a sprawling maze; it was a vertical one. Dividing walls between buildings became shortcuts, scaffolding turned into overpasses, and tight drainage alleyways provided hidden routes that shaved minutes off his commute. He knew every crack and crevice, a living map of shortcuts etched in his mind.

As he neared his first stop of the morning, Simon guided his board up a wheelchair ramp, hugging the wall of a nearby park. His destination came into view: a modest van parked just off the curb, its open side bustling with patrons. The rich aroma of roasting coffee beans mingled with the hissing of a milk frother, creating an irresistible olfactory symphony. Simon kicked the tail of his board to stop, leaping off a dividing wall and landing neatly on the van’s side shelf.

“Ay! Simon!” bellowed Big Gio, the rotund, balding barista behind the counter. With one hand on the steam wand and the other gripping a pitcher of milk, Gio’s face lit up as he noticed his tiny visitor. “You ever crash that thing?” He nodded toward Simon’s board, giving its scuffed surface a once-over.

Simon smirked. “A few times, maybe. Let’s just say I’m not the athletic one in my family.”

Gio barked a laugh but then snapped his fingers as if remembering something. “Oh! I almost forgot! You were right about the almond milk. Switching it out for sweetened almond milk? Game-changer! The texture of the foam’s perfect now—better than it’s ever been!”

Simon chuckled, his gaze sweeping over the line of customers eagerly waiting for their turn. “Like I said, Gio, it’s simple chemistry. Sucrose interacts with the proteins in almond milk, stabilizing the foam during aeration. It improves viscosity, creating—”

“Yeah, yeah—science, blah blah,” Gio interrupted with a wave of his hand, pouring another latte and sliding it across the counter to its rightful owner. “All I know is I’ve got every hipster in Queens lining up for almond lattes now. I owe you one, kid.”

Simon arched an eyebrow, seizing the opening. “How about free coffee for the rest of the month?”

Gio jabbed a thick finger at him, mock stern. “Don’t push your luck, little man. A guy’s gotta make a livin’, you know.” The two locked eyes in exaggerated seriousness, the silence stretching long enough to make the nearby patrons shift awkwardly. Finally, Gio broke first, letting out a good-natured groan as he reached behind the counter. He grabbed a tiny takeaway piccolo cup, filled it, and slid it across to Simon.

“One week, and that’s it,” Gio grumbled, though the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. “Now scram. You’re scarin’ off my customers.”

Simon chuckled warmly, saluting with the cup. “Thanks, Gio. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Cradling the steaming piccolo cup, Simon hopped back onto his board, the coffee’s warmth a welcome companion as he zipped back into the city’s chaos.

Despite the convenience of his miniature skateboard, it could only take Simon so far. Queens to Manhattan was no small commute, and navigating the expansive sprawl of New York required more than the tiny board could offer. His journey involved a patchwork of transportation: a bus ride, a subway leg, and two train connections. The bus wasn’t too daunting, but the subway and trains posed real dangers for someone his size. New Yorkers were always in a rush, rarely paying attention to what—or who—might be underfoot. To stay safe, Simon relied on his small size and verticality. He balanced on railings in the subway stations and perched on baggage rails during rides, well out of harm’s way.

Public transportation was a necessary evil in New York, a stark contrast to his time in car-centric California, where public transit had been an afterthought. In this city, the trains were the lifeblood of mobility—when they ran on time, at least.

Simon had grown to enjoy the train rides the most. The bus crawled through traffic, and the subway offered nothing but grimy tunnels and dim lights. But the train wove through the towering skyscrapers, offering stunning views of the urban jungle. As he gazed out at the sprawling city, memories of Los Angeles’s open spaces and Harvard’s tranquil quiet surfaced briefly, but New York felt like home now.

The sight of a massive billboard brought a chuckle to Simon’s lips. Towering above the skyline was none other than his brother, Alvin, striking a classic rockstar pose: guitar slung over his shoulder, red leather jacket catching the light, his name in bold letters advertising an upcoming sold-out performance at Radio City Music Hall. Simon shook his head with a smile. Alvin’s ego probably rivalled the size of the billboard, but Simon couldn’t help feeling proud. The show was just a few weeks away, and he looked forward to seeing his brother—if only for a brief moment backstage. Alvin was a busy chipmunk these days, but he always made time for Simon when he was in town, and Simon appreciated it more than words could express…not that he would ever express it with words to Alvin.

As the train turned, the billboard disappeared behind a building. Simon took one last glance at the words emblazoned across the bottom: “One night only—the highest-selling artist of the year.” Alvin truly looked the part, every inch the superstar he had become.

A voice pulled Simon from his thoughts. “I’m telling you, Linda, this line takes us right where we need to go,” a man said, his voice firm and tinged with a peculiar accent.

“Let’s just ask one of these nice young men if we need to change lines,” a woman replied, her tone sweet but similarly accented. Simon looked down from his perch on the baggage rail and spotted the middle-aged couple standing by the train doors, nervously studying the tangled web of the New York transit map. Their attire and accents made it clear: tourists, likely Canadians.

“There’s no chance I’m risking getting mugged just for some directions,” the man muttered.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Paul,” the woman chided, waving her hand dismissively. “I’m sure someone will be happy to help.”

“Have you seen these people?” Paul grumbled, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “They’d mug us as soon as look at us.”

Simon rolled his eyes and cleared his throat loudly. “Excuse me,” he called out. When the pair failed to locate the source, he added, “Up here.”

Paul’s eyes shot upward, his face blanching. “Sweet baby Jesus! They weren’t kidding when they said New York rats were something else!”

“I’m… a chipmunk, actually,” Simon corrected, raising a finger. “Though technically, we’re part of the same rodent family. Anyway, where are you trying to go?”

Linda let out a breath of relief. “Oh, bless your heart. We’re trying to get to the Museum of Art.”

Paul placed a protective hand on her shoulder. “Careful, Linda. We don’t know what this… chipmunk… might want.”

Simon ignored the comment with practiced politeness. “You’re on the right line,” he said. “But you’ll need to switch to the subway in three stops. Take the A line to 86th Street, and you’ll be right at the museum’s doorstep.”

Paul hesitated, his scepticism visible, but eventually, he nodded and turned to his wife with a smile. “See, Linda? I told you we were on the right track. No faith,” he added, gesturing at her playfully. “Trust me, young man—don’t get married.”

Linda swatted at Paul’s arm, her laugh light and genuine. Simon couldn’t help but chuckle, though a faint blush coloured his cheeks as his mind wandered to a particular chipmunk.

“Don’t listen to him,” Linda said warmly, looking back up at Simon. “If you find the right one, you marry them. If that’s… what chipmunks do, that is.”

Simon laughed, a genuine, hearty laugh. “Sometimes it is,” he said, his smile lingering as the train rolled on.

The moment Simon stepped off the train, he was swallowed by the vibrant energy of college life. The station conveniently emptied out right at the campus gates, and with it being the first day of the semester, the quad was alive with students reuniting, rushing to class, or soaking up the last moments of morning sun. The air buzzed with excitement and faint nervousness, a hallmark of new beginnings.

As Simon strolled through the halls of the science department, the familiarity of his environment set in. Passing students and faculty offered warm greetings like, “Good morning, Professor!” or “Did you enjoy your break?” Simon nodded politely, though the concept of a “break” was a misnomer. Faculty life rarely stopped completely, but a reprieve from the demands of teaching was always welcome.

The first day of a new academic semester carried its own excitement, however. As he approached his lecture hall, Simon had his nose buried in his class list, scanning the names of students for familiar names from previous courses. He paused at the edge of the corridor, lost in thought, when a shrill, nasally voice pierced the air.

“Professor Seville,” it called, the sound instantly sending an unpleasant shiver down Simon’s spine and fluffing his tail involuntarily. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was. That voice was unmistakable. “What a delight to run into you this morning.”

Simon dragged his gaze upward, forcing himself to meet the sharp eyes of Professor Crone. The gaunt, wiry man strode up beside him, his perfectly fitted grey suit hanging off his frame and a briefcase dangling casually from his hand. His grin was anything but friendly.

“Professor Crone,” Simon greeted with thinly veiled irritation. “What brings you from the hallowed halls of the law faculty to the humble science department?”

Crone’s grin widened, dripping with faux charm. “I was hoping to find you, of course,” he said, his tone as acidic as always. The rivalry between the law and science departments was legendary, and Crone seemed determined to keep the feud alive. “As you know, the dean is hosting his annual faculty dinner next month. I couldn’t help but wonder if we might finally meet this elusive plus-one of yours?”

Simon bit back several sharp retorts. Crone knew the answer; he was fishing for a reaction. Simon sighed and adopted an air of calm indifference. “Unfortunately not,” he replied. “Her environmental pursuits keep her exceptionally busy. She’s rarely in the country for more than a week before her expertise is required elsewhere.”

“Is that so?” Crone drawled, the scepticism in his voice palpable. “One might start to conclude this ‘spouse’ of yours doesn’t even exist.”

Simon’s patience thinned, but his wit stayed sharp. “Well, being a lawyer, I’m sure you’re accustomed to leaping to baseless conclusions,” he quipped, his words slicing through Crone’s smug demeanour. For the first time, a flicker of annoyance crossed the law professor’s face.

Simon stopped at the door to his lecture hall, turning to face Crone fully. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, as a man of science, I won’t jump to any conclusions. I’ll operate on the assumption that this room is full. But, of course, I won’t know for certain until I observe it.”

With a flourish, and some effort, Simon pushed the door open, and the lively chatter of a packed lecture hall greeted them. Simon shot Crone a devilish grin. “Would you look at that—empirical evidence wins again. You should try it in your own classroom. Assuming, of course, it is full.”

Not waiting for a response, Simon stepped into his lecture hall, the door swinging shut behind him. The grin spreading across his face lingered as he walked to his desk. What a satisfying way to start the workday.

The lively chatter of the students quieted as Simon strolled across the presentation stage, his tiny figure commanding attention. He scaled a small ladder onto the presentation desk and began switching on the array of electronic devices, including his trusty drawing tablet. Whispers of confusion rippled through the lecture hall, a familiar sound to Simon after years of teaching.

“Good morning, students,” Simon greeted, his voice clear and loud enough to carry across the tiered seating. “Welcome to Intensive Organic Chemistry for First Years. Some of you might remember me from Introduction to Chemistry last semester, but for those who don’t, my name is Professor Seville.”

He picked up his digital pen and neatly wrote his name on the drawing pad, watching as the words projected onto the large screen behind him. “You can call me Professor or Doctor—whatever you prefer.” He turned back to face his students, whose expressions ranged from curiosity to uncertainty.

“Now, for some of you, this will be your first science unit with me. For me, however, this isn’t my first lecture, and I already know the five questions I’m going to be asked today. So, to save us time, let’s get those out of the way now, shall we? I’ll even kick us off by asking question one myself.”

Simon spun the pen in his fingers, an easy smile on his face as he wrote his first question on the screen: Are you a talking chipmunk?

“Yes,” he said aloud, “I am a talking chipmunk. And no,” he added before anyone could ask, “I don’t know why I can talk. An evolutionary fluke is the prevailing theory. There are only ten talking chipmunks in the entire world, with my sister in law giving us a few more any month now, all hailing from two family units born on opposite ends of the planet. Let’s just say I can’t get the zoology department to leave me alone.”

The room filled with laughter and murmurs, breaking some of the initial tension. Simon nodded, gesturing to the class. “Who wants to take a swing at question two?”

A sea of hands shot up, and Simon pointed to a student in the third row.

“Do you know Alvin and Brittany?” the student asked, sparking a buzz of murmured curiosity around them.

Simon grinned. “That is, in fact, question two.” He wrote it down for the class before answering. “Yes, Alvin is my brother. As for Brittany, while we’re not related, we did spend our formative years growing up together.”

As expected, the room erupted into excited murmurs. Simon shook his head with mild amusement. It never failed—people were often more impressed by his connection to Alvin and Brittany than by the fact that he was a talking chipmunk teaching chemistry courses.

A timid hand rose from the front row. Simon pointed his pen at the shy girl, who hesitantly asked, “What is your doctorate in?”

Simon’s smile softened. He recognized potential in her quiet curiosity. “Excellent question,” he said, writing it down. “You wouldn’t want to be learning chemistry from a doctor of political science.” His joke earned an awkward chuckle from the room. “My doctorate is in Physical Chemistry. Who here knows what that means?”

“Chemistry you can touch?” someone called out, earning scattered laughter.

Simon chuckled. “Not quite. Physical chemistry combines principles of physics and chemistry to study how matter behaves on a molecular and atomic level, and how chemical reactions occur. It involves thermodynamics, quantum mechanics, and kinetics to explain the physical properties of molecules and their interactions.” As he spoke, Simon wrote down key terms to anchor the explanation.

“Luckily for you, we won’t dive into physics-heavy concepts this semester,” he added, “but organic chemistry has its own challenges.”

Another hand went up, this time from the back row. “Didn’t you used to be in a boyband or something?” the student asked, sparking a ripple of laughter.

Simon let out a small, indignant squeak. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a boy band,” he began, defensively. “Yes, I was in a group with my brothers. We sang songs, danced… wore coordinated outfits…” He trailed off, realizing where this line of thought led. “Okay, maybe it was somewhat a boy band,” he conceded, eliciting more laughter.

He wrote the question on the board and turned back to his class. “That’s four out of five. I’m sure you all know what the last question is. Who’s brave enough to ask it?”

Hands shot up across the room, and Simon pointed to a particularly eager student.

“Can you get us tickets to Alvin’s concert?”

Simon smirked devilishly and turned back to his tablet. In addition to writing the question, he wrote: What is the origin of homochirality in biomolecules?

He turned to face the class, gesturing to the screen. “Whoever answers this question by the end of next week will win two shiny front-row tickets to Alvin’s show at the end of the month.”

The buzz in the room was instant as students scrambled for their notebooks to jot down the question. Simon’s grin widened. Little did they know, the question was one of the oldest and most complex mysteries in organic chemistry—an unsolved problem with no definitive answer.

Chuckling quietly to himself, Simon erased the five questions and turned back to the class. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s get started on the coursework.”

Simon’s work days followed a predictable rhythm. He lectured until noon most days and kept office hours from two to five on Mondays, Wednesdays, an Fridays. These office sessions were invaluable, offering students the chance to sit down one-on-one with him to tackle challenging course material or voice questions they didn’t feel confident asking in the lecture hall. Simon understood that not all students thrived through lectures or labs alone—some needed the space and privacy to engage directly, to learn through dialogue.

His office, however, left much to be desired. It was the smallest in the department, a cramped, dimly lit room just large enough for a desk and a filing cabinet. Being just an associate professor, he wasn’t expecting the largest office in the department or anything…but still. The lone window faced a narrow alleyway, and the blinds were almost always drawn to avoid the depressing view. Despite its unglamorous state, Simon had grown fond of the little space. It was functional, that was enough.

In between helping students, Simon used his office hours to work on his research. The university expected him to contribute scholarly work alongside his teaching responsibilities, and his current project, titled ‘Kinetics and Mechanisms of Catalytic Hydrogen Evolution Reactions on Transition Metal Surfaces’, was the culmination of six months of meticulous study. The paper still had a long road ahead before publication, but the findings so far were promising.

Simon preferred his drawing tablet to the computer’s keyboard for writing. Handwriting-to-text programs made drafting lengthy academic papers far less cumbersome for someone of his stature. Leaning back on the table, he read through his latest section on his computer screen with a nod of satisfaction. Progress made; it was time for a well-earned break.

His eyes fell to the weathered envelope resting on his desk. Using a pen, Simon carefully peeled it open, revealing a folded piece of paper and a Polaroid. The sight of the photo instantly brought a smile to his face. Jeanette stood in the foreground, as radiant as ever, posing amidst a vast field of freshly planted green stalks stretching across a barren, sandy expanse. The contrast between the vibrant plants and the desolate backdrop spoke volumes about her work.

Unfolding the letter, Simon began to read, the familiar script filling him with warmth.

 

Dear Simon,

I hope this letter finds its way back to you before I do. We’re on the Uzbekistan side of the Aral Sea for the next month, and the postal service here isn’t quite as efficient as it was in Kazakhstan. Reception is spotty, and while emails work when the signal cooperates, I’ve grown to enjoy writing letters like these.

Efforts to combat desertification in the Aral Sea are going as well as we hoped, which is to say the results will likely take a lifetime—or longer—to truly show. The Polaroid included shows the results of two weeks of planting drought-resistant vegetation to stabilize the lakebed and mitigate the toxic dust storms caused by its drying.

This week, we’ve been staying in a yurt. Surprisingly comfortable! The local herders have been incredibly hospitable, though the food is... interesting. Let’s leave it at that.

I can hardly believe it’s been three months since I left New York, but the time has flown by. I’ll be back in less than a month, and while I’ve loved the experience here, I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed again.

I hope you’re taking good care of my apartment like you promised. Not that I don’t trust you, but you know how much I worry about my plants. The clematis flower especially need daily attention—it loses its beautiful fragrance without proper care.

I’ll end the letter here. The rest of the team has already drifted off, and I can feel myself doing the same. It’s been a busy week!

I miss you more than anything, Simon.

 

Love,

Jeanette

 

Simon read the letter twice, lingering on the closing line. The notes Jeanette sent were the highlights of his week—little slices of her life and love bundled into a few precious words. Yet, as much as they filled him with joy, they also stirred a bittersweet ache. He missed her terribly, but his heart swelled with pride knowing she was out in the world making a difference.

His eyes wandered to the clematis flower on his desk. True to his word, he had taken exceptional care of it, even bringing it to his office for close supervision. He thought about the future they’d been planning—moving in together once Jeanette’s travel demands eased. They had been dating since college, but never quite found the right time to move in together. Still, even in separation, Simon felt satisfied with the motions of the relationship, especially considering his latest discrete developments.

Simon lingered on his thoughts for a long moment, his heart racing with the weight of them. The sudden buzz of his smartwatch on the desk startled him, causing him to jump slightly and fumble as he grabbed it. Glancing at the caller ID, he furrowed his brow before tapping the answer button.

“Simon Seville speaking,” he said evenly.

“Do you, like, not have my number saved or something?” Alvin’s unmistakable voice cut through, accompanied by the cacophony of loud music in the background.

“I do,” Simon replied, keeping his tone calm. “I just answer the phone properly.”

“Is that Simon?” another voice chimed in—sharp, shrill, and unmistakably Brittany’s. “Don’t drag him into this, Alvin!”

“I need someone I trust to put dumb idiots like you in their place!” Alvin barked back, his words dripping with mock authority.

“Oh, you did not—”

“What,” Simon interjected, recognizing the telltale signs of an escalating argument, “can I assist you with, Alvin?”

“You’re not going to believe this,” Alvin began, his laugh taking on a distinctly antagonistic edge. “This moron thinks—ow, hey! No pinching!”

“Moron?!” Brittany’s indignant tone climbed several decibels.

“Start from the beginning,” Simon sighed, already feeling the weight of their antics. Alvin and Brittany had a unique knack for exhausting him in ways that made him marvel at how their adoptive father, Dave, had managed it for so many years.

“Simon, it’s Brittany,” she announced loudly, as though this were new information. Simon bit back a remark about the obviousness of her identity.

“Do you know what a line array is? The big speakers on either side of a concert stage?” she asked.

“Yes, Brittany,” Simon replied, his voice monotone. “A reminder—we were in a band together for nearly four years.”

“Well, thank you! Then you can tell Alvin that they’re long like that so they can be loud. I can’t believe we even have to bring you into this.”

“How can someone who’s been in the music industry for as long as you have still think something so stupid?” Alvin laughed. “They’re built that way for sound quality, not volume. Right, Simon?”

Simon pinched the bridge of his nose and let the bickering on the other end wash over him. How was it that, even separated by thousands of miles, he still found himself mediating their arguments?

“First of all,” Simon began, raising his voice to cut through the noise, “you are both adults. Fully grown. Please try to recognize how ridiculous this is.”

“Oh, I know,” Brittany said pointedly. “It’s him acting like a child.”

“Is it childish to be right?” Alvin shot back.

“It’s childish to think you’re right when you’re wrong!”

“You—you’re a child!” Alvin countered lamely.

“Secondly!” Simon interjected, firmly steering the conversation back on track. “You’re both wrong—or, more accurately, you’re both partially right.”

A pause followed, the brief silence speaking volumes about their mutual surprise.

“A line array,” Simon explained, his tone deliberate, “is exactly what its name suggests: an array of speaker cabinets in a line. They’re designed to project sound evenly across a venue. The reason they’re so long and curved is that each cabinet is angled to target a specific section of the audience. The upper speakers cover the back, the lower ones cover the front. Combined with other speakers like front fills and side fills—”

“And that makes it sound good for every seat, right?” Alvin interrupted, seizing on the point.

“Yes,” Simon confirmed. “But it also allows the sound to be loud and evenly distributed. With each cabinet focusing on its designated area, the volume can be adjusted across the array to avoid being too loud in the front and too soft in the back.”

“So…” Brittany’s voice was slower now, thoughtful. “We’re both right?”

“Or you’re both wrong,” Simon said with a smile. “Either way, you’ll need to find something else to argue about. I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”

“Thanks for nothing, Simon!” Alvin called before the line cut out, Brittany’s indignant reply lost in the abrupt disconnect.

Silence filled the office once more. Simon leaned back, shaking his head with a weary laugh. Alvin and Brittany were like an unavoidable storm—chaotic, loud, and impossible to ignore. And yet, they never failed to bring a little absurdity to his day.

With one last chuckle, he set the watch down on the desk and turned back to his work.

Another day came and went for Simon much as it had for the past year—routine and uneventful. At half past five, he shut down his computer, slung his backpack over one shoulder, and took one last glance around his tiny, silent office. A quick flip of the light switch, and he was off down the corridor.

He had two major tasks left tonight, one of which was tending to Jeanette’s apartment and her many plants. Thankfully, her place was right here in Upper Manhattan, only a short subway ride away—though rush-hour crowds were never something Simon looked forward to. Jeanette’s financial situation was peculiar enough to afford her a decent spot in this pricey neighbourhood. She made a bit more than Simon did as an associate professor, but her real advantage was that she rarely spent her salary at all. Constant travel meant her day-to-day costs were nearly non-existent, allowing her to pour most of her income into rent.

Simon chuckled at the thought while descending the steps of the science building, passing the ground floor and continuing into the basement research labs. He suspected Jeanette’s second-biggest expense, after rent, was the staggering number of books she purchased—many specially printed for her needs. Simon liked to read, sure, but couldn’t match Jeanette’s voracious appetite for the written word.

The basement of the Science Department felt more like a hospital than a university, with its white walls and dull lighting. This area was reserved for high-level research equipment, not standard classrooms. Simon had spent countless hours here, using spectrometers, calorimeters, and other instruments ending in “-meter” for his projects. Tonight, though, he wasn’t investigating molecular vibrations or phase transitions—he was after something more... down-to-earth for his second last task of the day.

Slipping through the propped door to the geology research wing, Simon surveyed the brightly lit room. Rows of empty workstations lined the space, punctuated by massive, humming metal machines bound with thick seals. These behemoths were engineered to drill into rock and crystal, probing their structures or even replicating the brutal pressures of Earth’s core. Simon couldn’t help feeling on edge amid their ceaseless hiss and hum; after all, with that kind of PSI, they were essentially expensive bombs just waiting for the slightest mistake.

Pushing aside his concerns, Simon made his way to a lone desk in the far corner of the lab, nestled beside a large, softly humming machine. Seated at the desk, his white lab coat dust-stained, was a man intently transferring samples from one beaker to another. Simon lingered, waiting for acknowledgment that never came. He cleared his throat once, then twice—louder the second time.

“You know, little chipmunk,” the man finally said in a thick Eastern European accent, still focused on his pipette, “geology is not fast-paced field. Everything we pull from earth take millions of years to form.”

“I’m… aware, Petrov,” Simon answered, his tone uncertain.

“You cannot hurry nature,” Petrov went on. “Coal takes time to become diamond. Diamond takes time to change colour. Is natural.”

“Thank you for the elementary crash course in mineralogy,” Simon said, rolling his eyes but smiling. “You do remember I’m a chemist, right?”

“Impatient chemist,” Petrov scoffed. At last, he turned in his chair to peer at Simon. His frizzy white hair bounced as he moved, making him look every bit the eccentric scientist Simon thought he resembled more than anyone else on campus.

Petrov slapped the side of the humming machine a couple of times in emphasis. “These processes take time,” he said. “Not like chemistry—where you just spin liquids and done.”

Simon chuckled softly and approached the towering apparatus, all brushed steel and immense pressure. Its angular design might have appeared alien had it not been surrounded by other strange, hissing contraptions. He climbed onto the small railing that ringed the machine to peer through a tiny glass viewport. There wasn’t much to see in the dim interior—only a dark chamber where the air seemed to shimmer under extreme pressure, the chemicals caught in some odd state between gas and liquid. On a minuscule pedestal in the centre sat a single pellet, occasionally catching a flicker of light.

Petrov rolled his chair closer, letting out a weary sigh as he too looked through the viewport. “Diamond is growing well. Compound is stable,” he said, sounding both exasperated and faintly sympathetic. “However, not base material I would have choose. Who knows if crystal lattice will hold?”

“You’re keeping the nitrogen levels lower than usual?” Simon asked, finally glancing away.

“Too low,” Petrov grumbled.

“And the silicon is bonding?”

Petrov shrugged. “Hard to say. I do not mix HPHT and CVD in one process. I worry crystal will not withstand gamma radiation treatment if bonds are weak.”

Simon shot the Serbian geologist a pointed look. “You might at least try to be excited.”

Petrov threw up his hands in theatrical surrender. “I am, how you say… reluctant participant. Morbid curiosity, at best.”

Simon only rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the small pellet. He’d gone over the science a dozen times, and though it wasn’t standard procedure, he was determined. “Mixing both methods is the only way I can think of to get the purple hue I’m after,” he said quietly. “We sacrifice some structural integrity for that colour, but it’ll work. I’m sure of it.”

Petrov didn’t reply, simply studying the tiny crystal again and humming thoughtfully. After a moment, he asked, “What does tiny chipmunk want with deep purple diamond anyway? Too small to sell for profit.”

Simon let out a faint breath, his gaze lingering on the spark of colour he’d painstakingly coaxed from raw carbon over the last two weeks. This side project wasn’t funded by the university; a significant chunk of his own salary now sat under immense pressure in that steel chamber. To him, it was the best investment he could make.

“You’re right, Petrov,” he said at last. “It’s too small to sell—but it would make one hell of an engagement ring, don’t you think?”

 

Notes:

This chapter is another one that kind of just meandered along, but that was somewhat the point. This very much was meant to be a "boring" day in the life for Simon...with a bit of excitement at the end there ;)

I also find I do FAR too much research for these stories. Most of the science mentioned in this chapter is reasonably accurate (though I'm sure chemists, physicists and geologists could tear it apart), and I could almost give you the exact public transport route Simon took to work.
Its a funny to think I'll learn the whole process of lab growing diamonds just to mention it almost in passing, but I think diving deep can help to give the story some authenticity and ground the more fantastical themes in a bit of reality.

Chapter 10: A Rehearsal Session

Notes:

Oh wow, ten chapters. Cool.

Kenny perched on the edge of the makeshift stage, legs swinging lazily as he studied the rehearsal schedule on his laptop. It was right there in black and white: rehearsal start, eleven o’clock. Yet a glance at his watch confirmed the grim reality—eleven forty-five.

He really shouldn’t be surprised anymore.

With a quiet groan, he surveyed the old warehouse, nestled deep in the Los Angeles docklands. Compared to his snug office in downtown Hollywood—or the cramped recording booths he was used to—this place felt huge. Yet with the stage set, the lighting rig strung from the ceiling, instruments scattered about, and the operations centre opposite the stage, it looked more like a miniature music festival than a storage facility. He couldn’t deny renting a venue such as this was the only real solution for a major concert rehearsal. Everyone—band and crew alike—needed a chance to synchronize the countless intricate sound, lighting, visual, and artistic cues that went into a single hour-long show for tens of thousands of fans, and they couldn’t rightly achieve that in a rented meeting room or office space.

On a typical tour, each team member only had a handful of hours to prepare for each new venue. At a music festival, like the one they were rehearsing for now, time was even tighter. A full-on “tech rehearsal” was the only way to ensure things ran smoothly, no matter how much it cost.

“No matter the cost,” Kenny muttered under his breath as he leaned back on his palms. He eyed the session musicians sprawled onstage behind him. Their pay came as a flat rate per show, so their lounging didn’t sting too badly. The rest of the crew, though, was a different story: all paid by the hour and definitely not cheap.

Two sound engineers, one for the audience and one for the band, each racking up seventy-five dollars an hour. A stagehand, systems technician, and Alvin’s instrument tech at fifty each. Lighting and video techs? Over eighty. And that wasn’t counting venue rental or the gear from the production company.

Every idle minute felt like money seeping through his fingertips.

Right on cue, the high-pitched growl of a tiny electric motorbike sliced through the warehouse. Kenny’s head jerked toward the half-raised roller door. There he was, crimson leather jacket flapping as he ducked under the door, then skidded to a halt at the base of the stage—directly in front of Kenny. With a practiced flick, he planted one foot for balance, cut the engine, and removed his matching red helmet. The band greeted him with a wave of playful boos and jeers, and Kenny’s scowl deepened.

At least the star had finally arrived.

“Look who finally rolled in,” the drummer called out with a playful sneer. “Get lost or something?”

“Guess that tiny bike isn’t as fast as he brags it is,” the bass player chimed in, nudging the drummer with an elbow.

“You really should’ve gone for the 10cc instead of the 5cc, mate,” the rhythm guitarist added, sending a wave of chuckles through the band.

Alvin just rolled his eyes, wheeling his electric minibike toward a nearby road case to keep it out from under foot. “Everyone’s a comedian,” he muttered as he hopped onto the stage beside Kenny. His monitor audio engineer quickly handed over his tiny belt pack and in ear monitors, and Alvin started to dangle the cable down the back of his jacket.

“Is being late some sort of chipmunk thing?” the keyboard player teased.

Kenny answered before Alvin could, “No. Brittany is always on time. This is definitely an Alvin thing.” There was a level of poison in his tone.

They exchanged a glare. In that brief moment, Kenny noticed a few subtle clues on his star client—small signs that likely explained his lateness and would have made him chuckle had it not cost him hundreds of dollars.

“You’re extra snippy this morning,” Alvin observed, sweeping his gaze across the stage.

“It’s nearly noon, Alvin,” Kenny said flatly. “You realize this entire crew is on the clock?”

Alvin brushed him off with a wave. “Traffic, alright? Do you know how hard it is getting down from the Hollywood Hills every morning?”

Kenny narrowed his eyes. Alvin was far too smug for someone who’d cost him nearly an hour of idle work from a crew of nearly a dozen. Time to remind him who was in charge.

“Funny,” Kenny remarked, crossing his arms. “I thought you were staying at Brittany’s apartment lately—closer than the Hills, right?”

A chorus of “Oooh!” and exaggerated wolf whistles erupted across the band and crew, making Alvin’s eyebrows shoot up in nervous surprise. Kenny allowed himself a small, mischievous grin.

Alvin cleared his throat and turned back to the band with a forced air of calm. “Alright, everybody—tune up.”

“Already done, mate,” the guitarist’s Aussie accent carried easily across the stage.

“Then warm up,” Alvin insisted.

“Can’t get any warmer,” the bass player said, running a quick flourish across his strings to prove the point.

Alvin’s frustration was palpable. His tail visibly puffed out before he snapped, “Fine. Then fuck off for five minutes.”

Recognizing the tension but unable to hide their amusement, the band obediently backed off, exchanging smirks and chuckles. They’d all worked with Alvin plenty of times before on various tours; this kind of banter was practically second nature.

Kenny lifted his hand in a silent signal, cautioning everyone to hold off on more biting remarks. They could all use a breather—and some cooler heads—before diving into the day’s real work. The band took the signal and gave the manager and star performer some privacy.

Once the others had drifted off, Alvin let out a low groan and pressed his fingers against his temples, clearly battling a brewing headache. Kenny found himself smirking despite the tension.

“Domestic life looks good on you,” he teased. “I figured a few months under Brittany’s thumb would make you twice as cranky.”

“Don’t start with me, Kenny,” Alvin warned, fixing him with a stern glare that did nothing to rattle Kenny’s calm.

“How’s her leg doing, anyway?” Kenny asked, casually changing the subject.

Alvin slung one of his tiny guitars over his shoulder and plucked a few stray notes. “The cast comes off next week. It’s pretty much healed already, but you know Brittany—she loves the attention. She’s milking it.”

“She can be demanding,” Kenny offered with a knowing smile.

“You have no idea,” Alvin scoffed. “I’ve become her personal servant. Seriously, me—a rock star—folding laundry. I don’t even fold my own laundry! And it’s not even normal laundry, it’s all weird girly stuff. Nothing’s normal shaped, it’s all delicate materials… You ever tried to fold a chiffon nightgown? It’s impossible; it wrinkles if you so much as glance at it!”

He rattled on, sounding increasingly exasperated as he raked his fingertips over the guitar strings in a quick scale run. Kenny listened, half-amused, half-surprised at just how rattled Alvin seemed. Yet there was no denying the slight upturn at the corners of Alvin’s mouth whenever he mentioned Brittany. That odd mix of irritation and fondness between them never failed to baffle—and secretly amuse—Kenny.

He had to admit it was a strange dynamic, but it clearly worked for them. For all Alvin’s complaining, there was something in his eyes that suggested he thrived on Brittany’s chaos. And, for once, Kenny decided to keep that observation to himself.

“I’ve never actually seen Brittany’s apartment,” Kenny mused, his thoughts meandering that way as Alvin lamented the difficulties sweeping and dusting the tiny space.

Alvin let out a short laugh. “Yeah, you wouldn’t exactly fit through the door—maybe just an arm.”

“That’s the thing,” Kenny said, shrugging. “I haven’t even glimpsed it from outside. She won’t let me follow her to the rooftop of the apartment complex it’s built on.”

Alvin hopped onto one of the square risers spaced along the front of the stage—makeshift mini-platforms crafted for his one-foot-tall frame. He sidled up to a small synthesizer, still wearing his guitar, and pressed a key, sending a booming note reverberating through the speakers.

“Nah, I get it. You’ve got to understand, it’s like her own private sanctuary,” he said, eyes locked on the keyboard. “She’s always hated that we have to ‘make do’ with human-scaled stuff. In her custom apartment, she can forget she’s so small. Seeing your giant hands knocking on her tiny door kind of shatters that illusion.”

Kenny tilted his head, mulling over Alvin’s explanation. It did make sense.

“So, what’s it like in there?”

Alvin’s voice turned thoughtful. “Honestly? Strange. It’s like every other high-end Beverly Hills apartment, just shrunk down. I mean, I’m used to everything being way bigger than me. But suddenly…bam! There’s a couch where my feet actually touch the floor, a fridge I don’t have to climb to reach the top shelf, a little dining table with tiny plates and forks—it takes some getting used to. My brothers wife makes a lot of her own stuff for our size, but this is different. She makes things work for her size, Brittany gets things made to her size.”

“Why don’t you do the same thing in your place?” Kenny asked, picturing Alvin’s mansion. As far as he recalled, the only modifications were lowered light switches and reworked door handles—everything else was built for humans.

Alvin took a contemplative breath. “The shower in Brittany’s place is pretty nice, I’ll give her that. But I guess I just don’t mind being small the way she does.” He punctuated his sentence with a playful run up the synthesizer keys. Alvin might not have shrunk-down couches or tables at home, but he definitely had a first-class collection of custom-made miniature instruments.

“Besides,” he went on, “guess what Brittany can’t have in her perfect little dollhouse apartment? A cleaning service.” He jabbed a dissonant minor chord. “So you end up breaking a leg and strong-arming your friend into folding all your weird girly clothes…” He muttered the last few words under his breath, though Kenny couldn’t make them out.

The whole situation struck Kenny as so absurd that he burst out laughing—and, for a moment, Alvin’s exasperation gave way to a smirk, too.

“You really have become the perfect little domesticated boyfriend, haven’t you?” Kenny teased, unable to resist.

Alvin’s gaze quickly turned icy. “Watch it, Kenny,” he warned, his voice dropping to a sharp whisper. “She’s not my girlfriend, all right? I’m just helping a friend through a tough time.” He paused his tinkering with the synthesizer, tapping a finger to his chin in a mock-show of thoughtfulness. “Though I’m not even sure friend is the right word for her. An acquaintance, maybe… work colleague.”

Kenny’s laughter trailed off into a tired expression—one Alvin mirrored right back at him. The back-and-forth of this lie had grown stale for Kenny.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Alvin pressed. “I’m so tired of everyone assuming Brit and I are a couple. We went to high school together, we work together, her sister’s married to my brother—that’s all. Honestly, it’s kind of insulting that a boy chipmunk cant hang out with a girl chipmunk without the world assuming they’re in a relationship.”

With a theatrical roll of his eyes, Kenny decided enough was enough. “You know, Alvin,” he began, lowering his voice, “your fur does a decent job covering up that hickey on the left side of your neck—only someone who sees you often would catch that slightly darker patch. But the lip-balm glitter on your ear? Little harder to miss.”

Alvin’s hand shot up to his ear as if he’d been slapped, eyes going round. He swiped at it, then examined his fingertips, spotting a faint glittery pink smudge. Instantly he began scrubbing at the spot, darting nervous glances toward the rest of the band. Kenny just gave a wry snort.

“Stuck in traffic, right,” Kenny scoffed. “More like stuck… somewhere else. Speaking of which, where exactly are you sleeping these days? Because I seem to recall Brittany mentioning her place had just the one loft bedroom… and one bed.”

“Dude!” Alvin hissed, wiping his ear two or three more times and muttering curses—some aimed at Kenny, some at Brittany—before finally letting out a long, defeated sigh.

“You know what makes you different from Dave, Kenny?” Alvin asked, his voice laced with frustration.

Kenny waved a dismissive hand. “Easy. Dave’s paternal instincts made him oblivious to the fact you and Brittany have been in a complicated, sexual relationship for most of your adult lives.”

Alvin winced at that, biting his tongue before finally grumbling, “Not exactly. Dave knew—it’s just that he was too shy to ever address it. The closest he came was when we were teenagers, and he sat us down for a talk about ‘safe practices.’” Alvin shuddered at the memory. “That conversation probably set me and Brit back more than any fight or argument we’ve ever had.”

“So, you admit there’s a ‘you and Brit’?” Kenny pounced on Alvin’s slip, arching an eyebrow.

“We’re not—” Alvin began in a raised voice, only to clamp his mouth shut when he noticed the band’s curious stares. He tossed them a sheepish wave, then dropped his volume. “It’s… something, okay? Does that make us a couple? I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“And you’re all right with that?” Kenny asked, lowering his tone to match the seriousness of the question.

Alvin drew in a breath, words stuck in his throat for a moment. Eventually, he exhaled, turning away—but not quickly enough to hide a faint smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“You just don’t get it,” he finally muttered before letting his fingers glide over the guitar strings once more.

Kenny couldn’t hide the amused smirk tugging at his lips. He was sure Alvin didn’t realize just how closely he’d been watched. A solid manager understood that an artist’s mental state meant everything. If Alvin was happy, sad, anxious, or depressed, it was Kenny’s job to notice. And with Alvin, especially, emotions were the engine driving his music.

He’d seen it firsthand back when he first signed Alvin, during those long, intimate studio sessions for his first album after his hiatus. No matter the emotion—positive or negative—if Alvin felt it, he channelled it into his songs. In fact, what truly lit a fire under Alvin’s creativity was a hearty dose of complication. And nothing in Alvin’s life was more complicated—or inspiring—than Brittany. They’d been holed up together for two months now, meaning all that volatile energy had to be building inside Alvin’s creative reservoir.

This was precisely where Kenny wanted him.

“I’ll pencil you in for some studio time after the festival,” Kenny remarked casually, flipping his attention back to his laptop. He typed a reminder in his planner for a session a few weeks from now.

“Studio time?” Alvin raised a brow. “You need me writing for another artist or something?”

Kenny dismissed the idea with a wave. “No, just your own. I figure you might need a creative outlet to vent some of that pent up domestic bliss… or horror—however you want to see it.”

Alvin hesitated for a moment, brow furrowed in thought, then shrugged and returned to tuning his guitar. “Sure, why not.”

“Great. But, for now, let’s get this rehearsal rolling,” Kenny announced, loud enough for the rest of the warehouse to hear. “We’ve wasted enough of the morning.” A collective sigh of relief rippled through the crew—ready to launch into their careers after a morning of standing by.

“Finally, Kenny,” Alvin shot back theatrically, an impish glint dancing in his eyes. “Stop yapping my ear off and let me get to work. You’re making us late here, so selfish.”

Kenny bit back a retort. He wasn’t going to let Alvin pin the blame on him so effortlessly, but also recognized it wasn’t worth getting into a spat right now. Still, he couldn’t resist a small parting jab.

“Oh, Alvin,” he called after the chipmunk, who’d already taken a few steps toward one of his risers. Alvin turned, still wearing that smug, rockstar grin.

Kenny’s tone was deceptively breezy as he continued, “You’re right, I’m not as squeamish as Dave. So let me be perfectly clear: Brittany is on fire these days—she’s a big earner. If I have to yank her out of the spotlight for nine months because you knocked her up, I’m coming after you myself. Clear?”

The grin slid clean off Alvin’s face; he practically bared his teeth. “Jesus Christ, Kenny!” he spat, eyes blazing. “Boundaries!”

 

Notes:

This is a very fresh chapter of all that I've written. I wanted to take a little time to ingratiate ourselves with Kenny. Mostly I wanted people to see he isn't just a Dave stand-in. There is an origin story for Kenny, but it's part of one of those key timeline moments, so you will have to wait a little longer for that.

For a living I'm a Live Sound Audio Engineer, so this scene is very familiar to me. In a few chapters I do my best to pull the curtains back a little so you can see what life is like for performers AROUND the stage. A lot of people are involved in the musical career of a rockstar.

Chapter 11: A Game of Ping-Pong

The Rutherford Sports and Aquatic Centre was the crown jewel of Rutherford Private School, boasting a full-length Olympic pool, four basketball courts, and a state-of-the-art gym among its many amenities. It was an impressive addition, perfectly suited to the school's extensive roster of sports teams and extracurricular activities. The Private school was renowned throughout Houston for the successful sports teams it birthed, and joining a team was often as hard if not harder than some of the academic classes of the school—not that Ivy or Cora would know. Despite the fervour for sports among the students, the two twins had never shared the enthusiasm for athletics. Being chipmunks already excluded them from half the sports on offer; their indifference did the rest. In fact, they often used their tiny stature as the perfect excuse to sideline themselves.

Today's PE class was no different. The twins lounged indifferently on a Ping-Pong table at the edge of the basketball courts, far from the action. The noise from the pool, just beyond the dividing wall, mingled with the squeaks of sneakers on polished timber, creating a cacophony that grated on the twins’ sensitive ears. Ivy glanced at her sister Cora, who rolled her eyes in silent agreement; neither of them were cut out for this. While their older sister Hazel had been obsessed with sports, Ivy and Cora were far more at home in the dance studio on the other side of campus. If they were going to break a sweat, it would be with grace, not grunts.

“Aren’t you two bored?” A familiar voice called out, pulling them from their thoughts. Sarah, one of their classmates, jogged over, her gym clothes clinging to her from exertion. She was breathless but smiling, as usual. “It must suck that you can’t join in,” she said, nodding towards the group of students fumbling their way through a basketball game.

“Yeah,” Ivy started with a forced sigh.

“It’s so sad,” Cora finished, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Sarah chuckled, shaking her head at their theatrics. She was the type who excelled at everything she tried, whether it was academics, sports, or the arts. Straight A’s, captain of the hockey team, student council representative, and star of the school play—Sarah did it all with an infectious energy that made it impossible to dislike her.

“I saw Brittany’s new music video,” Sarah mentioned as she took a deep gulp from her water bottle. At the mention of their aunt, the twin’s eyes lit up.

“It’s so cool!” their voices were in perfect harmony, startling their friend.

“She’s such a good dancer,” Cora commented.

“So well-choreographed,” Ivy agreed.

“You should ask to be dancers in her next video. That would be awesome.”

“We’re not good enough yet,” Ivy sighed.

“Mom won’t let us anyway,” Cora added.

“You two are great dancers,” Sarah perked up, leaning against the rim of the ping-pong table. “I bet if you showed your mom how good you are she would let you be in a video.” A silence followed this comment as the twins shared a sceptical gaze. Their mom was quite adamant that they, and their older brothers and sisters, stay out of the public eye until they were at least sixteen.

Spotting the paddles leaning against the table tennis net, Sarah’s eyes lit up. “How about a game of Ping-Pong? It’s basically tennis for chipmunks,” she suggested, holding up one of the paddles with a playful grin. “I feel bad that you don’t get to play games with us. As a student representative, it’s my duty to make sure all students feel included.”

The twins exchanged a glance that spoke volumes. Being identical twins, they had an uncanny ability to communicate without words. But before they could politely decline, a Ping-Pong ball whizzed past their heads, causing them to duck instinctively.

“Oops, did I almost hit you?” a mocking voice drawled, followed by laughter. The moment the twins caught sight of the source of the voice, their mood darkened. It was Billy, the last person Ivy and Cora wanted to deal with. He swaggered over, twirling a paddle in his hand, his grin wide and insincere.

“Beat it, Billy,” Sarah’s cheerful demeanour vanished, replaced by irritation. “And watch where you’re aiming; you Almost hit them.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, little miss teacher’s pet,” Billy sneered, his tone oozing sarcasm. “But I wasn’t talking to you. Mind your own business.”

“What do you want, Billy?” Ivy and Cora asked in unison, standing up to face him, their small frame seeming even smaller in front of the towering boy and his cronies. Run-ins with Billy had become increasingly common, especially during PE, where Coach Calvello was too engrossed in his phone to keep order. Bullies like Billy thrived in such an environment, and Ivy and Cora, being the smallest students in their class by a wide margin, were his favourite targets.

“Relax, we just want to play some table tennis,” Billy said, though his tone suggested anything but relaxation. “I’m trying out for the team next month and need some practice.”

“Then use another table,” Sarah stepped in, trying to shield the twins, but Billy easily brushed her aside. “There are plenty of others.”

“It’s not the table I want,” Billy said with a wicked grin, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the twins. “I need to work on my aim. You know, get my accuracy down to about…a chubby chipmunk’s width. Know anyone who might be able to help with that?”

Ivy and Cora instinctively took a step back, their eyes darting towards the nearest exit. They knew from experience that the best option was to run. Two weeks of pulled tails, dirt sandwiches, and toilet dunking’s had taught them as much. If they were fast enough, they could probably make it to the safety of the girls' changing rooms. But that would only postpone the inevitable. If not today, Billy would find them another day. The alternative was to play along, endure a few minutes of being pelted with Ping-Pong balls, and hope that he would grow bored.

“Leave them alone!” Sarah demanded, stepping forward again, but two of Billy’s friends grabbed her by the arms, holding her back.

“Last chance to volunteer,” Billy said, his grin widening as his shadow loomed over the twins. Ivy and Cora shivered, knowing they were out of options.

"Oi!" A sharp, squeaky voice echoed across the sports centre, so powerful that several games paused as players turned to find the source. The bullies, Ivy, and Cora all whipped their heads to the left. Striding quickly across the court from the poolside, water dripping with every step, was Hazel. Her swimsuit clung to her fur; her tail awkwardly tucked inside to reduce drag in the water, and a swimmers cap tightly wrapped over her skull. Her expression was nothing short of murderous, and as she stormed forward, basketball games came to a halt, players instinctively stepping aside to clear her path.

"You’re either super brave or super stupid to be picking on my little sisters,” Hazel growled, effortlessly leaping onto the Ping-Pong table. Her fur was still soaked, as if she had just leapt straight out of the pool.

Billy hesitated, his bravado faltering for a brief second before he burst into laughter, his gang quickly following suit. "Where did this drowned rat come from? Seriously, you look ridiculous. Were you doing laps in the kitchen sink or something?" His laughter was loud and grating, clearly meant to humiliate.

Hazel's eye twitched, her fingers curling into tight fists. Ivy and Cora recognized the signs of impending rage in their easily provoked older sister. "Drowned rat, huh? Oh, that's funny; that’s real funny. Ever had all your nose hairs ripped out at once?" Hazel took a threatening step forward, but before she could advance, a trio of chipmunks sprang onto the table, cutting off her path. Markus and Finn grabbed Hazel by the shoulders, pulling her back, while Lila moved protectively in front of her younger sisters.

"Easy, Hazel," Finn urged, struggling to keep his grip on her. "Remember what Principle Higgins said: another fight, and you're getting suspended!" Finn and Markus were in swim trunks, though noticeably drier than their sister. Lila, also in swimwear, looked as though she hadn’t touched a drop of water.

"The whole rat pack is here," Billy called out, sneering at his entourage. "What are you, their bodyguards or something?"

"How about picking on someone your own size!" Hazel shouted, her voice full of fury.

"Size of my thumb, maybe," Billy jeered. "Quit wasting my time."

"I'm going to rip his tongue out through his ear!" Hazel nearly screamed. Finn was barely managing to hold her back; luckily, Markus was stronger and had a firm grip on her.

"Remember what the counsellor said," Markus cautioned, his tone calm. "Breathe in the good vibes, breathe out the bad vibes."

Hazel fidgeted, her anger bubbling just beneath the surface. Finally, she regained her composure, shrugging off her brothers' hands. She cast a quick glance back at Ivy and Cora, who were still hiding behind Lila. The twins caught a rare glimpse of genuine concern in Hazel's eyes. Hazel could be just as much of a terror at home as Billy was at school, so seeing this defensive nature confused the twins.

"Tell you what," Hazel huffed, turning back to face the boys. "What was your name again? Buddy? Bluey?"

"Billy," he corrected, annoyance creeping into his voice.

"Alright then, Baily," Hazel continued, her initial anger giving way to a confident swagger. Seeing Hazel calm down, Finn and Markus cautiously gave Hazel some room.

"Since I can’t beat the crap out of you for real, how about I beat the crap out of you symbolically?" Hazel's voice was challenging, her eyes locking onto Billy's. "One lap in the pool. First one to finish wins. Beat me, and I’ll be your personal chipmunk target for the rest of the day. You can pelt me with as many balls as you like…assuming you’re any good with that thing." She gestured towards the paddle in his hand, and for a moment, Billy seemed to shrink back.

A tense silence followed as Billy's confidence wavered. His eyes darted nervously as he searched for a way out. "I-I’m not getting in a pool with some water rat," he spat, trying to recover. "Anyway, I know you're on the swim team. It’s not a fair match."

Hazel rolled her eyes dramatically. "Fine! Pick a game then. I’ll school you in whatever you choose."

Billy hesitated, clearly sensing a trap but not bright enough to figure it out. After a long pause, a wicked grin spread across his face. "Let's kill two chipmunks with one stone then. I was just about to show your sisters a thing or two about table tennis. Maybe you can serve as the perfect example."

"Table tennis?" Markus spoke up, puzzled. "But Hazel—" Finn quickly silenced him, covering his mouth.

"Shh, let him cook," Finn whispered.

"Ping-Pong, huh?" Hazel mused, pretending to consider it. "I don’t know… I am just a small, weak little chipmunk girl after all. How could I possibly stand a chance against a big, strong boy like you?"

"It’s either you play, or I make targets out of your sisters," Billy taunted, his voice dripping with malice.

"Deal," Hazel grinned, knowing she had him right where she wanted him. "Five minutes, Ping-Pong table one. First to eleven points."

"Why not right now?" Billy leaned down, trying to intimidate her. "Are you chicken or something? Need five minutes to go cry somewhere?"

Hazel leaned in even closer, her nose almost touching his. "I’m not going to beat you in my swimsuit," she hissed, "and I ain’t no chicken." She puffed out her chest confidently. "Chickens are birds, and I’m a chipmunk, and that’s a…it’s…what are we?" Hazel turned to her brothers.

“Chipmunks are rodents,” Finn answered, a heavy dose of disappointment in his tone. Ivy and Cora exchanged sceptical glances. That probably sounded a lot cooler in Hazel's head.

Ivy, Cora, Finn, Markus, and Lila moved cautiously to a nearby Ping-Pong table, their eyes flicking nervously toward Billy and his gang as they warmed up for the impending match. Despite the presence of their older siblings, the menacing glares and low jeers from the bullies never stopped, making Ivy and Cora glance down at their feet more often than not. The tension in the room was palpable, and a small crowd had started to gather, sensing the confrontation brewing. You’d think a responsible teacher might notice the commotion, but Coach Calvello remained glued to his desk in the corner, his eyes never leaving the football game playing on his phone.

Before long, Hazel returned. She had ditched the swimwear, and in its place was an outfit that stunned the twins. Instead of her usual athletic getup, Hazel wore a crisp, pink polo shirt and a short, white tennis skirt. The sight made Ivy and Cora’s eyes widen in disbelief. Hazel had always avoided anything remotely girly, so to see her in such a coordinated, stylish outfit was a shock. The twins had often tried to convince her to dress more fashionably, given her athletic physique, but Hazel never had much patience for their suggestions. Apparently, all it took was finding a sport that came with a side of style.

Casually leaning against her shoulder was a perfectly scaled-down tennis racket, custom-made by their crafty mom as a birthday gift. Hazel sauntered over to Ivy and Cora, her gaze stern, and then, without warning, bopped each of them lightly on the head with the rim of the racket.

“Why didn’t you twimps say you were being bullied?” Hazel’s tone was sharp, almost accusatory as she referred to them with the portmanteau she had come up with of ‘twin’ and ‘wimps’. Ivy and Cora exchanged sheepish glances, both looking down at their feet again.

“We just figured—” Ivy began.

“We all get picked on for being chipmunks,” Cora finished, her voice low.

“Not while I’m around,” Hazel declared, pointing her racket at them with fierce determination. “No one should bully you. Period.”

“What!?” the twins shouted in unison disbelief.

“You bully us all the time!” Ivy added, indignant.

“You just called us ‘twimps’,” Cora finished.

Hazel’s stern expression softened into a slight smile, and she placed a hand on Cora’s shoulder.

“It’s not bullying when we’re related,” she said, her tone teasing. “Speaking of, as payment for handling this situation, you two are taking over my chores for the rest of the week.”

“No way!” the twins protested.

Before the argument could escalate, Lila cleared her throat from behind them—a rare vocalization from their usually silent, deaf sister. Hazel flinched at the sound, the small gesture enough to make her reconsider.

“We’ll discuss this later,” Hazel muttered, clearly not wanting to test Lila’s patience. With that, she sprang toward the Ping-Pong table where Billy and his gang were waiting, her confidence radiating as she prepared for the showdown.

The moment Hazel landed on the Ping-Pong table, Billy and his gang erupted into laughter.

“I didn’t know we were playing dress-up,” Billy sneered, eyeing Hazel's outfit. “And look at that cute little racket. What are you gonna do, hit some seeds at me?”

Hazel ignored his taunts, cracking her neck with a smirk. “Are we here to talk, or are we here to play ball?” Her calm confidence only fuelled Billy’s arrogance.

“I’m not gonna go easy on you. I want your sisters to watch just how badly I’m going to crush you. Then it’s their turn.” Billy’s sneer deepened, but Hazel only rolled her eyes, making a dismissive gesture at him, which made Billy’s temper flare. He angrily tossed the Ping-Pong ball over the net for Hazel to grab. “I’ll even let you serve. Maybe you’ll score one point if you’re lucky.”

Taking her stance, Hazel bounced the ball on the table a few times, a deep breath filling her chest as the crowd quieted down. The tension was palpable. She tossed the ball into the air, and with a resounding crack, the ball bounced twice across the table before flying off like a bullet, ricocheting off the back wall before Billy even had time to react. He didn’t even get to swing.

The ball rolled back to Billy’s feet, and the gym went dead silent for a beat, followed by a wave of gasps from the watching crowd. Hazel just giggled softly, twirling her racket.

“Oh-oh,” Hazel said, feigning innocence. “Did someone maybe underestimate the little chipmunk?”

Billy’s eyes flickered between Hazel and the ball, his face contorting with anger. “Lucky shot,” he grumbled, snatching up the ball and throwing it back across the table. “Let’s see you do that again.”

Hazel grinned. “It won’t be fun if I beat you with the serve every time. I’ll slow this one down for you.” She served again, and though the ball moved slower this time, it still had speed. Billy barely managed to return it, stumbling as he hit the ball weakly back over the net.

Hazel moved with lightning speed, returning it with a calculated swing. The ball sailed just over the net before bouncing and veering hard to the left, completely throwing off Billy’s swing. The ball had curved so sharply that it seemingly defied gravity, and it flew off the table, rolling uselessly across the floor.

Another cheer went up from the crowd. Hazel stood casually, leaning on her racket with an eyebrow raised. “Oof, that’s gotta hurt. Not only are you about to lose to a chipmunk, but to a girl chipmunk… How embarrassing.”

Markus nudged Finn, shaking his head. “She’s enjoying this way too much.”

“We’re never going to hear the end of this,” Finn sighed, already imagining Hazel’s endless gloating.

From that point on, the match was a complete massacre. Hazel dominated the table, darting from side to side with her tiny legs, her movements impossibly quick. Ivy and Cora watched, their smiles growing wider as their sister delivered one impressive shot after another. She was in complete control. She even peppered the game with exaggerated victory dances, riding her racket like a horse or strumming it like a guitar after particularly flashy points, much to the delight of the crowd and the dismay of Billy.

Hazel’s cannon-like slams and graceful trick shots left Billy scrambling. With each powerful hit, the ball curved unpredictably, one even bouncing backward off the table from the backspin she had applied, earning loud cheers from the crowd. Billy, meanwhile, was reduced to a grumbling mess, barely able to keep up as Hazel systematically dismantled his game.

“Your sister is really cool,” Sarah remarked, leaning down to Ivy and Cora’s level.

“Yeah, she is…” The twins responded in unison, their words even fading together as they watched Hazel with wide smiles.

“Please don’t let her hear you say that,” Finn added nervously, leaning in. “We need to keep her ego in check. Otherwise, it’ll be unbearable.”

Ivy and Cora chuckled, knowing all too well how overbearing Hazel could be when she got full of herself. Even now, though she was their hero, defending their honour, she could easily return to being the menace they knew at home. Ivy felt the gentle touch of Lila’s hand on her shoulder and turned to see her sister smiling, her warmth always comforting.

Hazel can be annoying, Lila signed, but she’ll always look out for you. We all will. You’re our little sisters. If you ever need help, we will always be there.

Ivy and Cora exchanged glances, feeling a sense of reassurance they hadn’t realized they were missing. Even though they sometimes felt distant from their older siblings, Hazel standing up for them made it clear: their family was always there when they needed them.

“And that’s game!” Hazel called out triumphantly, slinging her racket over her shoulder after one last powerful shot to end the massacre. “I was hoping you’d put up more of a fight. That was just awkward.”

Billy slammed his paddle against the table, his face flushed with anger. “How are you so good at this? I thought you were on the swim team!”

Hazel casually spun her racket in her hand, a smug smile on her face. “A member of the swim team, yes. Vice-captain of the table tennis team, too. And I’ll tell you now, I doubt you’ll be making the team this year.”

Billy’s face twitched, his pride visibly crumbling in front of the crowd, many of whom were now whispering and snickering at his expense. Even his friends had begun to inch away from him, sensing the social disaster unfolding. Billy’s eyes burned with rage as he looked at Hazel, his humiliation fuelling his next move.

“So what!?” Billy shouted, his voice trembling with fury. “You’re good at table tennis. Big deal! Let’s see how good you are at being the ball!” He raised his paddle menacingly and began marching toward her.

“Oh yeah?” Hazel flung her racket down and spread her arms wide, her claws extending. “Try it, I dare you! Suspension or not, I’ll turn you into human Swiss cheese!”

Ivy and Cora’s hearts pounded in their chests as Billy advanced. The tension in the air was thick. If Billy took a swing, things could get ugly fast. One hit with that paddle could send Hazel flying, and they knew Hazel wouldn’t hesitate to fight back, claws and all. She was about to take a beating and likely cop a suspension for fighting, all for their sake. They could barely watch.

Just as Billy raised his paddle, a strong hand shot out, grabbing his wrist and stopping the swing dead in its tracks.

“That’s enough,” a voice said, calm but firm. Ivy and Cora blinked, unsure who the newcomer was at first, but as their eyes landed on the red baseball cap and muscular frame, they recognized him: Jack, Lila’s unlikely friend from the baseball team. Standing two years older and several inches taller than Billy, Jack towered over him, his grip iron-clad. Billy’s bravado instantly vanished as he stared up at Jack with a mixture of fear and confusion.

“You lost fair and square, dude,” Jack said, his voice calm but authoritative.

Billy stammered, glancing around for support, but even his friends were staying far away, not wanting to share in his embarrassment. “I—we—”

Jack turned his head toward Lila, still holding Billy’s wrist, and clumsily signed, is he bothering you? His sign language was rough, his fingers awkward and uncertain, but the effort made Ivy and Cora smile. They had spent their whole lives learning ASL to communicate with their sister, so watching Jack fumble through it was almost endearing.

Lila smiled at him and signed back, A little bit, though Jack clearly didn’t catch all of it. he still had a lot to learn.

Hazel, noticing the confusion, broke the moment with her typical bluntness. “We’re done with him,” she said, brushing off her hands. “He’s no fun anymore.”

Jack chuckled, looking down at Hazel. “Ever thought of playing baseball? You’ve got a really mean swing.”

Hazel kicked at the ground, suddenly shy. “Thanks, but unlike this guy, I know my limits. I can’t even lift a baseball bat, let alone hit a pitch. This dummy could’ve challenged me to any sport, and he picks Ping-Pong? It’s basically tennis for chipmunks.” Sarah quickly looked to Ivy and Cora, gesturing boastfully at the comment and making the twins roll their eyes.

Billy’s face fell into a deep scowl as he realized the full scope of his blunder, but he didn’t have time to reflect on it before Jack was shoving him toward the gym exit. “Come on, you and I need to have a little talk about respect.”

As Billy was led away, Hazel dusted herself off, scooping up her racket with a triumphant grin. She turned to Ivy and Cora, pointing the racket at them with mock authority.

“Well, I think I’ve earned myself a couple of free homework slaves,” Hazel announced with a sly grin. “How much do you two know about fractions?”

Ivy and Cora shared a look of dread. Hazel may have taken care of their bully, but now they had a whole new problem on their hands.

 

Notes:

I'm a little nervous actually; this is the first chapter to revolve entirely around the new generation of all original characters. I know it's not entirely in the spirit of Fan Fiction, but I do believe little glimpses into the kids lives helps build out the world building a little bit.
While I do have a few chapters that are told from the kids perspective, this one is certainly the most removed from our main characters. I love these silly little kids, but I do intend for them to be vessels to help me tell the wider arching story for our main cast.

I just wanted to take a beat to show off a bit more of the kids character traits and how they differ.

Chapter 12: A Choice Between Dreams

Notes:

We haven't had a Jeanette chapter since chapter one... time to remedy that.

Jeanette’s humming had been a steady presence all afternoon, and her lips were curved into a near-permanent smile as she watched sheet after sheet emerge from the printer. Two weeks of hard work had finally paid off, and the sight of those pages was a reward in itself. Still, it accounted for only half of her contentment that day. Work was one thing, it was the after work activities that had her smiling.

Not even the dreary weather outside could dampen her spirits. The sky was dark with clouds, and a gentle but unrelenting rain tapped against the window. From the thirty-sixth floor, the office typically offered a magnificent view of New York, but today the clouds swallowed the skyline. Jeanette didn’t mind; her hum had already grown into whispered lyrics as she stretched for the stapler:

 

“Was I the girl in the crimson dress
Smiling while I held my breath?
Was there a kiss after the curtain closed?
Did we break each other’s hearts just for the show?”

 

“What song is that?” The sudden voice startled her. Jeanette jolted, nearly losing her balance on the edge of the printer. The stapler she had reached for tumbled to the floor, clanging off the print tray on its way down.

“Oh my gosh, sorry!” came the quick apology. That was when Jeanette spotted her coworker, Lisa, bending to pick up the stapler. Her figure-hugging office dress forced her to manoeuvre carefully as she scooped it up.

Jeanette exhaled in relief, pressing a hand to her thudding heart. “No, it’s my fault,” she said with a small laugh. “Guess I was off in my own little world.” Her hand slid from her chest to run through her hair in a familiar gesture that soothed her nerves.

Lisa placed the stapler beside her on the printer, a light chuckle escaping her lips. Jeanette had always found her coworker striking—perhaps it was the way she moved with such effortless poise, her precise office attire, or the neat bun of dark auburn hair that seemed both professional and irresistible. From the moment Jeanette started at the firm, she’d been hard-pressed to find a single flaw in Lisa. With Jeanettes recent changes, their desks now shared a booth, And Jeanette was thankful to have such an upbeat officemate to help her handle the transition.

“You’ve been smiles and songs all day,” Lisa teased, resting one hand on her hip. “You’re usually so… how do I put it delicately?” Jeanette levelled her a coworker a look that suggested the line was best left un-put, delicately or indelicately. “Don’t get me wrong,” Lisa quickly waved, “it’s a nice change. What’s got you so bubbly on a gloomy Friday?”

Jeanette felt the faintest wash of colour creep into her cheeks. She let her gaze drop to the pages still sliding out of the printer, hoping Lisa wouldn’t notice. Without thinking, her hand drifted to the back of her neck.

“Nothing special,” she mumbled. “Just… happy it’s finally Friday.”

Lisa snorted, clearly unconvinced. “Need the printer?” Jeanette asked, hastily changing the subject. “I’ll be done in another minute or two.”

Shaking her head, Lisa waved off the offer. “I just needed a reason to walk away from my desk. Tyler’s fixing my computer—he claims my antivirus software is out of date, but I’m pretty sure it’s just another excuse to hit on me.” She sighed, exasperated. “We went on one terrible date, and now he won’t leave me alone. Take a hint, buddy.”

Jeanette blinked in surprise. “I didn’t realize the date was so bad.” She and Lisa had spent all week joking about Tyler’s flirting, so this turn of events caught her off guard.

“It felt like a throwback to my college days,” Lisa groaned. “He’s twenty-five, but you’d think he was a frat boy stuck in perpetual party mode. I can’t remember the last time I ate wings at a sports bar. Who actually thinks that’s a great date idea?”

Jeanette giggled at her friend’s frustration. It did seem like a poor choice, considering Lisa’s high standards. She recalled the rowdy frat boys at Harvard, where she’d studied before moving to New York. Loud, boisterous types like Alvin and his football friends back in high school—no thanks. Tyler would have fit right in.

“I bet stuff like this never happens out in the field,” Lisa mumbled. The memories made Jeanette blush.

“You would be surprised,” she lightly chuckled. “When you’re all sharing a cramped tent for weeks, maybe months… well, lets just say the office drama doesn’t happen just in offices.”

Lisa exhaled, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Anyway,” she said, “how about this: be my cover story tonight? If I already have plans with you, Tyler can’t ask me out. We could hit a karaoke bar, and you can sing more of that song I just heard you humming.”

Jeanette’s hand flew to the back of her neck again as she let out a soft laugh. A little flicker of self-consciousness bubbled inside her, as it always did whenever someone caught her singing the tunes she used to write and perform in her college days.

The printer beeped three times, signalling the final page. Jeanette turned to find a hefty stack of papers—easily fifty sheets—resting in the tray. The topmost page read: Comprehensive Environmental and Ecosystem Sustainability Survey for Bayview Farming and Agricultural Industries, South Dakota. Written by Global View Environmental Strategies, authored by Jeanette Miller. It was a mouthful of a title, and certainly less thrilling than some of her past projects around the globe, but she was proud of the work nonetheless.

“S-sorry, Lisa,” she murmured, turning toward her coworker. “I can’t do karaoke tonight; I already have… plans.”

Lisa’s eyes narrowed playfully. “So that’s why you’re so bubbly. Sounds like someone has a date of her own. Going out with Simon?”

A sudden flush crept into Jeanette’s cheeks, and she busied herself with stapling the thick report. “S-staying in, actually,” she admitted. “Friday nights are usually our night for binge-watching. But he’s been pretty insistent I finish on time today—makes me think he’s up to something.”

“Ooo, a surprise?”

“Maybe…” Jeanette lingered on the thought for a moment, and Lisa picked up on Jeanette’s hesitancy.

“What qualifies as ‘up to something’ with Simon?” Lisa asked, leaning in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. Her ferocity for romantic gossip could Rival Brittany’s.

Jeanette pressed down on the stapler with all her weight, sighing with relief when it finally clicked through. “I really don’t know. Ever since we moved the last boxes into our new apartment, he’s been… nervous? Almost like he’s avoiding something.” She frowned at the thought. “He’s never been big on talking about what’s on his mind.”

Lisa simply clicked her tongue. “Girl, that’s just a boy thing. They’ll punch each other in the face all night, but heaven forbit they talk about their feelings.”

“Even so,” Jeanette sighed, “this nervousness is… well, its unlike him.”

Lisa’s ears perked up, and she let out a teasing whistle. “Trouble in paradise perhaps? Tell me more.”

Jeanette quirked an eyebrow. “No trouble. Why would there be?”

Lisa shrugged. “How long have you two been living together now?”

“About a month,” Jeanette answered. “Though it’s only lately we’ve settled in. The first few weeks we were basically living out of boxes.”

“That’s plenty of time to see all the annoying little habits,” Lisa prodded with a mischievous grin. “Leaving the toilet seat up? Snoring? I bet he leaves his toenail clippings on the coffee table… or claw clippings. Do you even have to trim your claws?” She laughed.

Jeanette rolled her eyes. “Simon and I have lived together before. All through high school we lived together—even shared a room with all our brothers and sisters. And in college we basically lived in each other’s dorm rooms between lectures. There isn’t a habit of Simon’s I haven’t already witnessed… not that there are any I dislike of course.” Jeanette couldn’t help but think on how Simon would often hold conversations with her while continuing to read, a habit that had always ground her gears somewhat.

“I forget you practically grew up together,” Lisa muttered, wrinkling her nose. “Sometimes, doesn’t it feel like dating your brother—”

“Lisa,” Jeanette warned gently, silencing that thought.

A mischievous glint sparked in Lisa’s eyes. “So, what do you think he’s hiding?”

Jeanette thought for a long moment before she finally shrugged. “I’m not really worried, just confused. He’ll tell me when he’s ready.”

The two fell quiet. It pained Jeanette to imagine Simon holding something back. She trusted him—she only wished he trusted her enough to share whatever weighed on his mind.

She couldn’t help but cringe at this thought. It made her a hypocrite.

Lisa finally broke the silence with a dramatic sigh. “Well, you two probably do need that date night then. Meanwhile, I’ll be fending off Tyler’s frat-boy routine alone. Maybe I’ll tell him I’m a lesbian.”

“Lisa!” Jeanette protested, cheeks warming.

“No, you’re right, he might enjoy that idea.” Lisa clicked her tongue and started to leave, then spun on her heel, pointing an accusatory finger. “Oh! I remembered why I came over in the first place. Langford was looking for you. He said to meet him in his office.”

Jeanette’s tail fluffed, her heart lurching. “Oh, jellybeans and jump ropes!” she burst out, scooping up the thick document. Lisa snorted at the lame outburst. “I totally forgot Mr. Langford wanted to see me before the day ended.”

 Lisa’s eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, the hands creeping close to five o’clock. “That is a jellybean emergency,” She teased, watching Jeanette struggle to manage the oversized report. “Need a hand?”

“I’m good,” Jeanette grunted as she hefted the stack over her shoulders like Atlas with the world. She hopped down to the carpet, offering Lisa a quick smile of thanks before making a beeline toward Mr. Langford’s office.

Office noise filled Jeanette’s ears as she navigated past rows of cubicles. It was a relatively small firm—no more than two dozen employees—but it thrummed with the energy of a bustling workplace. Phones rang off the hook, printers hummed, and keyboards tapped incessantly behind low partitions. After years of remote fieldwork, Jeanette still found the office racket a bit jarring, though she was slowly getting used to it. She had drifted into the office between deployments for a few weeks at a time, but the past month had been the longest stretch of office life for her.

She stole glances at her coworkers as she went. Some were permanent desk staff, their days devoted to research and writing. Others were field operatives like she had been. It was easy to differentiate the regular office staff from those usually on deployments simply by the quality of their office attire. The career secretaries and accountants, like Lisa, wore office attire with grace and confidence. To say the field workers attempted to wear office attire would be a stretch.

Jeanette felt a twinge of longing at the distinction between the two types of employees. She now sat firmly in one camp.

Eventually, she arrived at the glass door to Mr. Langford’s office. She paused, studying the tall handle that loomed above her reach. With the thick document balanced precariously across her back, she wondered briefly how she might wrestle the door open. Before she could attempt it however, the door swung inward, revealing Mr. Langford’s smiling face.

“Jeanette,” he greeted in a gravelly tone, smile broadening. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Langford,” she said, breathless. The report was slipping off her shoulder. “I got so caught up with finalizing this, I—”

He chuckled, waving off her concern. “No worries. You’re here now, and that’s all that matters.”

Langford beckoned her into the office, and Jeanette complied, immediately struck by the calm that set it apart from the clamouring cubicles. One wall boasted a small bar lined with bottles of whiskey and other spirits, and another was dominated by metal filing cabinets. Framed photographs of past reclamation sites blanketed every free inch of wall space, documenting a truly interesting life.

Jeanette always found Mr. Langford inspiring. Coming from self-made wealth, he’d poured his resources into environmental causes, establishing this firm not for profit, but out of genuine passion. While they made money conducting environmental assessments for governments and private corporations, every cent of profit went right back into the less lucrative reclamation initiatives he personally championed—and often joined in on-site.

“Take a seat,” Mr. Langford said, dragging a chair out from behind his large oak desk before settling into his own chair on the other side. Jeanette hopped up, but it quickly became apparent she couldn’t see over the desk’s broad surface. After a moment’s consideration, he cleared his throat.

“Actually… maybe you’d be more comfortable on the desk itself.”

Jeanette felt her cheeks warm as she climbed onto the polished wood and slid the thick sheaf of pages toward him. “I’m sorry this reclamation strategy is late,” she began apologetically. “It ended up being more… complicated than I originally thought.”

Langford plucked the report from the table, his gaze skimming the title before he flipped through the first few pages. “This is the assessment for Bayview Farming?”

“Yes, sir. An agricultural and environmental impact survey. They were hoping for a spotless review to use in their legal defense, but…” Jeanette swallowed. “It’s not looking good.”

“In what way?” he prompted, eyes still on the report.

Jeanette let out a small sigh, rubbing her shoulder. “Well, to say they’ve been ‘cutting corners’ would be an insult to circles. We found cadmium buildup in the surrounding soil, which points to improper pesticide disposal. There’s significant erosion on the south end of the farm, causing a gully to redirect floodwaters into wildlife areas. One of their pastures is encroaching on federally protected land, and I suspect they’re drawing more water from the Missouri than their permit allows.”

She braced herself as Langford read in silence. She knew a major client like Bayview helped keep the office afloat, and delivering a harsh report could send them out looking for a second opinion.

Finally, Langford let out a soft chuckle and placed the document aside. “They’re not going to be thrilled, that’s for sure.”

“I tried to tone down some of the language,” Jeanette offered. “But it’s—”

“Exactly what they asked for,” he interrupted, shrugging. “They wanted the facts, and that’s what we gave them. Not our fault if those facts aren’t what they expected.”

Langford leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting to the floor to ceiling window behind him. Beyond the glass, rain-swept clouds shrouded the skyline. “With any luck,” he continued, “it’ll serve as a wake-up call.”

A moment of quiet passed as Mr. Langford gazed out at the rain-slicked cityscape. Jeanette wasn’t entirely sure whether to stay or go—perhaps his silence meant she should leave and contact Bayview about the findings. Was that how things went in offices like this? Then, quite abruptly, Mr. Langford spun back around, a broad grin spreading through his grey stubble.

“But that isn’t why I called you in, Jeanette,” he said, eyes gleaming.

She blinked, caught off guard by his sudden shift in demeanour. “It isn’t?”

Leaning forward on his elbows, Mr. Langford rested his chin atop his folded hands. His pinstriped suit barely wrinkled under the motion. “I just wanted to see how you’re getting along,” he said. “Office life can be an adjustment after working in the field for so long.”

Jeanette hesitated, unsure of what to say. She’d always found Mr. Langford kind, but they’d never spoken at length beyond official business. “I—I’m doing fine, sir. Adjusting well, I think.”

“To be honest, I was surprised when you requested an office position. I thought you would be in the field a lot longer,” Langford pressed. “How are you finding the work?”

She gave a nervous laugh, glancing anywhere but into his steady gaze. “I won’t deny it’s different. But that doesn’t mean I’m not happy doing it. It’s still important.”

He inclined his head. “Perhaps more important than the hands-on stuff, even. Real change is often made not with a shovel, but with a pen—and by persuading those with the power to act. A finely crafted report can accomplish far more than a single reclamation effort.”

Jeanette nodded in agreement, though she remained quiet. He added with a conspiratorial wink, “Still not as much fun though, is it?”

A rueful smile tugged at her lips as she looked out at the sodden skyline. Would the rain let up tonight? Probably not—but at least the steady patter suited her currently shifting mood. What had happened to her jovial singing mere moments ago?

“How are you and… what’s his name again?” Mr. Langford asked, clicking his fingers as though trying to remember.

“Simon,” Jeanette supplied quickly.

“Yes, of course—how are you and Simon settling into your new place? Where is it again?”

“We ended up in Harlem,” Jeanette replied with a small smile. “We’re pretty much unpacked now. It’s a quick commute to his university, which he loves—beats the near two-hour trek he faced from Queens every day.”

Mr. Langford returned her smile, though Jeanette noticed a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “I’m glad you’re finding your footing,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I remember how much I struggled when I stopped going out to projects as much.” His gaze drifted to the pictures lining the walls—snapshots of jungles, deserts, and mountains, each one a cherished memory from an old project. “I do miss seeing the results in person,” he murmured. “But these knees aren’t built for scaling cliffs or wading through swamps anymore. Just like you, I couldn’t do it forever, though our reasons might have been different.”

His jovial tone didn’t quite lift Jeanette’s spirits. She forced a laugh, a faint heaviness tugging at her. “Well, it’s what Simon and I wanted,” she said softly. “We’ve been talking for years about finally settling down. That’s kind of hard to do when I’m away for months at a time.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, Jeanette realized she was avoiding her boss’s gaze. It was the undeniable truth, but something about the admission felt weighty. Mr. Langford seemed to notice it too. He watched her in silence for a while, then gave a slight grunt and stood up.

Walking over to the window, he let out a heavy sigh that fogged the glass. Rain continued to blur the skyline, and Jeanette got the sense he was searching for the right words.

“You weren’t born here in America, were you?” Mr. Langford asked suddenly, still gazing out at the rain-smeared skyline. His brow creased as though trying to recall a specific detail. “I remember reading something about you and your sisters—back in your rock-star days, if I’m not mistaken.”

A self-conscious flush crept across Jeanette’s cheeks. Having her boss refer to her musical past felt almost surreal. “W-we were born in Australia,” she confirmed softly, one hand drifting up to rub the back of her neck in a nervous habit. “On a little farm in the Outback.”

“New South Wales?” Langford ventured.

“Queensland,” she corrected. “Far inland—about six hours from the nearest city. Real dusty country. Crops stop growing if you go any farther inland than that.”

“Don’t I know it,” Langford huffed. “When I was about your age, I trekked the Simpson desert on camel back in hopes of meeting one of the Aboriginal tribes that lived deep in the wilderness. Beautiful country… hot, but beautiful.” Langford turned and studied Jeanette for a moment. “Do you miss it?”

Jeanette shifted. She wasn’t entirely sure why he was so curious, but she answered honestly. “Sometimes. My sisters and I visit when we can—Olivia, the woman who raised us, still runs the orchard almost on her own nowadays.”

“Is she a chipmunk as well?”

“Human,” Jeanette quickly corrected. “We… well, I don’t have any memories of our birth parents.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” His voice grew sombre, and Jeanette put on a smile to ease his worries.

“It’s ok. We suspect they weren’t like us… talking, I mean. So, they were likely just following their instincts when they abandoned us. I don’t hold any animosity towards them.” Jeanettes words were heavy, but truthful. She barely thought of her birth parents at all. In her mind, Olivia was her parent, as was Dave in a way. Her adoptive family was more than enough for her.

A thoughtful silence fell as Langford considered Jeanettes words. A mood settled in the quiet office, and she shifted slightly in her seated position on the table.

“Do…do you have kids, sir?” She asked to simply move the conversation along.

“Two, actually. Both about your age. One’s studying in France, the other’s in California. I’m happy they’re each following their dreams.” His gaze drifted back to the window, and for a moment, he seemed lost in thought.

Jeanette let the silence linger. She had no children of her own and didn’t quite know what to say. Yet something about the way he spoke of his kids—out there in the world, living the lives they wanted—tightened a knot in her chest.

Then, just as abruptly, Langford cleared his throat. “I got a call from Verdant Renewal Group yesterday.”

Jeanette’s ears perked up. “Verdant?” She recognized the name immediately—an environmental management firm she’d collaborated with on her last reclamation job near the Aral Sea. She’d spent four intense months working side by side with them.

“Yes, they’ve landed another interesting project. Farther south this time, but it sounds like a big one.” He paused, as if choosing his next words carefully. “We ended up having a, shall we say, spirited discussion.”

Jeanette’s nose twitched in curiosity. “About what?”

Langford turned and sank into his chair again, the leather creaking under his weight. His elbows came to rest atop the desk, and he fixed Jeanette with an earnest, thoughtful look.

“A few different things,” he began. “Long story short, we reached an agreement—one that involves you, actually.”

Jeanette’s pulse quickened; she could sense he was gearing up for something important. After a moment of silence, she gestured for him to continue.

When he finally spoke, the question seemed both simple and startling. “Can you swim?”

 

*

 

Jeanette’s ride home felt endless, a winding trek through New York’s rain-lashed streets that only compounded her misery. She had a rain jacket, of course, but umbrellas were still an invention that evaded Eleanor, the crafter of the family. Cocktail umbrellas worked well enough in the summer. the paper canopies blocked the sun well enough. But their paper canopies melted in even the lightest drizzle, and sturdier material options snapped the fragile wooden frames when stretched taut. Until Eleanor’s brilliant, do-it-yourself mind could conquer that conundrum, Jeanette was destined to endure soaked fur and foggy glasses.

At least her jacket managed to protect the crisp button-up blouse and pencil skirt Brittany had chosen for her office wear. Brittany had taken the initiative to select Jeanettes new office attire, and had threatened—multiple times—to unleash a world of scolding if Jeanette allowed her pristine new clothes to be ruined, especially after footing the bill for the entire ensemble. While Jeanette trusted her sister’s impeccable fashion sense, she never felt quite at ease in outfits so tight in places she believed shouldn’t be tight at all. In her old line of work, comfort and climate-appropriateness ruled over style: airy cotton in the desert, thick wool in snowy regions, all in bright, lively patterns. Now, her closet contained mostly neutral tones, punctuated by the occasional “accent colour” that Brittany insisted brought everything together.

She glanced down at the soaked hem of her pencil skirt, clinging to her hips as it dripped from the street’s slick streets. A sigh escaped her. Perhaps a different wardrobe would be necessary yet again.

She perched on the baggage rail inside the subway car, discreetly above the crowd of fellow commuters who hardly noticed her. The sky had already dimmed beyond the reach of Manhattan’s towering skyline by the time she descended below ground, and even here, the chilly air mingled with the pervasive subway smell. Jeanette consoled herself with thoughts of a hot shower once she finally made it home.

Yet, the cold wasn’t truly what made her brow crease. She was preoccupied by indecision, so consumed by her own thoughts that the commute from Lower Manhattan to Harlem passed in a blur. Her eyes stayed fixed on her hands, twisting and turning as if each finger fought on behalf of a different path she might choose.

“Take the time to think it over,” Langford had told her as she’d left his office. “I’ll be happy with whatever you decide.”

Those words weighed more heavily than the offer itself. If only he had just ordered her to one path or the other, she would have found it easier to accept. But now she had to choose, and that made all the difference.

Emerging from the subway in what was now her home burrow of Harlem brought the faintest smile to Jeanette’s face. The ten-minute walk from the station to her apartment was usually a pleasant one—were it not for the driving rain. Harlem’s energy had charmed her from the very beginning, ever since she and Simon first set paw inside the building that would become their home.

As with the rest of the city, Harlem was a toss-up when it came to the public’s opinion on talking chipmunks. Some passersby seemed enthralled, greeting her with warm curiosity, while others regarded her with the same disdain reserved for the city’s ever-present rats. Even Alvin and Brittany’s fame hadn’t fully erased the novelty of speaking rodents from everyone’s minds, though Jeanette didn’t mind it.

Thankfully, Harlem tipped heavily toward acceptance. Her neighbours were a kind bunch—she could count on the local grocer to divvy up fruit into easy-to-carry chunks and the taxi drivers to pull over if they spotted her trudging along in the rain with no passengers in tow. It was exactly the sense of community she and Simon had longed for when picking a place to settle down.

Pushing open the door to her stoop, she let the muted roar of passing cars and pattering rain fade away into the echoing expanse of the building’s first-floor landing. Cream-colored tiles, already slick with footprints, gleamed under the weak overhead lighting. Jeanette shook herself dry with quick, vigorous jerks before deciding to forgo the ancient elevator in favour of the stairs.

Her feet made wet, squelching noises as she trudged upward, but the slower climb gave her more time to sift through her tangled thoughts. She passed the muffled hum of family life behind each apartment door—laughter, arguments, the clatter of dishes—a gentle reminder that everyone here had struggles and decisions of their own.

The fifth floor arrived sooner than she expected. She paused at her apartment door, marked by a single piece of string from the handle, and felt an inexplicable weight holding her back from going inside.

What was she going to tell him? And what would he say?

Her heart drummed against her chest as she reached for the string, pulled it down, and unlatched the door. With a tired sigh, she pushed her way in, bracing herself for whatever conversation lay ahead.

“Simon,” she called, closing the door behind her. “I’m home.”

No immediate reply came, but Jeanette noticed other changes instead. The apartment—small, but larger than her old place—usually offered a comforting welcome with its old-world charm. She loved the original timber floors, the rough-but-refined brickwork, and the sense of history woven into every corner. A long, narrow entryway separated the tiny kitchen on one side from the bathroom door on the other, leading into the snug living room that held just enough space for a couch, a coffee table, a TV cabinet, and a well-stocked bookshelf of her custom-made miniature volumes. Beyond that, an internal balcony, more akin to a sunroom, served as their dining spot, where a vibrant tangle of potted plants stretched across the walls. The bedroom, opposite the television in the living room, was modest, but always felt cozy.

But tonight, everything seemed transformed. The curtains in the sunroom were drawn, and flickering candlelight cast warm, dancing shadows along the walls. A trail of those candles stretched from the kitchen counter through the corridor and into the living room, while soft, mellow music drifted from the record player beside the TV. A mouthwatering aroma hung in the air, prompting her stomach to rumble in response.

“Simon…?” Jeanette ventured, taking cautious steps farther inside. At last, Simon peeked around the corner.

“There you are!” he exclaimed, hurrying over with a towel in hand. “I was starting to worry the rain had washed you away.”

He pressed the towel into her hands, but before she could wrap it around herself, he had already slipped behind her to help remove her soaked jacket. Jeanette opened her mouth to speak, only to falter—she hardly knew where to begin. Was he wearing a suit?

“I picked out something for you to wear,” he said, dashing into the bathroom to drape her jacket over the shower rod, then returning with one of her nicer dresses carefully balanced on a hanger.

Jeanette stood frozen for a moment, marvelling at how unlike himself he seemed. Simon met her stare and let out a sheepish laugh.

“Quickly now,” he urged with a boyish grin, “you’re drenched. We can’t have you catching a cold.”

She hesitated for just a heartbeat before unbuttoning her blouse and shrugging it off. “What is going on, Simon?” she asked, brow furrowed. Despite years of dating, he still averted his eyes whenever she changed in front of him, and that familiar shyness made her chuckle.

“It’s… a special day,” he managed, eyes flicking to the ceiling as he held the dress out for her.

Jeanette, puzzled and amused, slipped out of her wet clothes. Pulling the purple dress over her head, she giggled. “Okay,” she said, too overwhelmed by the whole situation to form a more eloquent response. “And what smells so amazing?”

“That,” Simon declared with theatrical flair, “would be dinner.”

She laughed harder as she turned around, letting him zip up the back of her dress. Then she lingered, studying him. It felt surreal to stand in their modest apartment, both of them dressed like they were headed to a high-society function.

Whatever was going on, she had to admit—she was intrigued. And utterly wrapped up in the excitement.

Simon beamed and took her hand, guiding her over to their dining space. He motioned for her to climb atop the table—a requirement of their unique setup—and she carefully followed, mindful not to wrinkle her dress. Two elegant bowls, a housewarming present from Eleanor, stood proudly in the centre, each brimming with steaming risotto. On either side sat wine glasses, also gifts from Jeanette’s inventive sister, and a row of flickering candles glowed warmly between them. She couldn’t recall the last time their dining nook had looked so lavish.

Simon ushered Jeanette to her place in front of the first bowl, and she daintily folded her legs to avoid creasing her skirt. “Tonight’s menu is a scintillating Risotto Incanto di Bosco,” he intoned with mock grandeur, his accent veering delightfully into parody. “Cannoli rice, gently simmered in a wild forest mushroom stock, enriched by a delicate touch of truffle, and crowned with freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano.”

Jeanette found herself grinning from ear to ear. It smelled heavenly. Simon poured a splash of white wine into her glass with practiced flourish, then settled behind his own bowl. “Bon appétit!”

She eyed both the dish and her suited-up boyfriend, stifling a giggle at the surreal scene. Had she fallen asleep on the subway and slipped into a dream? But the risotto was real enough. Her first bite was loaded with flavour, as rich as the aroma promised.

“This is incredible, Simon,” she said, speaking around a mouthful of creamy rice. “You made this?”

He puffed up, feigning offense. “Of course,” he said, but her sceptical look made him waver. “All right, Theodore may have orchestrated most of it. I called him so many times during the process, it should practically be his name on this dish. In fact, I had to write down the name he had given it as I forgot more times than I can count.” He presented his palm, covered in faint scribbles, and Jeanette laughed. She dove back in for another bite, savouring the burst of earthy mushroom and tangy cheese.

“My compliments to the chef,” she teased, gazing around at the soft candlelight and romantic touches. “You really went all out for the new season of The Handmaid’s Tale.”

At that, Simon paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. A startled laugh escaped him—half-chuckle, half-sigh—as he set down his fork.

Jeanette’s heart sank, the realization striking her like a falling piano. “Oh, lemon squirts… I’ve forgotten something, haven’t I?” She could practically feel the colour drain from her cheeks.

Simon held up a hand as another wave of laughter rolled through him. “No, it’s okay,” he assured, still trying to steady himself. “I had a hunch this might happen. You’re brilliant in a dozen ways, Jeanette, but…well. You can be somewhat… forgetful.” He shrugged sympathetically, then took a slow sip of wine as she stared at him, mortified.

Finally, he met her gaze. “It’s our anniversary—at least the date we both sort of decided we were…official. Things were blurry back then. We weren’t quite sure where we stood even after—”

Before he could finish, Jeanette let out a dramatic groan, burying her face in her hands.

How could she have forgotten their anniversary? She could feel the guilt roiling in her stomach.

“so this is why you’ve been acting so strange lately,” she mumbled into her palms.

Simon seemed to hesitate for a moment, his gaze shifting to his left side briefly.

“K-kind of,” he offered a weak answer.

“I’m so sorry, Simon,” she groaned. She felt her eyes welling with tears. “I’ve just been so distracted.”

“Jeanette, it’s fine,” he assured her, adopting his calmest tone. She peeked up at him and found his familiar, caring smile. “All that matters is that we’re here together, right?”

She sniffed, forcing a weak smile and casting her eyes down. Here together… The thought twisted her insides. “R-right,” she managed, taking another bite of risotto. It really was delicious.

But Jeanette had never been skilled at hiding her true feelings, and Simon read her tension immediately.

“Tough day at work?” he asked gently.

She sighed, knowing he wouldn’t let it go. “Not… exactly.” She hesitated, then continued under his patient gaze. “My boss, Langford, mentioned a new project with Verdant—you remember them?”

“The same group you worked with before you moved to office work?” Simon asked around a mouthful of risotto. Jeanette nodded, and he grinned. “Sounds exciting. What’s this project about?”

Jeanette looked at him curiously. A niggling thought hovered at the edge of her mind, something she’d been too distracted to notice until now: Simon’s left hand was tucked in his jacket pocket, and it had been buried in there since she walked through the door.

“The Australian government wants Verdant to tackle a major initiative to stop further bleaching of the Great Barrier Reef,” she explained. “The scope is huge.”

Simon’s face flickered with interest, and he set his fork down. “I’m sure they’re not just calling Langford to brag,” he said with a knowing smile. “They’re probably hoping for your company’s help again, like the Aral Sea project?”

“S-something like that,” Jeanette stammered, her hand drifting to rub the back of her neck. She took a fortifying gulp of wine before continuing. “They actually asked for… me specifically to lead one of the teams. A-Apparently, they were really happy with my work the last time around.”

Simon froze mid-breath, eyes locked onto hers. The way he stared made Jeanette’s heart drop, dread creeping into her veins. She could almost hear the gears of his brilliant mind turning.

“Do… they realize you stepped away from fieldwork?” he finally asked.

“They do,” she said carefully. “They still want me. They reached out to Langford, and he said the choice was mine. He’ll support me either way.”

Simon was silent for so long that half his risotto fell off his fork and plopped back into the bowl. His left hand remained stubbornly in his pocket, and his intense stare urged her to say more. When she couldn’t, he exhaled slowly, lowering his fork to straighten his posture.

“How long is the project?” he asked, caution ringing in every syllable.

Jeanette bit her lip. “…About two years.”

Nothing else needed to be said—Simon’s silence conveyed everything. He was a brilliant chipmunk, and she knew his mind was in overdrive, sifting through every consequence. The hush stretched between them, heavy and oppressive. Jeanette hated it.

She stabbed at her risotto a bit too forcefully, scraping the bottom of the bowl in an attempt to mask her sudden nerves. “I’ll talk to Langford on Monday,” she offered, her voice overly bright. “Let him know I’m not interested. He should remember I don’t do fieldwork anymore. It’s kind of silly he—”

“Jeanette,” Simon murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “you’re… not really happy in the office, are you?”

The words knocked the air from her lungs as though he’d shouted. She felt her heart drop, her fork frozen midair. “I—I am,” she insisted, forcing an unconvincing smile. “I just… haven’t had enough time to adjust. Another few weeks, and—”

He still wasn’t meeting her eyes. Instead, he stared at his half-eaten risotto as if it held answers he didn’t want to see. The flickering glow of candlelight cast wavering shadows across the table, highlighting the tension etched into the corners of his mouth. “Is it… is it just the office you aren’t happy with?” he asked quietly, his tone tipping into a wounded register that rattled her more than any shout could have.

Jeanette dropped her fork, a tiny clang sounding between them. Heat surged behind her eyes. She moved, half-rising, ready to cross table and close the distance between them. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and assure him that none of this meant she didn’t love him—that her frustration was about everything else, not him. But before she could move, Simon’s hand slipped out from his jacket pocket, and she froze.

His fingers curled around a small blue box.

A sudden hush fell over the apartment, drowning out the soft music from the record player. Jeanette watched, heart hammering, as his grip on the box trembled almost imperceptibly. He lifted it slightly, as if weighing the courage it took to reveal what was inside.

“I… wanted tonight to be special,” he said, voice strained. “I thought… now that we were living together, after we settled into a routine, maybe we could…” His eyes flicked up, and she saw fear and hope and heartbreak all tangled into one pained expression. “But if you’re not happy, then…”

He tapped the lid of the box with the pad of his thumb—once, twice—like a hesitant question left hanging in the air. Candlelight danced across the glossy edges, and it struck her all at once: the elaborate dinner, the fancy clothes, his anxious mood these last few days. It all revolved around that tiny, unassuming box.

A sharp chill seized Jeanette’s spine, and her breath caught in her throat. She felt tears burning at the corners of her eyes as realization set in.

She shot up to her feet and bolted, tears threatening to spill. In one hurried motion, she stepped off the table, her mind and vision a sudden blur of emotion fuelled conviction.

“J-Jeanette?” Simon managed, his own voice trembling. He hurried to catch up with her as she spun around the living room, searching frantically. “Where are you going?”

She brushed tears from her eyes with the back of her paw. “My smartwatch,” she choked out. “Where is it?”

He looked at her, puzzled and frantic. “Why do you need it?”

“I have to call Langford,” Jeanette blurted. Her eyes flicked wildly across the room, still frantic to find the device. “I want to tell him he can take that Verdant offer and—and—go f-f-fuck himself!” Her voice broke into an anguished cry, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. It was the first time in her whole life she had ever sworn.

Simon didn’t even flinch at the uncharacteristic outburst. Instead, he stepped forward and gathered her into a firm, unwavering hug, pressing her wet face gently into his shoulder. That was all it took—Jeanette melted into sobs, clutching the front of his jacket as though he might disappear if she let go.

Time seemed to slow in that moment, the candlelight flickering around them like silent witnesses. She could barely see through her tears, but she felt Simon’s soft, reassuring strokes along her back, his gentle shushing breath near her ear. He said nothing beyond those quiet murmurs, simply held her as her pent-up emotions poured out.

Eventually, she found words again, muffled by his shoulder. “I’m so torn, Simon,” she managed between ragged breaths, “torn between two lives I want, but they don’t line up.”

Simon’s voice was barely above a whisper. “What do you want?”

Jeanette sniffled, working to steady her breath. “I want you,” she confessed, her voice cracking with raw intensity. “I want the life we always talked about since college—quiet weekends reading in the same room, knowing you’re there. I want you to walk through the door after work, so I can ask how your day was. I want to go shopping for plants with you on the weekends. And, and…I w-want to w-w-watch the new season of The Handmaid’s Tale with you.”

A weak chuckle slipped out of Simon, and from the watery quality of it, Jeanette realized he was crying too. She raised her head, blinking through tears, and found his red-rimmed eyes gazing back with a tenderness that stole her breath. For just a heartbeat, the pain in her chest loosened, replaced by the warmth in his smile.

“But…” Her voice faltered. “I miss being out there in the field. I miss doing something that matters, making changes I can see with my own eyes. I spent seven years studying and training, and now I’m stuck in an office, writing endless reports for some dumb agriculture company that only wants to avoid lawsuits!” Emotion choked her words, and she buried her face in Simon’s chest again. New tears sprang forth, and her body shook with the force of her sobs.

“Jeanette,” he murmured, holding her even tighter.

She clung to him as if he were the only solid thing in her world. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered, guilt crashing over her. “You put so much effort into this—into the dinner, the candles, this new life of ours… And the…” Her words collapsed into sobs again, unable to put what the blue box meant into words. “I’m a bad girlfriend, Simon. I ruined everything.”

“Hey,” Simon’s voice cut through her trembling sobs with newfound resolve. He placed both hands on her shoulders and gently urged her back until they were face to face. Gone was the nervous smile; in its place shone an earnest, solemn expression. With the pad of his thumb, he brushed away a stray tear trailing down her cheek.

“You’re not a bad girlfriend, Jeanette,” he said quietly, yet with such conviction that it felt like a command. “You’re not a bad… anything! I’ve never met anyone—chipmunk or human—who’s as kind or caring as you are. The only person failing here is me.”

Jeanette opened her mouth to protest, but Simon, voice trembling with emotion, pressed on. “I got so caught up in the idea of this perfect life together. I wanted it for us so badly, I never stopped to see how you were really feeling. I mean…” He swallowed, the words catching in his throat. “You’ve been so unhappy, haven’t you?”

She couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze. Instead, she hid her face in his chest again, trying to hold back fresh tears. “I’m happiest when I’m with you,” she confessed, muffled against his suit jacket. “But… I really hate white blouses and pencil skirts.”

That unexpected admission startled a small laugh out of him. His arms tightened around her, and he gently nuzzled his cheek against her forehead. For a long, precious moment, they stood like that, holding onto each other in the flickering candlelight, letting the swirl of emotions settle.

When at last he pulled away, his warm expression had returned, and Jeanette felt an almost involuntary smile twitch at the corners of her lips despite her red, tear-stained eyes. “There’s nothing I want more,” Simon began softly, “than to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“Me too,” Jeanette blurted, her voice still watery.

“But if it means you’re miserable—even a tiny bit,” he continued, searching her eyes, “then we need to take another look at this future plan of ours. I’d rather wait and let you be who you truly are than keep you stuck somewhere you hate.”

A strangled sob-laugh escaped her at that, and though her tears were still fresh, the weight in her chest felt a little lighter. Simon had always had that effect on her: looking into his earnest gaze, she felt safe enough to speak her truth.

“Tell me now, honestly, do you actually want to do this project?” he asked, a hint of trepidation creeping into his voice.

She inhaled shakily and, for once, thought through her answer without dodging or deflecting. “Yes,” she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper.

Simon said nothing at first. He just held her gaze for several heartbeats, the hush between them thick with understanding. Finally, his shoulders relaxed, and he inhaled as though he’d been holding his breath.

“You might not remember,” he said, lips curving into a half-smile, “but once, you told me I didn’t have to be the perfect older brother anymore…that I just had to be me.”

Jeanette’s lips wobbled with a tender smile, and she brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. “Of course I remember. It was one of the best nights of my life.”

He let out a soft chuckle, then raised a pretend fist and tapped her lightly on the arm in playful camaraderie. “Well, right back at you, kiddo. You just have to be you. And if that means leading field teams for two years at the Great Barrier Reef, then do it. I’ll miss you every second, but…”

His left hand ventured into his pocket again, pulling out that small, square blue box that still haunted her. The very sight made her chest tighten all over again. Hesitantly, she placed her hand over his, so their fingers interlaced atop the tiny container that meant so much.

“But I’ll wait,” Simon murmured, his thumb tracing the edge of the lid. “I’ll be right here when you get back. And if you leave again after that, I’ll wait again… and again and again and again. As long as you come back to me with that smile of yours.”

A fresh wave of tears gathered in Jeanette’s eyes, but this time the emotion welling in her chest felt closer to joy than heartbreak. “You promise?” she asked, her voice wavering with hope.

“I promise,” he said, and the gentle sincerity of it struck her like a balm. He drew her into a profound hug, one that felt like coming home, safe and certain in spite of everything.

“I love you, Simon,” she breathed, her words nearly lost in the fabric of his jacket.

“I love you too,” he answered, tightening his hold on her.

They lingered like that, swaying softly in the dim glow of the candles, until Jeanette finally pulled back. She scrubbed the lingering tears from her face and glanced at the box in his hand, her heart fluttering with an unexpected burst of excitement.

“So…did you want an answer for what’s in that box?” she asked, half-nervous, half-elated.

He hesitated for only a second—long enough for her heart to leap—before closing his hand around the box gently. “I’ve waited this long,” he said, sliding it back into his pocket with a warm smile. “What’s another two years?”

A slow grin spread across Jeanette’s face, and she placed her hands on either side of his cheeks, leaning in. “In two years,” she said, her voice brimming with certainty, “I can’t wait to say yes.”

Then she closed the distance between them, pressing her lips to his in a lingering kiss that carried every apology, every promise, and every ounce of love she had.

Notes:

This chapter was a difficult one to write, but an enjoyable one also. It was actually born from a mistake I made a few chapters ago, ruining the timeline I had plotted out. But every mistake is an opportunity in disguise, and the chapter is now one of my favourites for its emotional impact.

Life isn't always black and white between what we want and what we have. Sometimes, what we want and what we have are BOTH things we wish to pursue. And sometimes those two things don't align.\

We are entering what I'm calling "the period of frowny faces" in the story, as quite a few of the chapters following this look at some of the harder times and the more difficult parts in life. I'll make sure to pepper it with lighter chapters though. Don't want to turn this story into a bummer-fest.

Chapter 13: A New Beginning

Dave stepped carefully through the doorway of the shopfront home, mindful of the shattered glass that littered the floor. It was puzzling since the large shop window was still intact. The shop, one of many lining a small walking plaza, had two entrances. The main shopfront doors, currently roped off and severely damaged, led to the lower level. The second, a more discreet side door, opened at the base of a stairwell leading to the living space on the second floor. Dave noticed nasty warping on the wooden steps—never a good sign. The plasterboard walls were chipped, with sizeable chunks missing, and where an outlet should have been, there was only a hole with bare wires.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Dave asked, glancing down at his feet to see two chipmunks dressed in green. One darted through his legs, excitedly exploring the desolate shop, while the other measured the stairs with a ribbon of sewing tape, noting down her findings on a small notepad.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Eleanor said, finishing her measurements. “It needs a bit of work.”

“It needs a priest to condemn it,” Dave half joked, poking a particularly soggy patch of skirting with his walking stick. “This place hasn’t been lived in for years.”

“That’s why it’s so cheap,” Eleanor replied, leading Dave further into the shop area. “Sure, the flooring needs replacing, the stairs need rebuilding, the drywall needs fixing, and the upstairs windows need replacing. Plus, the plumbing is completely rusted.”

“You’re not selling it to me,” Dave grumbled.

“But the bones are good,” Eleanor insisted, hopping onto one of the workbenches, careful not to jab herself on the loose nails or splintered wood that littered its surface. “The climate venting runs through both the shop and the upstairs apartment. Some of the brick behind the damaged drywall looks promising. Plus, the shop size is perfect for a bakery.”

Dave looked around the shop warily. It was currently a mess, with piles of timber offcuts cluttering corners, dust covering every surface, and a dividing wall only half-standing. Judging by the piles of timber and rusted vices on tables, it might have been a wood workshop once, but it was far from that now.

He glanced at the ceiling and saw a horrid black stain, likely from a leaking pipe, signalling serious water damage. This could mean a complete refit of all roofing infrastructure, and he dreaded what he might find upstairs. The sight made him queasy, and he leaned more heavily on his walking stick. His medication always made him weaker and more nauseous, but some days were worse than others. The three-hour flight from Los Angeles to Houston hadn’t helped. Even simple tasks were becoming impossible, not to mention the pain.

“You’ll need to hire contractors,” he sighed. “I don’t think I’ll be much help this time.” The words felt bitter. He hated feeling useless.

“I know,” Eleanor nodded, clearly seeing Dave’s weariness. “But we can use the rebuild to our advantage. Custom stairs, showers, and bathrooms to fit our size. The kitchen upstairs has been gutted and is begging for a Theodore-sized renovation.” She looked lovingly at Theodore, who was visualizing the future bakery. “Theodore can finally have a kitchen built to his specifications, like he’s always wanted.”

Dave rubbed his stubble, considering Eleanor’s points. As their guardian, he had tried to make human-scale living more bearable for the chipmunks, but Eleanor’s suggestions went further. She was right; it would be easier to make changes from a blank canvas, but he still had doubts.

“The work won’t be cheap, Eleanor. Repairs could cost half as much as the house itself.”

“Good thing we’re getting a great deal on the house,” Eleanor grinned. “The owner is desperate to offload it and can’t demolish because it’s part of the wider shopfront complex, so they’re selling for pennies on the dollar.” She flipped through her notebook, her shiny new gold wedding ring catching the light. “With the purchase price, plumbing, flooring, stairs, windows, railings, and electrical, we’re still under budget. That leaves more for bakery equipment. I can handle the upstairs kitchen and all our furniture and Theo’s utensils, so there’s another savings.”

Dave smiled gently at the eager chipmunk. Over the years, Eleanor had developed a real flare for DIY. What began as a necessity—crafting utensils for Theodore's catering business—quickly grew into a full-fledged hobby. She started with simple wood whittling, which soon blossomed into carpentry. From there, she expanded into metalwork for pots and pans, mastered joinery for workbenches, and even delved into electronics, sewing, plastic printing, and even glass blowing. There was hardly anything Eleanor couldn’t create with time and dedication. Before long, the small toolshed behind Dave’s home had transformed into her personal workshop. Her single-minded determination knew no bounds, but would it be enough in this instance?

Dave sighed, taking in the dilapidated storefront once more. It was hard to see the potential that Eleanor clearly saw. He wasn’t against the idea; they had dreamed for years of turning Theodore’s catering business into a storefront. With their recent business success and marriage, a shop and home seemed the logical next step. He just wanted to make sure they did it right. Life was simply harder for a chipmunk. Most parents felt a sense of trepidation when their children moved out, but this was different. There were so many additional complications when you were barely a foot tall. 

“And you’re sold on Houston?” Dave asked cautiously, revisiting a recurring conversation. “It’s so far away.”

“We’ve been over this, Dave,” Eleanor groaned. “We can’t afford to do this in California. The only place that fit our needs was so far over budget it made me dizzy. Texas has great incentives for small business owners, and it’s a buyer’s market right now. We’d be silly not to start here.”

Dave groaned quietly. She was right, as she had been a month ago when she had first pitched the idea to him. It didn’t ease his anxiety. With Simon and Jeanette away at university, the house already felt empty. Now, with Theodore and Eleanor moving out, it would be quieter than ever. Alvin and Brittany still kept an air of energy about his bungalow, their never-ending arguments filling the halls with shouts and vitality, but it wasn’t the same.

His nest was emptying.

“Have you looked at other properties in Houston? Maybe something less derelict?” he offered, pushing his concerns deep down.

“This is the one, Dave, trust me.” Eleanor’s eyes were determined.

“I’m not sure I see what you see,” Dave sighed. “Why are you so sold on this place?”

Eleanor paused in thought for a moment, clearly thinking carefully on Dave’s words. After a long pause she smiled and called out to Theodore. “Tell Dave about your bakery layout.”

Theodore’s eyes lit up as he darted to the front window. “The entrance will be here, the counter here, displaying baked goods. We’ll take orders and serve coffee here. Three workbenches, maybe four if we grow, each with tools for both humans and chipmunks. Ovens on that wall, cool room in that corner.”

Dave watched with a warm smile as Theodore explained every detail of his ideal bakery. There wasn’t a corner that wasn’t filled with his dreams.

“That’s why this is the right place,” Eleanor said warmly, not taking her eyes off Theodore. “At first, I didn’t think it was a good choice either. But the moment Theo walked in, he started planning. This is his dream bakery, and I want to make that dream come true… he deserves it.”

Dave smiled. Hearing Eleanor’s loving tone and watching Theodore’s excitement, he began to see the magic in the old building. It wasn’t just a dilapidated shop; it was a symbol of hope for the tiny chipmunks. A new start; the start of their lives together.

“Okay,” Dave nodded, “but let’s get a structural engineer to inspect the place before making an offer. No point in buying a place that might collapse in a few years. I’ll pay for that; call it a late wedding gift.”

Eleanor’s grin spread ear to ear. Dave could tell by the look in her eyes that she had planned every step of this negotiation before he had even walked through the glass strewn doorway. “Do you want to see the living space?” she asked.

Dave looked down at his legs. The thought of climbing stairs made him ache and left him lightheaded. “I’ve seen the pictures. I think it’s time to head to the hotel.”

Eleanor’s knowing look showed she understood his hesitation. “We can come back tomorrow if you’re up to it,” she grinned. “You have to see the rooftop; so much potential.”

 

Notes:

This wasn't the chapter I wanted to present as the first chapter to include Dave, but I haven't really been inspired to write at all lately, and the chapter that was going to be Daves introduction to the story is still a hot mess of half baked ideas and grammatical errors.

However, I think this chapter still does a lot to explain the situation without being too heavy handed. In many ways I feel this is almost one of the saddest chapters I've included in the story. Its not dramatic or thick with emotional conflicts, but it shows the real ramifications of getting seriously sick; not having the strength to help your children like you used to and also knowing that you might not be there to see them live out this new chapter of their lives.

Its rough for both sides if the dynamic, but apart of life and death, unfortunately...

Chapter 14: A Pivotal Moment - Part One

Notes:

There is a little Easter egg in this one ;) enjoy.

“Announcing the arrival of American Airlines flight four thirty-seven, from California, arriving at gate seven,” the gentle announcers voice tolled over the airports speakers system, barely audible over the hum of activity. Airports put Brittany on edge; they were crowded, and people were in a rush – a dangerous combination for a tiny chipmunk to try to navigate. It was safer for her to avoid the floor wherever possible. The second factor was exposure. Her status was now large enough that even the brief trip from the gate to the taxi rank meant fans were likely to recognise her. Most were completely harmless, not wanting more than a photo and perhaps a signature. It was the outliers that made her nervous; the ones who didn’t understand, or perhaps didn’t respect personal space. It had only taken one such occasion for Brittany to vow to never travel through an airport without human escorts. Todays escorts, however, weren’t exactly the most intimidating pair. 

To her left strode a blob of a man: Jed “Big Tex” Buchannan, her current manager. He was round, stout, and, as the name might suggest, very Texan. His white suit was marked with years of unremovable food stains on the lapels, and seams that had stretched to their limits. His belt seemed to barely contain his stomach, it was as though the comically large belt buckle was about to shoot across the airport at any moment. He fiddled with his wide brimmed Stetson as he near shouted down the line of his mobile phone, drawing more attention from passerby’s than Brittany would care for. 

To her right, pushing the luggage that Brittany currently rode on, was a far more normal man by comparison: Kenny, Tex’s apprentice manager. He was younger than Tex – somewhere in his mid-to-late twenties, Brittany guessed – and was treated like more of a personal assistant by Tex than a training artist manager. He shot Brittany a warm smile as their eyes met, and she returned the smile in kind. She still didn’t know him as well as she would like; he had only been put under Tex’s wing a few weeks ago. 

Brittany was surprised she’d made it through baggage claim and almost to the taxi rank before hearing a shrill voice call her name. Eyes had been on her the entire time—people recognizing her but unsure whether to approach. But now, two young teenagers rushed toward her, their faces lit with excitement. Brittany smiled, ready to greet them. Despite how stressful airports were, she always had time for her fans. Before she could say a word, though, Tex stepped in like a wall, blocking the girls’ path. 

“That’s close enough, little ladies,” Tex drawled, placing a firm hand on Kenny’s back as he motioned for him to wheel Brittany toward the exit. “Brittany’s in a rush today.” 

The disappointment in the girls’ eyes stung. Brittany glanced over her shoulder as she was ushered through the doors, the cold bite of winter hitting her immediately. The honking of cars and the bustle outside made it impossible to say anything to her fans before she was out of reach. She lowered her head, biting her tongue, and cast her gaze toward her feet. 

Kenny lingered by the curb, looking around for their ride. After a moment of searching, he made a beeline toward a sleek, silver Mercedes parked nearby. Tex grumbled under his breath as he strode past Brittany and Kenny, reaching for the passenger door. 

“It’ll do,” Tex muttered, clearly unimpressed. “Next time, rent a Rolls.” He slid into the front seat with a grunt, not waiting for a reply. Brittany noticed the effort it took for him to squeeze in. Kenny sighed, opening the back door for her. 

Before getting in, Brittany scanned the pickup bay, searching one last time for the two girls, but they had already vanished into the crowd. With a resigned sigh, she settled into the leather seat. After placing the luggage in the trunk, Kenny climbed in after her, buckling up. 

“Wouldn’t it have been better for Brittany’s image to stop for a quick photo with her fans?” Kenny asked, glancing at Tex in the front seat. “It was just two of them.” 

Tex gave the driver a destination, and the car began to move. “Exactly— just  two of them. Brittany doesn’t have time to be stopping for every fan at the airport. She’s better off focusing on her bigger media appearances.” 

Brittany barely mumbled, “I like interacting with my fans.” 

Tex didn’t even look back. “And you will, darlin’, but save it for the paid fan meetups.” 

Brittany gritted her teeth. She hated when Tex called her “darlin’” in that thick, condescending drawl of his. 

“I just thought—” Kenny started, but Tex cut him off. 

“You’re not paid to think yet, kid,” Tex grunted, struggling to glance over his shoulder at Kenny. “You’ve got at least six months before you should be doing any thinking. Just sit back, listen, and learn. You might pick up a thing or two.” His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out, swiping at the screen. “Run Brittany through the schedule while I deal with business.” 

Kenny rolled his neck, frustration clear but wordless. 

Brittany glanced at him. “Why do you let him talk to you like that?” she asked in a low voice, once Tex’s attention was on his phone. 

Kenny hesitated, chewing over his words before responding. “Tex is one of the top managers in the business. He’s old-school, sure, but he knows how to keep artists in the spotlight. If I want to manage someone of my own one day, I need to learn from him.” 

Brittany sighed, understanding Kenny’s dilemma all too well. She hadn’t chosen Tex as her manager either—the label had done that after Dave passed away. She was a rising star, and they’d assigned her to their best manager. It made sense on paper. In reality, she couldn’t stand Tex. He was rude, crass, and sometimes outright sexist. He wasn't quite as bad as Ian Hawk had been when Brittany and her sisters had first moved to America to pursue their dreams, but Tex certainly skirted the line of appropriateness more than she cared for. Unfortunately, like Ian, he was also an incredibly effective manager, landing her more opportunities in the few months he’d managed her than Dave had during the entire span of her solo career. 

Still, she would have traded all those opportunities for a different manager if she could. Her thoughts drifted back to Dave, and one of his familiar proverbs echoed in her mind. “Make lemonade…” 

“What was that?” Kenny glanced at her curiously.  

Brittany shook her head, only now realising she had spoken out loud. “Just…something Dave used to say.” 

Kenny nodded, a knowing expression crossing his face. “I met him once, actually. Well, I saw him in the office when I was an intern at the label. All the artist managers really respected him. Some of the faster paced managers said he was soft,” Kenny’s eyes flicked toward Tex in the front seat, making the comparison silently. “There’s always been rivalries between record label managers and the freelance managers, like Dave was. But I think he didn’t care about all that noise. He always seemed to be smiling. He seemed like a genuine person.”  

“He was.” Brittany turned her face toward the window, watching the streets of Queens flash by as they drove. She didn’t want Kenny to see the look on her face, didn’t want him to see the sadness that came with thinking about Dave. 

Sensing the heavy silence, Kenny cleared his throat and pulled out his laptop from the bag at his feet. He flipped it open to reveal a detailed spreadsheet of Brittany's tightly packed schedule. 

“Tex really loaded this trip with a ton of meetings, so it was a real headache fitting everything in,” Kenny admitted with a deep breath. “First stop is the tour company to go over the logistics of the West Coast leg. That one’s probably going to be boring—just a lot of numbers. Then we’ve got a sit-down with the production crew to go over set design and staging. After that, we can grab a quick lunch before the meet-and-greet in Times Square. I know you mentioned wanting to try the banana pudding from Magnolia, so I made sure to get a reservation.” 

Brittany raised an eyebrow, surprised by the attention to detail. She had only mentioned the pudding in passing, and she was impressed Kenny remembered. 

“The interview with Kasey Johnes’ music show has a strict schedule too, so we need to be at the studio by three for makeup and wardrobe. Then there’s a short, one-hour soundcheck before the interview and performance. After that, we’re back to LaGuardia and flying home to California. We should be back around midnight.” 

Brittany grimaced at the packed itinerary but didn’t protest. These kinds of schedules were becoming routine for her, and while she was grateful for her rising career, she couldn’t help but miss the days when Dave managed things at a more realistic pace. 

Kenny turned the laptop so she could see a list of questions for the upcoming interview. “I managed to get the questions in advance so we can screen anything you don’t want to answer.” 

Brittany skimmed the list. Nothing seemed too intrusive—likely already curated of the annoying questions she had been fielding these past few months. “Straight back to California tonight…” she said, her voice trailing off as she thought about how close they were to her sister. “We can’t stay on the East Coast for the night? My sister’s studying in Boston, just a few hours from here. It’d be nice if we could take the afternoon flight out of Boston tomorrow instead of—” 

“No time, darlin’,” Tex interrupted from the front seat, not even turning around. “We’ve got meetings with producers for your next single. Gotta keep that momentum going while your album’s still hot.” 

Brittany bit back her frustration, keeping the resentment from showing on her face.  Make lemonade,  she reminded herself, hearing Dave’s voice in her head again. It was all for the greater good of her career—what she had dreamed of since she was a little girl. 

“I took the liberty of sending tickets to tonight’s performance to Jeanette and Simon, as well as flights,” Kenny said, glancing at her. “They both said they’d be able to attend. We won’t have much time to meet with them, maybe five minutes after the show, but at least they’ll be in the audience.” 

Brittany’s mood lifted instantly. It had been over three months since she’d last seen Jeanette at Dave’s funeral. It was the longest she’d ever gone without seeing her siblings. Life had been so hectic for all of them lately. Jeanette was deep into the grading period of her master’s program at Harvard, and Eleanor was consumed with the endless repair projects for her new home with Theodore in Houston. Their tight-knit childhood felt more distant with each passing day, and Brittany missed them both more than she could express. 

She offered Kenny a soft smile. “Thanks,” she said, but the tender moment was interrupted by Tex’s booming voice on the phone. 

“I’m telling you, it’s time to cut the umbilical cord. The kid’s a ghost, he’s not coming back.” Tex barked. Brittany didn’t need to hear more to know who he was talking about. A shadow crossed her face, her thoughts turning dark. 

Kenny hesitated before speaking, clearly unsure if he should. “I overheard some talk at the label the other day…” His voice was quiet, almost conspiratorial. “There’s been chatter about the execs cancelling his contract.” 

Brittany’s body tensed, but she kept her tone neutral. “I know.” 

“If he doesn’t show up soon, or even just agree to a new manager, the label’s going to drop him,” Kenny continued cautiously. “I know Dave’s death hit him hard, but—” 

“I don’t know where he is,” Brittany snapped, cutting him off. The words came quickly, and she hated how easily they slipped out. But she’d had this conversation too many times recently. “He’s gone MIA. None of us have seen him in months.” 

Kenny flinched, realizing he’d hit a nerve. “Doesn’t that worry you?” 

Brittany didn’t answer. Instead, she turned her gaze to the window, watching the city blur by. Of course it worried her. His disappearance from the spotlight weighed on her constantly, gnawing at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t afford to dwell on it—not with everything else happening. She needed to keep moving forward, even if it felt like she was leaving pieces of herself behind.  

This was her dream; she didn't want it to vanish because of him... right? 

“You put this whole schedule together?” Brittany asked, shifting the topic. Kenny, sensing the shift, nodded. 

“I like to be prepared,” he said with a small smile. “Tex handles the big bookings, but I think it’s important to pay attention to the details—make sure we know what’s coming so we can plan for everything, even the downtime. Rest is important, you know?” 

The simplicity of his words struck Brittany. It reminded her of something Dave would have said—always focusing on balance, making sure she had time to breathe. Tex was the opposite, running her ragged. She cast a scornful glance toward the front seat. 

“You’re going to make a great manager one day, Kenny,” she said earnestly. “It’s just a shame you have to work under… him for so long.” 

Kenny chuckled lightly. “Well, if an artist nominated me as their manager, I could take the role right away. But that’s almost unheard of. Artists are entrusting their entire careers to their managers; who would want a greenhorn running their career? Getting to manage someone big… it takes time to build that trust. So yeah, these six months under Tex? Worth it.” 

Brittany chewed on his words, an idea slowly forming in the back of her mind. 

When life gives you lemons... make lemonade,  she thought, feeling a spark of clarity. Maybe there was more she could do with the lemon’s life had handed her. 

She straightened her back, casting a cautious glance at Tex to confirm he was lost in his phone conversations before fixing Kenny with a grin. “Let me put forth a purely hypothetical situation for you…” 

 

* 

 

The dim glow of the moon and one lonely streetlamp gave Brittany just enough light to see as she stepped out of the battered red car—a stark contrast to the sleek Mercedes she’d been chauffeured around in all day. The puttering engine reminded her that apprentice artist managers didn’t exactly make bank, a reality that squealed from every worn bolt in Kenny’s little vehicle. 

California’s night air was gentler than New York’s, but she could still feel a hint of sharpness curl around her breath. Kenny rolled down his window, arm draped over the doorframe. His smile was there, but it looked heavier than it had a few hours ago. 

“You sure you’ll make it upstairs okay?” he asked. 

Brittany nodded. She felt too tired for real conversation. 

He hesitated, then leaned forward slightly, concern creeping into his voice. “Take a day or two before you decide anything. If this backfires, it could blow up in every direction. People hate meddling, you know.” 

Her response was soft but sure. “I’m a professional meddler, Kenny. It’ll work.” 

He glanced at the sky, as though searching for any sign of doubt in the stars. After a moment, he sighed—quiet, resigned, and maybe even a little proud. “Alright. Swing by the label when you’re ready. In the meantime, get some rest.” He offered a worn smile before rolling up the window and rumbling off into the darkness, leaving her alone on the desolate curb. 

The final echo of his car faded, and suddenly she was standing in a silence that felt suffocating. For the first time in over sixteen hours, there was no bustle, no stage lights, no paparazzi calls. Just the stillness of a late Los Angeles street with dark windows and drawn curtains. 

She forced herself to move toward the apartment building’s locked doors. The receptionist had gone home hours ago, and a resident’s key was required—something a ten-inch chipmunk couldn’t simply lug around in a purse. Without a word, Brittany bypassed the glass doors and slipped through the narrow mail slot off to the side, landing gracefully in the dimly lit lobby. 

She crossed the floor, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, and leapt up to reach the elevator button. She heard the whir of the mechanics as the elevator descended, its doors opening with a soft chime. Brittany hopped in and, with a practiced jump, reached the wall railing, using it as a step to access the buttons. She pressed the top floor, then leaned back against the mirrored walls, watching the doors slide shut. 

For a moment, she stared at her own reflection, her expression unreadable. She looked flawless—she always did. But tonight, that polished image felt hollow, as if she were only watching a stranger. Her eyes lingered there in silence as the elevator hummed upwards. 

When the doors finally opened, she slipped out, heading straight for the stairwell. She climbed the last two flights to the roof, her steps slowing as she reached the top. There, she faced an unassuming metal door, but near the bottom was a small entrance carved precisely to her scale. Pushing through, she emerged onto the rooftop and was immediately met with the chill of the open night air. 

The rooftop looked like any other in Los Angeles, dotted with large silver vents puffing out clouds of steam, a few satellite dishes all facing the same direction, and a couple of electrical boxes humming in the corner. But tucked away in the far corner, nearly invisible to anyone glancing up from the street below, was a miniature apartment—built in the same style of the very building it sat upon, scaled down to chipmunk size. 

This was Brittany’s sanctuary, the place she’d poured almost every cent of her musical earnings into. Finding a property manager willing to allow a tiny, custom apartment on their rooftop had been a feat in itself, but the real challenge had been the logistics: months of haggling with contractors, real estate agents, and attorneys, followed by weeks spent overseeing the intricate details to make sure every corner was crafted just right. 

But, finally, here it was—her dream home. A space that fit her perfectly. 

She crossed the rooftop and pulled open her tiny front door. There was no need to lock it; any would-be intruder wouldn’t even fit through the frame. Stepping inside, she was greeted by a blanket of darkness and silence that felt almost suffocating. Brittany didn’t bother with the lights as she moved through her compact kitchen, her fingers trailing across the smooth countertop. 

It wasn't a large apartment, in either sense of the word. A modest kitchen and dining space styled in marble and tile, carpeted living room, a study room off to one side, and the master bedroom in the loft above the kitchen. 

The space still had that incomplete feel, with a few areas starkly empty: the kitchen, though operational, was missing the custom-made fridge she’d ordered, and her ensuite bathroom in the loft remained little more than a tiled shell while the plumber worked on the delicate, miniature fittings she needed. Construction projects like that simply took longer in her tiny apartment. It wasn’t as though the plumber could just walk in and get to work. No, the whole roof had to be removed whenever work needed to be done, much like someone might remove a dollhouse roof to arrange the furniture. 

Her gaze fell on the couch in the living room. A single pillow lay crumpled against the armrest, and a blanket was draped messily over the back. She raised an eyebrow at its disarray, then noticed the scattered wads of crumpled paper strewn across the floor and glass coffee table. 

Brittany picked up one of the balled-up sheets, smoothing it out to reveal a chaotic scrawl of lyrics and chord progressions. Most lines were viciously scratched out, with a few even torn through in places where frustration had pressed too hard. She scanned what legible words she could find, feeling the weight of each imperfect line, before letting out a soft sigh and setting it back on the table. She gathered the remaining scraps, flattening and stacking them into a rough pile. 

With the papers tidied, she looked around the room as though searching for something unspoken. Eventually, she drifted toward the sliding glass doors that led to her small balcony. She stepped outside, letting the chill seep through her fur once again as she approached the railing. As uncomfortable as the cold was, standing there reminded her of why she’d fought so hard to secure this particular building for her unconventional home. 

The view was worth every ounce of trouble. 

Nestled in between two towering high-rises was a view some might find plain. The glittering lights of downtown Los Angeles peaked through the buildings. The sounds of the city were a symphony. Even though it was the dead of the night, she could clearly here the distant honking of a frustrated driver, the ever-present hum of city sounds, the piercing wail of a far-off fire truck… even the dull thud of some nearby nightclub. 

Growing up on an Isolated farm in the middle of the Australian outback, these sounds were nothing like the sounds of night she remembered. She looked to the sky to see nothing but bland, pastel blues—the light pollution of the city obscuring any and all stars from view.  

Brittany felt her heart ache as she thought back to the glittering skies of her youth. Sitting on the roof of her childhood home, staring up at the millions of star’s night after night, wishing more than anything to be one of them. Most people would have dreaded the change, but Brittany wanted nothing more. Deep down, she hated the silence of that isolated farm. She was made for the life and the noise of the city. Never once did she look back on her memories of that glittering sky and pine to return to those days. 

Not until now.  

Brittany felt the familiar lump rising in her throat as she dwelled on the thoughts that had haunted her for weeks. She had everything she had ever dreamed of: a career that soared higher than she could have imagined, fame, success, and the luxury of designing her perfect apartment. This was the life she had envisioned so many nights sitting on that rooftop, gazing at the stars. 

So why did she feel so empty? 

Her grip on the balcony railing tightened as she struggled to keep her emotions at bay. Dave’s words echoed relentlessly in her mind, some escaping her lips as whispered fragments. 

“Make lemonade,” she repeated, her voice breaking. But the mantra did little to stem the tide. Instead, it brought back a flood of memories—touring the world with her sisters and the boys, the electrifying rush of performing in front of roaring crowds, and quiet days spent at Dave’s bungalow, where homework and games filled the time between shows. The first time Alvin had brought her on stage to perform, the joy of that moment—and his smile—were seared into her mind. 

Alvin… 

Brittany squeezed her eyes shut, but a lone tear still escaped, sliding down her button nose. Her knuckles turned white on the railing as she fought to swallow the whimper clawing up her throat. Memories pressed in on her: the rooftop, the stars, Alvin at her side—the promises they’d whispered to each other all those nights ago. All of it felt so heartbreakingly near and impossibly distant at once. 

She hated facing this life alone. 

“You still suck at interviews,” a voice cut through the hush, snapping her eyes open. She turned, and there he was. Alvin, at the balcony door, his red hoodie bathed in moonlight. 

In that instant, old recollections surged forward. A stormy night. Her front door. Alvin appearing out of nowhere in that same damp, dishevelled hoodie after weeks of silence following Dave’s funeral. The sorrow she’d seen in his eyes that night—though muted now—still lingered, and Brittany could feel its weight in the air between them as he forced a caring smile. 

Brittany turned away quickly, clearing her throat and wiping at her eyes, willing herself to look composed. She stared at the sky, the warmth of Alvin’s presence growing as he moved to stand beside her. She could only hope the dim light masked the redness of her eyes. 

“You were watching then?” she asked, voice still raw as she swallowed the lump in her throat. 

“Your performance was good,” he said with a light lilt. “But you rehearse your answers too much. Trust your natural charm more.” 

The comment made her grip the railing tighter, her gaze dropping to the street below. “It’s harder when you’re alone,” she said, her tone sharper than she intended. A silence settled between them, and she felt Alvin shift awkwardly. He had been living on her couch for weeks now, but the air around him was still stiff. This short interaction was likely the most they had spoken to each other since he reappeared. The closeness they once had had shattered after his disappearance, and Brittany felt as though she were talking to a stranger sometimes.

“Did you see—” Alvin started, but Brittany cut him off, already knowing where he was going. 

“We didn’t have time to meet. Tex kept us too busy. But they were both there in the audience.” 

Alvin let out a quiet sigh, a complicated blend of emotions crossing his features. Brittany remembered too well the bitter words he had thrown at Simon after Dave’s funeral. “Good to see Tex is still a walking disaster,” Alvin muttered, though there was a touch of humour in his voice. Brittany exhaled a short laugh. How long had it been since he had made her laugh? 

“He is,” she said, leaning in until her arm brushed against Alvin’s. “But Kenny makes it tolerable.” 

Alvin fell silent, and Brittany took the moment to take in the sight of him—unkempt fur, his hoodie stained and rumpled, dark circles etched under his eyes. The faint odour of stale sweat reached her, and it stung more than she expected. He never left her apartment, didn’t feel the need to care for his appearance. Even so, she leaned against him a little more. She missed the closeness more than she hated the smell. 

“Kenny is Tex’s assistant,” she added softly. “He’s young, talented... I think you’d like him.” 

“Oh yeah?” Alvin’s lips twitched into a smile—a rare, fleeting thing. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but she held onto it. 

She bit her lip, hesitating. Then, gathering her resolve, she spoke. “You should meet him. I heard he’s looking for his first artist.” 

The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Alvin pulled away, their arms no longer touching. The distance he created was so sudden, so impactful, that it seemed to amplify the silence of the night once more. Though he had turned away, she could feel once more the heavy depression that had engulfed his personality the past few months once again permeate. He didn’t respond, just stared down at the street below, the silence stretching painfully. Though she was hopeful, deep down she had expected exactly this reaction. 

“Just meet him,” she urged, reaching out to touch his arm. “I think you two would understand each other.” 

“Britt...” Was all Alvin was able to push out, slowly shrinking further away from his hand.

“And it seems like he would be a more slow-paced manager.” Brittany’s hand finally landed on Alvins forearm.  

Alvin recoiled sharply at the touch, his tone darkening. “I can’t.” 

Brittany’s optimism was shot at this, replaced now by a choked urgency. “You have to, Alvin,” her voice wavered as she fought back tears. “The label won’t wait forever. It doesn’t have to be Kenny, but you need to show the label that you are still making music.” 

“Brittany,” his voice was harder now, his expression steely. “I’m not—I can’t.” He turned now to face her, and the look of frustration threatened to cower her, but she stood firm, matching his expression, though with an undercurrent of concern. How often had they stood steadfast in front of each other like this before? 

“You need a manager,” she pressed desperately. 

“Why do you even care?” 

“Because I care about you, Alvin.” Frustration began to creep into her tone, and he matched her energy.

“So what, you want me out or something? forcing me back to music so you can get me out of your life.” 

“I’m not forcing you into anything; I’m just asking you to take a step. Meet a new manager. Start to heal.” 

“A new manager won’t fix anything.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because no one can replace Dave!” Alvin’s shout shattered the stillness, his arm cutting through the air. 

“And no one ever will!” Brittany yelled back instantly, her words ones she had held back for weeks, her voice cracking as she shoved him, the weight of her grief breaking free. 

The floodgates of her tears burst open and her eyes began to moisten, but she didn’t care. A powerful silence enveloped the two as Alvin stared in shock at Brittany as she desperately tried to hold herself together, her expression one of shivering anger and strong sadness. They had fought daily for years, but the past few weeks they had barely spoken. They were just two ghosts floating in the same house. But Brittany couldn’t pretend it wasn’t killing her anymore.  

“Dave is gone Alvin; you need to come to terms with that. I need you to come to terms with it, because I can’t do this without you!” Her passion had taken over at this point. Weeks of holding back all her emotions were now unleashing themselves in righteous fury. She could feel the tears dripping through her fur covered cheeks and onto her jacket, but she didn’t take her intense gaze off Alvin for even a second.  

“I thought if I just put my head down and focused on my work I would be able to push through it all and things might start feeling normal again. That it would get easier every day. But it just gets harder and harder. I’ve never felt more alone in my life! I’m so sick and tired of making Lemonade!” 

Alvin was frozen in shock, his eyes wide and his hands outstretched as though he half expected Brittany to start attacking him. Part of her wanted to. Instead, she threw herself forward, collapsing her face into his chest as she wept openly.  

“I miss my sisters,” she choked out, “I miss Dave, and I miss you—the way we were. I need you with me, not shut away like some ghost I barely recognize. I need you back Alvin. Stop being so fucking selfish! I can’t do this without you by my side, just like you promised me you would be that night we sat together on the rooftop, looking at the stars. You and me, side by side, first one to the top wins. That’s what you said to me Alvin. You promised! So why am I running this race alone?” 

Finally, Brittany’s tears won out over her anger, and she devolved into nothing more than heavy, ugly sobs as she clung desperately to Alvin’s hoodie. Weeks of pent up anger, sadness, and frustrations poured out in mere seconds. She had so much more to say, so much more he needed to hear, but she couldn't form a single syllable through her racking sobs. It felt painful, but also somewhat freeing.  

She felt Alvin’s gentle hand reach around her back, almost nervously bringing her in closer until he held her tightly. Even through her open sobbing she could feel his Shakey breaths. 

Through her tears she faintly heard Alvin’s voice, shaken and filled with emotion. 

“I-I’m sorry…I’m sorry.” 

 

* 

 

Alvin sat in the quiet shadows of Brittany’s living room, leaning against the armrest of the couch as the weight of the night pressed down on him. It had taken almost an hour for Brittany’s sobs to subside, and now she lay on the couch that had been his bed for the past few weeks, her breathing deep and even under a thick blanket that shielded her from the winter’s chill. He had seen her cry countless times… but never like that. 

He would never forget it. 

Moonlight filtered through the window, casting silver patches across the room as clouds drifted past, deepening the silence that enveloped them. Alvin’s throat ached from his own choked emotions. 

He glanced at his hand, watching the play of moonlight over his fingers, flexing them as though rediscovering their purpose. His gaze shifted to the guitar propped against the wall, dusty and ignored. A pang of longing swept through him, memories swirling like a storm—but he pushed the ache aside and stood. He knew what he had to do, not just for himself, but for Brittany, for his brothers—for Dave. 

Crossing the room silently, Alvin picked up the guitar. The familiar weight felt foreign now, and his fingers trembled as they hovered over the strings. He hadn’t touched it since the funeral. Settling down onto the floor, he plucked each string, the quiet notes tentative as he tuned them for the first time since Dave’s passing. 

He glanced at Brittany, ensuring she was still asleep, then turned back to the guitar in his lap. Memories surged forward, unbidden yet welcomed this time. 

“The guitar is the most versatile instrument of all,” Dave’s voice echoed in his mind, pulling Alvin back to a morning from his youth. He could almost see himself perched on the kitchen counter, guitar in hand, as Dave stood at the stove, a spatula in one hand and a warm smile on his face. “A good guitarist can make you cheer with excitement one moment, and weep with sadness the next.” 

“Who’s the best guitarist ever—besides me, obviously?” Alvin had joked, strumming a playful chord. Dave’s thoughtful silence had stretched before he smiled softly. 

“There are so many,” Dave had said, “but I’ll always remember the first time I saw Eric Clapton play live when I was about your age. I never knew someone could pour so much soul into the strings. I remember running home after that concert and playing for hours, trying so hard to learn one of his songs... But I just couldn't get it right. I was never a very good guitarist.” After a thoughtful pause, he had looked at Alvin, eyes serious yet warm. “You learn to play like Clapton, Alvin, and maybe you’ll be as good as you think you are.” 

The memory dissolved, leaving Alvin with the familiar ache of loss. The room was cold, the silence pressing in once more, but he felt a flicker of warmth as he shifted his grip on the guitar, fingers finding their place on the fretboard. He took a deep breath, eyes sliding shut as he steeled himself. He knew playing this song would mean confronting everything he’d been avoiding. But it was time. 

He plucked each string, notes reverberating softly in the hush. Then, with Brittany’s gentle breathing as his only audience, he let the first chord fall through the air—a delicate, plaintive sound that seemed to cradle all the grief, longing, and tentative hope he had left. 

It was a small thing—but it made him smile genuinely for the first time in months. 

Then he began.  

 

Notes:

I thought i would sneak in a little recording for this one. its not the cleanest Chipmunk song I've ever recorded, but in some ways i think the roughness adds to the charm. it really is a moment of Alvin rediscovering music on Brittany's floor in the middle of the night. it should be rough.

I haven't been writing a lot lately; just haven't had the passion flowing. work has been bonkers and that tends to sap all creativity from me. hopefully now my schedule is a little slower I can focus a little more.
We got a little more on Kenny here; expect more in the next chapter as well.

Chapter 15: A Question Of Authority

Notes:

Been a while and been a little heavy lately. Have some fun kids stuff.

Ivy and Cora were cozied up on the couch, bowls of cereal in hand, eyes wide as they soaked in the flashing colours of the TV. Saturday mornings meant one thing: cartoons. And none were better than Princess Pony Porsche. The show’s vivid animation and outlandish plotlines were like a burst of sugar to their five-year-old brains.

After a long week of kindergarten, they clung to weekends as if they were treasures. Sitting on the couch, cereal in their laps and cartoons on the screen, felt like the ultimate reward.

“What is this?” Markus’ voice rang out as he jumped up from the floor and onto the couch. His tone dripped with disdain as he eyed the screen sceptically.

“Princess Pony Porsche,” Ivy and Cora answered at the same time, barely glancing at their older brother. Markus shot them a sideways look. They knew that look—it was the one that reminded them they were supposed to stop talking in unison so much. It was an annoying command for the twins; it wasn’t as though they were doing it on purpose or anything…

Markus rolled his eyes and wedged himself between the twins, nearly tipping over their cereal bowls in the process. “What’s it about?” he asked after a long silence, pretending he wasn’t intrigued.

Ivy pointed at the screen. “That’s Princess Pony. She’s a horse; she fights crime.”

Markus raised an eyebrow. “A horse that fights crime? How?”

“By turning into a Porsche,” Cora said, matter-of-factly, not even bothering to look away from the screen as the transformation sequence kicked in, all glitter and flashing lights.

Markus blinked, his brain struggling to make sense of what he was hearing. “Wait… so a horse that can turn into a car fights crime?”

“Yep,” Ivy confirmed with a grin, watching as the cartoon car zoomed after the bad guys.

“But… can’t a horse just chase criminals down? Why turn into a car at all?”

The twins exchanged a look, then turned their blank stares on Markus. They didn’t see the problem. Why was this even a question?

Markus threw up his hands in defeat. “Whatever. This is dumb.” Without another word, he snatched the remote from Cora’s side and clicked to a different channel, replacing their colourful pony with something darker and louder, filled with explosions and laser guns.

“Nooo!” Ivy shrieked.

“We were watching first!” Cora added, both of them scrambling to grab the remote.

“Yeah? Well I was born first,” Markus said smugly, holding the remote just out of their reach. “So, I get first dibs.”

The twins protested louder, launching a joint assault on their older brother. But no matter how hard they tried, Markus’ longer arms kept the remote safely out of range. Of all their older siblings, he was easily the tallest and the strongest.

“We’re telling Mom!” Ivy and Cora declared, their twin voices rising in perfect harmony.

“Go ahead,” Markus said coolly, “but didn’t Mom say no more eating on the couch?”

The twins froze mid-reach. That rule had been laid down the moment Ivy had spilled her cereal one too many times. Their eyes darted to their bowls. Markus smirked at their hesitation, clearly enjoying the upper hand.

“Too bad, ladies,” he said, leaning back in triumph. “That’s the perk of being older. I get the most respect.”

Ivy and Cora glared at him, seething. They both knew Markus only dared to say such a thing because neither Hazel nor Lila was around to call him out. Sure, Markus was technically the oldest of the first litter—by a mere three minutes—but if Hazel were here, she’d set him straight in no time. And Lila? Even though she was the youngest of the first litter, her quiet wisdom and position as ‘the responsible one’ carried more weight than any of them could match.

But Markus had triggered something else in the twins, a question that hadn’t crossed their minds until now. They exchanged a look, one of those wordless conversations they seemed to have without trying. For as long as they could remember, they’d been treated as “the twins.” But if being older meant more respect, then…

Their eyes narrowed at each other, the silent competition growing. The room seemed to hold its breath as they realized this question might change everything.

“Markus,” Cora spoke up first, her eyes glaring as she stared at her brother, “who’s older—me or Ivy?”

Markus barely blinked, his attention glued to the screen. Ivy jabbed him in the ribs. “I don’t know,” he grumbled, sounding annoyed. “I was, like, two years old when you were born. Do I look like I remember?”

Ivy and Cora exchanged frustrated glances. If being older meant more respect, they needed to know who had the upper hand. Without saying a word, they hopped off the couch, determination in every step as they set off to find someone who would know for sure.

Following the sweet smell wafting through the house, they headed straight for the stairs. It was a rule of thumb in the Seville household—if you wanted to find dad, follow your nose. Sure enough, as they descended the stairs from the living quarters above and to the bustling bakery below, they found Theodore setup on a platform in front of a wall of ovens, intently watching his creations rise. His face was twisted into mild frustration as the four soufflés inside puffed up at uneven rates. The busy bakery kitchen bustled with life and work, but Ivy and Cora were practiced at staying out from underfoot and made their way to their father’s post without incident.

“Dad,” the twins said in unison. Theodore, still fixated on the ovens, didn’t respond. So, Cora poked him in the arm. “Who’s older—me or Ivy?”

Theodore grunted softly but didn’t turn away from the oven window. His brow furrowed deeper as if willing the pastries to rise more evenly. Ivy, less patient, stomped on his foot, which finally made him glance their way.

“What’s up, sweetheart?” Theodore asked, a smile finally cracking his concentration. “You know you girls aren’t meant to be in the bakery when its open.”

“We want to know which one of us is older,” Ivy demanded.

Theodore chuckled softly, wiping his hands on a towel before turning to his laptop, where a mess of recipe notes were haphazardly typed in the aftermath of his baking session. “You’re twins, girls. You’re the same age.”

Ivy and Cora groaned. Obviously, they knew that much.

“But who was born first?” Cora persisted, stamping her foot for emphasis.

Theodore took his time typing his notes, sighing thoughtfully before answering. “I remember the day you two were born like it was yesterday,” he said, a nostalgic gleam in his eyes as he glanced down at them. “It was around three in the afternoon. You both came out so fast, it was like a race.”

“But who won?” Ivy cut in, her voice rising in frustration.

Theodore chuckled again. “Well, that’s… umm” His words trailed off as he looked at his daughters, his eyes moving between their identical faces. For a moment, he seemed genuinely puzzled. “…why does it suddenly matter so much?”

“Just tell us!” Cora yelled a little too loud, her tiny fists clenched at her sides.

Theodore cleared his throat, silencing her outburst instantly. While he wasn’t the one to scold often, his grunts carried weight. He sighed, kneeling down to their level, resting a hand on each of their small shoulders. “Look, girls, it’s like these soufflés in the oven. It doesn’t matter who rises first—they’re all going to be just as sweet.” He smiled warmly and tapped their button noses with his finger, a playful gesture he knew would usually make them giggle.

But not today.

The twins groaned in unison, clearly unimpressed with the metaphor. Their father’s affection wasn’t going to cut it this time. So they turned away, storming across the bustling kitchen and back up the stairs in search of better answers.

“Glad we cleared that up!” Theodore called after them, already turning back to his soufflés, his focus once again on their uneven rise.

The twins stomped up the stairs, seethed across the living room, and grumbled up to the rooftop stairs, exchanging glares that carried an entire conversation without a word. Dad had been a dead end, and now, thanks to Markus, they were stuck with this frustrating question. They had to resolve it before their silent stares turned into an actual argument. They had never ever actually fought. It was a worrying prospect.

With both of them pushing, they managed to lift the heavy rooftop hatch at the top of the stairs, slipping through just in time to avoid it slamming shut on their tails. The bright Texan sun hit them hard, making them squint as they stepped out onto the rooftop. The rooftop garden was a burst of life—vines crawling over the wooden beams that shaded the firepit, flowers blooming from pots in every corner, and rows of vegetables spilling over their beds. Their mom had taken a simple rooftop retreat and created a green haven. It truly was a green oasis amongst a collection of grey shops and businesses.

“Just catch it!” Hazel’s sharp voice cut through the air, drawing the twins’ attention to the far side of the rooftop. Hazel stood there, bouncing a bouncy-ball impatiently, her tail twitching with frustration. Across from her, Finn stood with his hands raised awkwardly, looking less like he was ready to catch a ball and more like he was bracing for impact.

“But what if I miss?” Finn’s whiny voice made it clear he wasn’t in the mood for this.

“Then don’t miss!” Hazel snapped, pulling back her arm as if she was about to throw the ball with way too much force.

“It’s going to hit me in the face!” Finn protested, flinching as Hazel wound up.

Hazel rolled her eyes. “It’s a rubber ball, Finn. It’s not gonna hurt… much.”

Before she could throw, her eyes landed on Ivy and Cora. She paused, letting out a dramatic sigh. “What do you twidiots want?”

“What’s a twidiot?” Ivy and Cora asked together, genuinely curious.

Hazel smirked. “Twin idiots.” The twins shot her matching looks of disapproval. “And stop doing that creepy twin-talk thing,” Hazel added sternly.

“You know, Hazel, it’s pretty unfair that you tease them for being twins considering we’re quadruplets,” Finn muttered, though it was barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, but I’m not like these creepers,” Hazel wiggled her fingers in Ivy and Cora’s direction, and they both poked their tongues out in retaliation. “If I start talking and acting like Lila…” She shivered as though the thought of finishing that sentence made her sick.

“Stop being mean,” Finn’s voice took on a sterner note than he usually carried. But his moment of courage instantly vanished when Hazel threatened him with the ball. The twins gave him encouraging smiles, nonetheless. Of all their older siblings, they got along best with Finn. He was sweet and caring, and surprisingly protective of his little sisters, which made him a great ally—but also an easy target for manipulation when they needed something.

“Do I need to come over there?” Eleanor’s voice rang out across the rooftop in a motherly tone that suggested it was more of a warning than a question. She was hunched over her workbench, carefully measuring a piece of wood for the creation of a fourth garden bed. Her apron was smeared with years of DIY stains, and wood shavings clung to her fur. She looked up, squinting toward the kids. Beside her, Lila sat on the low wall on the edge of the rooftop, her nose buried in a book. This meant, because of her profound deafness, she likely had no sense of the chaos unfolding around her. When reading, she was truly in her own world.

“No, Mom,” Hazel replied quickly, her tough demeanour softening under their mother’s gaze. “We’re just playing.”

Eleanor didn’t look entirely convinced, but her attention shifted to Ivy and Cora. “And what can I do for you young ladies? You know I don’t like you opening that hatch without supervision.”

The twins shuffled over to her, looking sheepish. This also made Lila finally pull from her book, suddenly surprised to see the twins.

“We had a question, and Dad wouldn’t answer it,” Ivy explained.

Eleanor’s brow furrowed. “A question your dad wouldn’t answer? Now that’s a surprise. What’s the question?”

“Who’s older, me or Ivy?” Cora asked.

The question made Eleanor pause, her measuring tape still in her hand as she glanced between the twins. “Ah. Not so much wouldn’t answer as couldn’t.” She sighed, setting the tape down and crossing her arms as she crouched to their level.

“You know I love the two of you more than anything, right?” she asked gently.

“More than Hazel?” Ivy quipped, causing Hazel to sputter indignantly in the background.

Eleanor smiled softly but didn’t engage the teasing. “The truth is, when you two were born, you were so alike that even I couldn’t tell you apart. Most chipmunk babies look similar before their fur grows in, but you two were uncanny.”

“What does ‘uncanny’ mean?” Cora asked, her head tilted in confusion.

“It means you two were indistinguishable—completely identical from the start,” Eleanor explained.

“What’s indis—ind—insquishable?” Ivy pressed.

“It means you’ve been creepy twins since day one,” Hazel called from the other side of the rooftop, already ducking out of sight as she prepared for Eleanor’s reaction.

Eleanor shot her a brief warning look before turning back to the twins. “Hazel has a point… just no manners,” Eleanor grumbled. “You were so similar that we didn’t give you names for two whole weeks because we honestly couldn’t tell who was who. So, I’m afraid I don’t know which one of you came out first.”

Ivy and Cora shared a look, feeling the frustration of their question going unanswered. It wasn’t what they wanted to hear. How could they settle this if no one knew who came first?

Lila, who had been quietly watching, waved to get their attention. She started signing, her hands moving in quick motions. The twins could catch a few signs: hands, together. But the rest of her message was too advanced for them to understand.

Eleanor watched, a soft smile spreading across her face. “I’m impressed you remember that, darling.” She spoke and signed to Lila.

“Lila knows who came first?!” The twins exclaimed excitedly in unison. Eleanor Smiled and sighed lightly, a hint of frustration in her eyes as her daughters continued to speak as one.

“Not quite,” Eleanor Corrected. “She doesn’t remember who came first, but she has one memory from the day you two were born. She remebers you held hands the moment you were placed together, and you didn’t let go all the way home.”

The twins’ eyes met, and something clicked between them. It suddenly didn’t matter who was older or who came first. What mattered was that they had always been together—and always would be. They didn’t need to have more authority over the other, because they were one in the same.

Without a word, Ivy slipped her hand into Cora’s, and both girls smiled.

“Thanks, Mom,” they said in unison, then turned to Lila and signed thank you, one of the few phrases they knew well. Lila smiled, her cheeks flushing with pride.

“There. That settles it,” Eleanor said, standing back up. “Now, do me a favour and save Finn from Hazel before she breaks him.”

As if on cue, a loud yelp echoed from the far side of the rooftop, followed by Finn’s teary, “Ow!” and Hazel’s defensive, “Why didn’t you catch it?”

Eleanor sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Too late.”

Notes:

I've been in a real writing slump lately. Just either no desire to write, or a distinct dislike of everything I do manage to put to page. It's not uncommon for me to drift in and out of creativity.
I wanted to get straight back into such an important story moment with part two following directly after part one in the last chapter, but it's not ready yet. The idea is complete but the words aren't matching--if that makes sense.
For now, hopefully some kids sillyness suffices and works as a pallet cleanser to the last rather heavy chapter.

Chapter 16: A Brand New Toy

"Everyone say ‘Chipmunk!’" the photographer called out, his voice bouncing around the warehouse as the group gathered around the sleek grey sports car. Alvin and Brittany, perched on the hood, struck their poses effortlessly. After years in the spotlight, they knew exactly how to position themselves—how to smile, how to angle just right. It was second nature by now. The crowd of pimple-faced programmers and greasy mechanics, however, looked far less composed. They bent awkwardly to get in the frame, some throwing up peace signs, others flashing nervous grins. Photos with celebrities clearly weren’t an everyday occurrence for this crew.

As the group rushed forward to huddle around the photographer, eager to inspect the photos, Alvin took a step back, letting the moment settle. He glanced around the small warehouse, its tin walls far removed from the polished, high-rise studios of Hollywood. Located in a forgotten back alley in Long Beach, the place didn’t scream glitz or glamour. In fact, when Kenny had first pulled up to the address, Alvin had considered leaving before even stepping out of the car. But now that he was inside, he was glad he hadn’t.

The star of the show—the shiny grey sports car they had been posing on—was a beauty. But what set it apart from the other vehicles in the warehouse wasn’t it design, but rather its size. It was the only full-sized vehicle in the entire building. The warehouse walls were lined with rows of miniature, remote-controlled cars. Each one meticulously crafted, their details so precise they could have been mistaken for full-size replicas. Workstations cluttered with electronics and parts were scattered across the space, with half-finished models peeking out from under tools and wires. Alvin had expected a standard manufacturer’s workshop when he’d first been invited to check out their flagship model, but this... this was something else.

The models varied from rugged off-roaders that looked like they were ready for a kid’s weekend at the RC racetrack to pristine, miniature replicas of real-world cars. Their craftsmanship was incredible—down to the tiniest details, from the mirrors to the upholstery. That level of precision was what set this company apart, and why Alvin had agreed to come here in the first place.

Sliding off the hood of the full-size sports car, Alvin gravitated toward the model that was the reason for today’s visit. His fingers brushed over the sleek, silver exterior of a miniature Porsche, its surface gleaming under the overhead lights. It was an exact replica of the sportscar he had just slid off—so perfect that, even up close, he could hardly tell it wasn’t the real thing… besides the size, of course.

“So, what do you think?” a voice called out. The lead mechanic strolled over, flanked by his crew, all of them grinning with pride. Alvin glanced between the model Porsche and the full-sized version behind him. Truly, the two were indistinguishable.

“I love it,” Alvin admitted, still marvelling at the level of craftsmanship. He looped his fingers under the tiny door handle, lifting it with a satisfying click. The door opened just like a real car, even down to the weight and sound.

“It’s the most accurate model we’ve ever made,” the mechanic said, stepping closer. “Every detail, inside and out, is as close to the original as possible. The weight distribution? Almost identical to the full-scale car. The engine is electric, but it still has the grunt of a six cylinder.”

Alvin nodded, impressed, as he moved around to the driver’s side of the tiny sports car. He tugged the door open and slid into the leather seat. The interior was just as immaculate as the exterior. The smell of new leather filled the air as he gripped the steering wheel, giving it a few experimental tugs. The wheels responded with smooth precision, just like they should.

Brittany, with her usual expression of detached curiosity, opened the passenger door and climbed in. She didn’t say a word, but her scowl when her eye’s caught Alvin’s was hard to miss. Alvin rolled his eyes. They had been fighting all morning, though he couldn’t even remember why at this point.

As he fiddled with the controls, the photographer kept snapping photos, capturing every angle of the scene. Alvin felt the weight of the moment, not just for the photoshoot but for the intricacy of what had been created here.

“It’s the first time we’ve designed a car to be controlled internally, not remotely,” the mechanic continued. “So, you might find a few quirks when you actually drive it, but we can tweak those as needed.”

Alvin grinned, the idea of actually driving a car still feeling surreal. “This is incredible,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “But why go to the trouble? I mean, there can’t be a huge demand for chipmunk-sized cars.”

“Marketing,” the mechanic replied confidently. “It’s hard to showcase how precise our models are online. People don’t believe the pictures—they think they’re too perfect, too detailed to be real. So, we built this, a fully functional, chipmunk-scale car, to prove what we can do. If people can see you driving this, see the level of craftsmanship we put into something this small and this intricate, they’ll know we’re serious about our remote-controlled products.”

Alvin nodded, the reasoning making sense now. The company wasn’t just selling remote-controlled cars—they were selling art, and this car, this impossibly detailed miniature, was the perfect way to show the world what they could do. And who better to show it off than the biggest celebrity in music right now.

With his return album still charting globally, Alvin was under constant scrutiny. Every move he made was captured, analyzed, and broadcast. That kind of spotlight often came with a flood of endorsement deals—most of them ridiculous or irrelevant. Kenny, his manager, usually did a good job of filtering out the junk, but when this offer came in, Alvin couldn’t resist. A car designed just for him? That meant freedom. He was so used to relying on Kenny or someone from the label to drive him everywhere, but having his own car—a car his size—would change everything. Plus, let’s face it, owning a sports car, even a miniature one, was just cool.

He turned the key in the ignition, and the car roared to life with an unexpected amount of power. The rumble sent a thrill through him, and Alvin couldn’t hide his surprise.

"Obviously, being an electric motor, it wasn’t going to sound like the original, so we added in an array of speakers under the bodywork that mimic engine sounds to make it feel more authentic," the lead mechanic explained, noticing his reaction.

“Is it road legal?” Kenny asked from the sidelines, his voice laced with doubt.

One of the younger mechanics chuckled and muttered, “Not exactly,” before getting a stern look from the lead mechanic.

“Technically, it doesn’t need to be registered since it’s not classified as a car,” the lead mechanic clarified, trying to ease the tension.

“That’s... not reassuring,” Kenny grumbled.

“It’s fine,” Alvin waved him off, too enamoured with the feeling of revving the engine. It was surprisingly addictive. He glanced at Brittany, whose presence had felt more like a distraction than anything. She hadn’t been enthusiastic since they arrived.

“Have you ever driven a car before, Alvin?” Kenny asked, genuinely concerned.

Before Alvin could answer, Brittany cut in with a biting, “Nope.” She didn’t even bother hiding her annoyance.

Alvin shot her a glare. “Why are you even here?” he hissed, irritated.

Brittany just shrugged, her tone dripping with venom. “I want to go shopping after this. So, hurry up.”

Tension filled the space between them, but Alvin ignored it. He was too thrilled with the car to let Brittany’s sour mood ruin things. One of the programmers crouched beside the window, eager to show off more features.

“The centre console was the hardest to get right at this scale,” he said, motioning for Alvin to check it out. Alvin twisted the radio dial, and the small screen lit up with a basic but functional display. It had maps, Bluetooth, and even a few power steering options. The resolution wasn’t the best, but considering the car’s size, it was impressive.

“What about an emergency button for when Alvin inevitably drives this thing into a wall?” Brittany remarked dryly, folding her arms. Alvin retaliated with a slap to her shoulder, which she returned with even more force.

"It has crash sensors built in, just in case," the lead mechanic added quickly, trying to diffuse the tension as the two chipmunks squabbled like siblings. "Why don’t you take it for a spin?"

Alvin’s eyes lit up. Brittany’s immediately darkened. As she reached for the door handle to escape, Alvin swiftly hit the lock button, trapping her inside. The look she shot him could have melted steel, but he just grinned mischievously and revved the engine again.

"Do it and die," she growled through clenched teeth.

Unfazed, Alvin yanked the handbrake down and hit the accelerator. The tires screeched against the concrete as the car shot forward, Alvin gripping the wheel tightly. The force of the acceleration surprised him, but he was quick to adjust, manoeuvring around the cluttered warehouse with ease. Brittany’s screams filled the air as Alvin whipped the car around workbenches, narrowly avoiding collisions. The thrill was palpable, the wind rushing through the open windows as the little car zipped along, defying its size.

With a final screech of the tires, Alvin slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a smooth stop at the feet of the gathered crew. They clapped and cheered, impressed by both the car and Alvin’s surprisingly adept driving.

Alvin’s heart was pounding, adrenaline still coursing through his veins as he caught his breath. He turned to Brittany, expecting her to be impressed, maybe even smiling. But the moment he saw her face, his grin vanished. She looked ready to murder him.

“I hope you like the car,” she whispered, her voice low and dangerous. “Because it’s about to become your coffin.”

Her claws extended, and Alvin didn’t waste any time. He quickly unlocked the door and scrambled out, narrowly dodging her swipe. Slamming the door shut behind him, he stuck his tongue out at her through the window. Brittany shouted something unrepeatable, her anger barely contained as she leaned over the glovebox.

“I have to have this,” Alvin declared, turning to Kenny with an excited grin. He hadn’t felt this hyped in a long time. “How much is it gonna cost me?”

The lead mechanic waved his hands frantically. “Oh, no charge! The publicity alone is worth it for us. Consider this one a gift.”

Alvin was about to respond when Brittany stormed out of the car, walked up to him, and punched him squarely in the shoulder. She had a mean left hook for someone her size, and Alvin winced, rubbing his arm. This hit was enough to satisfy her, for now, and she crossed her arms and shot her gaze up to the roof. It took a few seconds of silence for Alvin to recover from the hit, not wanting to show how much it hurt.

“Okay,” he groaned, trying to shake off the pain. “But let’s say I wanted another one made. Like, a Lambo or something, Could it be done?”

The mechanic rubbed his chin thoughtfully, the dollars signs almost visible in his eyes. “We could definitely work something out.”

Alvin’s mind raced with possibilities. His brand-new mansion had a huge garage, and it was sitting empty. He could fill it with custom cars. A fleet of them, even. Then, another idea hit him.

“What about bikes?” he asked, his voice trailing off as the thought took hold.

The crew exchanged glances before one of them finally spoke up. “It’s possible. We’d need to figure out the balance, but the electric engine design could work for a motorbike.”

Brittany threw her hands in the air, exasperated. “You actually want to die, don’t you?” She shook her head and began walking toward the exit. “I’m waiting in the car. The real car. I’ve had enough of this car crash in the making.”

Alvin watched her go, his eyes lingering as she strode away, hips swaying with every step. He couldn’t help but smile. He turned back to the car, his hands once again running across the smooth metal surface. A car this cool needed a name, something that captured its essence.

As he pondered, a thought struck him, something that felt vital.

“Does it come in red?” he asked, grinning as the crew laughed in response.

Notes:

I like to ground as much of the fantastical elements of the story as I possibly can, without being to expository. I think it goes a long way to make the drama feel more real.

One of my major gripes with a lot of Chipmunk fan fiction is we have at least 3 different generations of chipmunks, all different sizes, and people tend to gloss over the nitty gritty of their day to day struggles with size. That's what makes them the MOST interesting, in my eyes. How do they get to work everyday? How do they brush their teeth? Do they need to trim their claws like we do our nails?

Taking the time to think about the little struggles not only helps to build out the world, but it helps to build the characters as well. It shows where their desires lie. There's so much character building behind simple life decisions like that. Alvin has custom cars and instruments, Brittany has a Custom Apartment, Eleanor crafts while Simon makes do with Human scale...

It tells a story in and of itself. So please, writers of our tiny little fandom, don't neglect the nitty gritty details. They are fun :)

Chapter 17: A Week Early

The pad of sand against Simon’s bare feet was the only sound he could hear that wasn't the whisper of wind through palm fronds or the rhythmic sigh of the surf. From the window of the seaplane, the island had been a perfect emerald set in sapphire, but on the ground, it was a living, breathing thing. Thatched huts peeked from behind lush greenery, looking as if they’d grown there. Yet, the glint of glass windows and the low hum of air-conditioners betrayed their natural camouflage. He passed a stark blue swimming pool, its water shimmering and eerily still, devoid of life. 

Everywhere he looked, the world was a postcard: white sand, blue sky, and the endless, glittering Pacific. A dream, he thought, tightening his grip on his duffle bag. 

Just as the pilot had instructed, he followed the path as it began to climb. At the crest of a small hill, a larger structure came into view. It was two huts seamlessly joined, sharing the same rustic design as the others, but it wore its purpose like a crown: a chaotic tangle of antennae and weather instruments sprouted from its roof, a jarring slash of metal and wire against the sky. This had to be the place. 

A quick breath for courage, and he ascended the sun-bleached stairs. The doorway was open, covered only by a sheer curtain that billowed in the sea breeze. He ducked beneath it and stepped inside. 

The first impression was one of jarring contradiction. The air smelled of salt and hibiscus, undercut by the sterile, metallic tang of ozone. The room was built for relaxation: woven rugs on rough-hewn floorboards, bamboo walls adorned with fishing nets, and a winding log staircase leading to a loft bed. A ceiling fan turned with lazy grace beneath the high, thatched roof. 

But this paradise had been invaded by science. Cables snaked across the floor like tripwires. Tables groaned under the weight of blinking machines, computers, and stacks of documents. Screens cast an electric-green glow on the bamboo, their displays scrolling with endless columns of data. A symphony of quiet beeps and low whirs provided the room's unsettling heartbeat. 

His gaze swept past it all, drawn to the far corner where the clutter was most concentrated. Two computers sat side-by-side; one streamed raw data, the other showed a grid of green dots with a single, insistent red one flashing. Beside them stood a rack of beakers filled with seawater and algae, a microscope, and a tiny, steaming cup of coffee. And next to that... a sight that made the air flee his lungs. 

“Still no polyp development…” Jeanettes voice muttered, a familiar blend of focus and frustration. 

She was hunched over the microscope, standing on her tiptoes just to reach the eyepiece. A simple purple shawl was draped over her swimsuit, and her hair was pulled back in its usual bun. Behind her, her tail swished, flicking back and forth with agitation. 

Simon’s duffle bag slipped from his numb fingers, hitting the floor with a soft thud. She didn’t notice, lost in her world. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with the island heat. How long had it been? Nine, no, eleven months. 

“Ash,” she said, her voice tight with concentration, her eyes still fused to the microscope. “I’m worried the specimens from reef twenty-one aren’t as healthy as I’d expected.” 

Simon froze.  Ash?  His gaze flickered to the empty corners of the hut, confirming they were alone. Was she was talking to him? He cleared his throat, the sound ridiculously loud in the quiet room. 

“M-maybe they… aren’t getting enough fiber in their diet?” 

The words tumbled out, clumsy and weak. He cringed internally. Of all the things he could have said after eleven months, he’d gone with a biology pun. For a fraction of a second, a line of confusion creased Jeanette’s brow. Then, her focus shattered. Her head tilted back from the eyepiece as if jolted by a current. Slowly, deliberately, she turned. Her eyes found his across the room, and the hum of the machines seemed to fade into an absolute, ringing silence. 

He instinctively reached for the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing hot. “Sorry, silly joke. Probably not helpful…” 

“Simon!” The name was a choked, incredulous gasp. 

In a flash of movement, she Leapt off the table, nearly upending her coffee, and launched herself across the room. He barely had time to brace himself before she collided with him, the impact forcing him back a step. She wrapped her arms around him with a desperate strength, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Her laughter was a breathless, joyous sound against his skin. 

He trembled as his own arms came up to hold her, pulling her closer. Her scent—salt, sun, and something uniquely  her—was an intoxicating rush, and he breathed it in like a man starved of air. How he had missed the soft feel of her fur against his cheek. 

She pulled back just enough to capture his lips in a deep, lingering kiss that he eagerly returned. It dissolved into a flurry of smaller kisses against his cheeks and jaw before she finally rested her forehead against his, hands gripping his sides as she just took him in. A gleam of joyful tears welled in her eyes, and he knew they mirrored his own. 

“I don’t understand,” she stammered, her voice thick with emotion. “What day is it? It can’t be the fifth already.” 

“I had some extra time off,” he said, trying for a casual tone that his racing heart betrayed. “And a flexible ticket. Figured I’d come early and surprise you… if that’s okay.” 

Her response was another tight hug, lifting him slightly off the floor. “Okay? Simon, it’s amazing!” She nuzzled into his shoulder. “I’ve missed you so much.” 

“We talked three days ago,” he chuckled, his voice soft. 

“On a screen,” she countered, pulling back to look at him again, her hands framing his face. “It’s not the same. It doesn’t even come close.” 

“I can agree with that,” he whispered, savouring the moment. 

Her gaze softened, as if she were trying to memorize every line of his face. “Is this real?” she whispered. 

“I should be asking  you  that,” he replied, gesturing vaguely at their surroundings. “This place is paradise. I was expecting some dingy research facility, a demountable or two. This place looks like a five-star resort.” 

“It is,” a sharp, male voice cut in from the doorway. 

Simon jumped, instinctively pulling away from Jeanette. He turned to see a man leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching them with a coolly amused expression. “Well, most of the year it is. But it’s the off-season, and this mob needed a research outpost with good reception. So here we are.” 

Simon’s eyes swept over the man in the doorway. He was tall enough to have to stoop under the doorframe. Bleach-blonde hair, still damp and streaked with salt, framed a face tanned to the colour of honey. An unbuttoned linen shirt did little to hide a physique so defined it seemed carved from driftwood, and his shorts were a jarring, vibrant pink. 

“Simon, this is Ashley,” Jeanette said, her hand finding his, a small anchor in the suddenly tense atmosphere. 

The man, Ashley, pushed off the doorframe with an easy grace and crossed the room. “Just Ash,” he said, his Australian accent broad and confident as he knelt down and extended a hand. “Pleasure to meet you, mate. Jeanie’s told me a boat-load about you. Good to finally put a face to the name.” 

The nickname—Jeanie—grated on Simon’s ears. He accepted the handshake; Ash’s grip was firm, his palm calloused. “The pleasure’s all mine,” Simon managed, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry to say Jeanette hasn’t mentioned you. Are you one of the other researchers?” 

Ash threw his head back and laughed, a loud, hearty sound that seemed to take up all the space in the hut. “I’m offended Jeanie’s never brought me up, but I’m more offended you think I’m one of them.” He flicked a dismissive hand toward Jeanette. 

“Ash is a reef ranger,” she explained, gently tugging Simon toward her workstation, her focus already returning to her science. “The research team and the rangers work together. He helps us navigate and… provides support.” 

“And makes sure you lot don’t break anything,” Ash added with a lazy grin. Simon chose to ignore him. 

“Speaking of, where is the rest of the team?” Simon asked, allowing Jeanette to lead him to the cluttered table. “I was expecting a full house.” 

“The main research base is on the mainland, and most the team are working from there, deploying the new barrier nets,” she said, her passion for the project overriding everything else. “With my size, I’m not much help in that, so I decided to investigate the strange results we’ve been getting from this section of the reef. Ash recommended this island as an outpost, and here we are. Come on, look!” She gently guided his head towards the microscope’s eyepiece. 

A magnified, alien world of coral sprang into view. Over the hum of the machines, Simon asked the question that had been forming in his mind, keeping his voice as level as he could. “So, it’s just the two of you out here?” 

Either she didn't detect his concern or she chose to dismiss it. “Actually, I’m mostly here alone,” she answered simply. 

“She looks into that little microscope of hers, day in and day out,” Ash’s voice cut in from across the room. “I’m usually out on the water, fixing the  practical  problems.” The subtle emphasis on the word was not lost on Simon, even if Jeanette seemed immune to it. 

Leaning into the microscope, Simon adjusted the focus. The world under the lens was familiar territory, even if he was more accustomed to the staggering magnifications of the atomic force microscopes back in his own lab. 

“See the little yellow circles?” Jeanette’s voice was close to his ear, warm with the excitement of sharing her work. “Like sunflowers.” 

“Polyps,” Simon confirmed, his voice a low murmur. 

“Exactly. They build the reef, secreting calcium carbonate. They’re the engine room. And this section is one of the only places they’re thriving,” she explained. He could feel her passion, a vibrant energy that had always drawn him in. “It’s a complete anomaly.” 

“Fascinating,” he said, genuinely intrigued. 

“It was,” Jeanette’s voice lost its warmth, replaced by a clinical edge. “But recently, some of the specimens are showing early signs of necrosis. Decay.” 

“What could be causing it?” Simon asked, pulling back from the eyepiece to look at her. 

Her brow was furrowed in thought. “Could be anything. A microplastic, a chemical variant…” Her gaze shifted across the room. “Ash, where did you say you collected these samples from, again?” 

Ash, who had been idly flipping through a binder, looked up. “The rock cliff. Just on the edge of Staghorn Ridge.” 

“Do you mean the edge of reef twenty-one?” 

Ash’s hand slapped down on the papers. “You know I hate your bloody grid names, Jeanie,” he spat, his casual demeanour vanishing. “Have some respect for her, yeah?” 

Simon flinched at the sudden venom in his tone. He looked at Jeanette, but she seemed completely unfazed, as if this were a conversation they’d had a hundred times. “Her?” Simon asked her quietly. 

Jeanette just rolled her eyes. “Did you spot anything that might have affected the results?” she asked Ash, ignoring Simon’s question entirely. 

Ash ran a hand through his salt-stiffened hair. “Nah. Didn’t see anything weird.” 

“You’re sure?” she pressed. 

He let out a short, sharp snort of derision. “Don’t believe me, Jeanie? Why don’t we go out and you can check for yourself. I’ve been meaning to duck out and fix that bloody beeping buoy of yours anyway.” 

A protective anger coiled in Simon’s gut. He knew Australians could be blunt, but this felt different. The dismissive nickname, the condescending tone—it set his teeth on edge. He opened his mouth to say something, to defend her, but before he could form the words, Jeanette’s entire demeanour changed. 

Her eyes lit up, and a delighted gasp escaped her lips. She spun to him, grabbing his hand. “Ash, that’s an excellent idea!” she sang, completely deaf to the subtext of the conversation. “We can take Simon out for a dive to see the reef up close!” 

The suggestion landed like a stone in Simon’s stomach. Diving. He had suspected his feet might get wet on this trip, but he hadn’t imagined being thrown into the deep end quite so suddenly. 

“A-are you sure?” he stammered, looking to Jeanette as his only lifeline. “I just stepped off the plane. I think I read somewhere that you have to wait some time after flying before you can dive.” 

“Other way ‘round, mate,” Ash chuckled, a low, dismissive sound. His gaze raked over Simon’s much smaller frame, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. 

Jeanette, oblivious, whipped around to face him, her excitement a blinding force. “Oh, Simon, you’ll love it! This section of the reef is spectacular, just teeming with life. Clownfish, sea turtles… the bubble corals will be out at this time of day. It’s absolutely amazing up close!” 

“I…” Simon’s voice failed him. His mind was a frantic scramble of a million anxieties, chief among them the condescending stare he could feel boring into him from across the room. If Ash weren’t there, he might have found the courage to gently remind Jeanette that he was not the most confident swimmer. But admitting that now, in front of this bronze reef god, felt impossible. He grasped for the first plausible excuse he could find. “I forgot my swimsuit,” he lied, the words feeling flimsy as soon as they left his mouth. “Silly oversight in packing.” 

Ash let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You came to a tropical island research station and forgot your swimmers?” 

“Silly goose,” Jeanette giggled, tapping Simon’s cheek with her palm. The playful gesture made it impossible to argue further. “It’s fine, you can wear my spare wetsuit. I’m quite used to the water temperature now anyway. Oh, this is going to be wonderful!” 

Before Simon could protest, she was a blur of motion, darting up the log staircase to the loft, presumably to find the wetsuit that would seal his fate. 

The sudden silence was heavy. Simon turned to look at Ash, who now leaned indolently against a table, a triumphant smirk plastered across his chiselled jaw. 

“I’ll prep the boat, then,” he said, his voice a cheerful sing-song. 

Simon let out a slow breath. “Wonderful.” 

 

* 

 

The boat was a small, brutal thing, and it moved with a speed Simon felt was entirely unnecessary. Ash steered them headlong into the waves, and each collision was a jarring slap that shot up Simon’s spine. The sun beat down, hot and heavy, and while the canopy offered some shade, it did nothing to quell the violent churning in his stomach. The in-flight peanuts he’d eaten hours ago were threatening a dramatic reappearance. 

He risked a glance across the deck. Jeanette was bent over a plastic chest of equipment, her movements fluid and economical. With every lurch and chop of the boat, she swayed in perfect counterbalance, a gyroscope of sea-legged grace. The detailed diving instructions she’d given him back at the hut were now a useless blur in his memory; he was a bundle of anxiety squeezed into a black wetsuit, strapped to equipment he barely understood. 

He tried focusing on the hard plastic of the respirator against his chest, but looking down only made the nausea worse. A low groan escaped his lips as he tipped his head back, staring at the endless blue sky. 

“What’s the matter, mate?” Ash’s voice cut through the engine’s roar, laced with a familiar, confident swagger. “Feelin’ a bit green around the gills?” 

Simon swallowed, fighting the bile rising in his throat. “A little,” he admitted, the understatement of the year. “My university isn't exactly known for its naval program.” 

Ash hummed, a noncommittal sound that was thick with judgment. “So, Jeanie tells me you’re a scientist. Like her.” His grip on the steering wheel was casual, one hand resting on his hip as the wind whipped his shirt back. 

“Somewhat,” Simon said, clearing his throat. “We’re in very different fields.” 

“Oh yeah? What sort of stuff you into?” 

“Physical chemistry,” Simon replied, the words punctuated by a sour burp. His answers were short, clipped—all he could manage without losing his composure entirely. 

A beat of silence. “What is that, like… touching chemistry?” 

Simon rolled his eyes. “It’s the chemistry  of  physics,” he clarified, frustration sharpening his voice. Why did everyone make that assumption? “The  why  and  how  of matter and energy. The fundamental rules.” 

“Right,” Ash said, sounding utterly unconvinced as he throttled the engine down, turning the boat in a wide arc. “And how does that actually help anything? Like, do you  do  something with it, or is it all just talk?” 

The question was a clear provocation. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” Simon said carefully. 

“Do you get your hands dirty?” Ash pressed, his gaze flat and challenging. “Is any of it… hands on?” 

“As a rule, no,” Simon attempted a weak joke. “Most chemistry is deadly to touch, and if you get ‘hands on’ with physics, you’ve probably broken a law of the universe.” The joke landed with a thud. Ash just sighed, a sound of profound disappointment. “My work is about understanding the building blocks of reality, not… manipulating them. That would be-” 

“So, it’s all talk,” Ash concluded, shrugging as he cut the engine. 

A surge of indignation burned through the nausea. Simon pushed himself up, intending to argue, to defend the very concept of theoretical science, but his legs were jelly on the rocking deck. The world tilted violently, and he collapsed back onto the seat with a renewed wave of sickness, utterly defeated by the simple motion of the ocean. 

The roar of the outboard motor died, replaced by a low thrum as the boat settled into a gentle rock. The violent slapping of the waves against the hull softened to a rhythmic, liquid sigh. 

“Ignore him.” Jeanette’s voice was suddenly right beside him. She moved with an effortless stability that defied the boat’s motion, her hands immediately finding the buckles and straps of his gear. “Ash has some… staunch opinions about theoretical science.” 

“I just don’t see the point,” Ash called out, his voice no longer needing to shout. He propped one foot on the gunwale, gesturing with a frustrated hand at the empty horizon. “You science-y types spend years talking, writing papers, arguing about problems. You never get around to actually  fixing  them. Why bother if it doesn't make anything better?” 

It was a flash of genuine, unvarnished frustration. Simon’s gaze shot to Jeanette, a dozen rebuttals about the scientific process and the necessity of foundational knowledge dying on his lips. He was searching for a cue, a sign. Her subtle eye-roll and the slight, dismissive shake of her head were all the answer he needed:  Let it go. 

“He doesn’t mean anything by it,” Jeanette said calmly, her focus entirely on a valve on his air tank. She had already donned her own smaller canister and respirator, her goggles perched neatly above her glasses. “He just doesn’t quite grasp the importance of a proper research framework.” 

“What you do is different, Jeanie,” Ash grumbled, his annoyance softening as he peered into the crystal-clear water below. “You’re actually out here, doing something with all those little notes you take.” 

The compliment to Jeanette was a thinly veiled insult to Simon. His jaw tightened, and he glared at the ranger’s back. He was beginning to genuinely dislike this man. He shifted his gaze back to Jeanette, lowering his voice so only she could hear. 

“Do you… do you often talk about my research with him?” 

Her hands didn’t stop their meticulous checks. “Sometimes. I enjoy the debates. I think we both agree the scientific community could stand to be more proactive, but he… lacks the nuance to understand why good research takes time.” 

Despite himself, Simon felt a fresh pang in his chest. It wasn’t nausea this time, or even jealousy. It was a cold, hollowing sense of self-consciousness. He knew his work was important. He was sure of it. But out here, on this boat, with the tangible, living reef just metres below and the weight of Ash’s judgment in the air, his entire field of study suddenly felt abstract and flimsy. And standing next to Jeanette, who’s work out in the field consistently churned out tangible results, he felt… inadequate. 

“Do you remember my instructions?” Jeanette asked, her voice pulling him from his thoughts. She gave his respirator a final, reassuring tap and looked up, a warm smile spreading across her face. That smile was a disarming force; it vaporised his self-consciousness in an instant, a familiar comfort that always settled his heart. It did nothing, however, for the cold dread coiling in his stomach. He shifted, the unfamiliar weight of the dive gear a constant, heavy reminder of what was coming. 

“J-Jeanette, I’m not sure about this,” he finally stammered, the confession tumbling out. “I’m not a very strong swimmer. I’ve never dived before.” 

“Plus, sea turtles have a taste for slow-moving prey,” Ash’s voice drawled from the helm. A cruel grin split his face. “A floundering office flower like yourself would make for an easy meal.” 

Simon suspected it was a wind-up, a typically Australian attempt at humour through antagonism, but the image it conjured made his heart hammer against his ribs all the same. His eyes widened, and for a terrifying second, he considered shrugging the entire apparatus off his shoulders and refusing. But then Jeanette was there. 

Her smile never wavered. She gently cupped his cheek, her palm warm against his skin, turning his face towards hers. “You will be fine, Simon,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Stay calm. Breathe slowly. And just… look. The reef is the most beautiful thing in the world if you just give it a chance.” 

He hesitated, trapped between his fear and his trust in her. Slowly, he managed a jerky nod. Her grin returned, and she pulled her goggles down over her glasses. 

“I’m going in. Jump when you’re ready. Just stay close to the boat and watch the current.” A buzz of pure, scientific excitement radiated from her. She moved to the edge of the boat, hoisted herself onto the side with practiced ease, and put the respirator in her mouth. She gave him a final, confident thumbs-up before tumbling backwards into the blue. A quiet splash, and she was gone. 

Simon stared at the empty space, the silence suddenly immense. 

“Tell you what, mate,” Ash whistled softly, moving to the edge of the boat himself. “I don’t know how a bloke like you landed a winner like her. Smart, adventurous, confident…” He let the words hang in the air, and their silence stung more than the insult itself. 

Simon shuffled awkwardly, the weight on his shoulders suddenly heavier. Ash was right. He remembered Jeanette as the shy, brilliant, and sometimes clumsy girl from high school. But the woman he’d followed out here was a different creature entirely. In her element, she was fearless. She had grown, and the thought that he hadn’t grown with her was a cold knot in his stomach. 

“You’re not diving with us?” Simon asked, trying to shrug off the sudden wave of inferiority. 

Ash pulled his white shirt off his back in one fluid motion, revealing a body that looked as if it were carved from the sun and sea itself. It was the physique of a man who lived his life outdoors, a stark, painful contrast to Simon’s own academic frame. 

“‘Course I am,” Ash chuckled, his tone mocking. “Someone’s got to fix Jeanie’s stupid buoy.” 

Before Simon could ask where his diving equipment was, Ash executed a perfect, clean dive from the side of the boat. He sliced into the glistening water without a moment’s hesitation, disappearing into the depths. The splash rocked the small vessel, sending another lurch of nausea through Simon’s already reeling system. 

With a vigorous shake of his head, Simon tried to clear the fog of self-doubt. He was being a stick in the mud, wallowing while Jeanette was exploring. He forced himself to the edge of the boat and peered down, swallowing against a fresh wave of nerves. The surface of the water was an opaque, shimmering shield, hiding the world below. Jeanette had gone in as if it were a warm bath. So had Ash. He could do this. 

He climbed onto the rim, the boat rocking under his weight. He pulled the goggles down, the silicone seal pressing against his face. He wasn't some timid academic. He could be adventurous. He could prove he was more than just an office flower. 

He took a deep breath, positioned himself to fall backwards as Jeanette had done… and his left foot slipped on a wet patch of the deck. With a startled yelp, he tumbled sideways, hitting the water in an ungraceful, flailing heap. 

The shock of the cold was a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs. For a frozen moment, his world was a deafening roar of rushing water and a blinding chaos of bubbles. Panic flared in his chest as he fumbled for the respirator, finally managing to jam it into his mouth and draw a desperate, plastic-tasting breath. 

As the bubbles cleared, the reef revealed itself. And it was terrifying. 

Sunlight speared down from the surface in shifting columns, illuminating a world of vibrant hostility. Schools of silver fish darted past, their scales glittering like a thousand tiny knives. Below him, the coral stretched out in every direction—a jagged, alien city of sharp edges and threatening spines, all painted in colours too bright, too intense. 

The weights on his belt began their work, pulling him down in a slow, involuntary descent. Every ragged, amplified breath he took echoed in his ears, a frantic soundtrack to his growing panic. He was sinking, and he couldn't stop it. Jeanette’s instructions, a meaningless blur just moments ago, now screamed for attention in his mind.  Breathe out slowly… equalise the ears…  Was there something else? God, what was he forgetting? 

The reef grew closer, its intricate gaps and canyons teeming with creatures that moved like rats in the gutters of a city. He imagined sinking right into the middle of it, a helpless fly caught in a stony, spiny web. How did you go up? How did you stop? Why couldn't he remember? 

His breathing lost all rhythm. A raw, primal fear took over, and he began to claw at the water above him, a useless, desperate gesture. His panicked flailing broke the seal on his goggles, and a trickle of cold, salty water stung his eye, blurring his vision. This was it. Who was he fooling? He didn’t belong here. He was no adventurer; he was a scientist who belonged in a quiet, climate-controlled lab. 

Just as the fear almost took complete hold of him, a firm, gentle hand landed on his shoulder. 

His mind supplied the images instantly. A box jellyfish with its fatal sting. One of the turtles Ash had joked about, coming to take a curious, painful bite. 

No. 

It was not a monster. It was Jeanette. 

She materialised out of the blue, her form framed by the shifting columns of light, and positioned herself directly in front of him. He could only stare, his chest heaving with ragged, panicked breaths as if he’d just run a marathon. 

Concern was etched on her face. She placed a hand gently on his chest, feeling the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart. The look in her eyes felt like an accusation, and a flash of indignant anger shot through him. How could he possibly breathe slowly when the entire ocean was trying to crush him? 

Then, she did something so utterly unthinkable that his mind went blank. She reached out, and with a calm, deliberate motion, pulled the respirator from his mouth. 

A plume of his last precious air erupted and shot towards the surface. His eyes went wide with terror.  What was she doing? was she trying to kill him? 

Before he could react, she had pulled her own respirator away and was pressing her mouth to his. His body went rigid. A part of it was the lingering shyness that always surfaced when they kissed, but most of it was pure, unadulterated shock.  Now? A kiss? This is no time for a kiss! 

He tried to pull away, but her grip was firm. He felt the gentle pressure of her lips, and then, a slow, measured stream of her warm breath entering his lungs. She held it there a moment before drawing it carefully back out. She repeated the process. And in that instant, Simon understood. 

She wasn't kissing him. She was breathing for him. 

She pulled away just long enough to take a fresh breath from her own tank before pressing her lips to his again. This time, he didn't fight it. He focused on the rhythm she was creating—a slow, personal, instructional cadence. In the silent depths, they were breathing as one, a shared and vital intimacy that was more profound than any kiss they’d shared on the surface. 

The frantic drumming in his chest began to slow. As his lungs found their rhythm, the rest of his body followed. The desperate, sinking feeling stopped, his buoyancy stabilising. His hands, no longer clawing at the water, came to rest on her sides, the slick nylon of her swimsuit a strange and solid anchor in this liquid world. 

When she was satisfied, she pulled away and gently pushed his respirator back into his mouth. He took a slow, steady breath on his own. Simon could only float and stare at her as she replaced her own respirator, a gentle smile in her eyes. The light from above caught in her fur, her tail swished with a lazy, confident grace. She was… elemental. A part of this world in a way he could never be. 

She gestured to the reef around them. And when he turned to look, his breath caught for an entirely different reason. 

The world had transformed. The threatening knives were now a shimmering, iridescent cloud of fish, flowing like traffic through a bustling metropolis. The jagged, hostile coral now glowed with an impossible vibrancy, its seaweed swaying like ancient trees in a gentle breeze. 

Jeanette took his hand, her grip warm and sure, and began to lead him down towards a large, bulbous formation of blue coral. The closer they got, the more life he saw. Tiny crabs scuttled for cover. A moray eel poked its head from a rocky crevice before retreating. The world wasn't threatening; it was furiously, incandescently alive. 

She turned to him, and he could see the smile crinkling the corners of her eyes around her mask. She belonged here. She moved with a mystifying confidence that left him breathless. 

He was so madly in love with her in that moment it ached. She was powerful, brilliant, and beautiful. 

And as he floated there, holding her hand in the heart of her world, he couldn't shake the painful, crushing realization that came with it. 

He was nowhere near her level. 

 

* 

 

For a blissful half-hour, the world was a silent, slow-moving dance. Buoyed by Jeanette’s calm presence, Simon’s fear gave way to a cautious wonder, and then, to genuine enjoyment. He was a visitor in an alien world, and it was breathtaking. But the ocean was relentless. A deep, unshakable chill began to seep into his bones, and the constant, gentle pressure of the water started to feel like a crushing exhaustion. He was the first to retire to the boat. 

The silence, once he was out of the water, was deafening. Alone with the gentle rocking and the vast emptiness of the sea and sky, the thoughts he’d held at bay came rushing back in. He saw Jeanette, not as his girlfriend, but as a creature of this world—powerful, graceful, and utterly self-sufficient. He saw himself, a shivering, clumsy academic who had panicked and needed saving. The painful realization from before solidified into a cold, hard fact in his chest. 

Ash was the next to return, hauling himself over the side in one fluid motion, his mission to fix the buoy complete. He and Simon sat at opposite ends of the small boat, wrapped in a thick, awkward silence, two different species with no common language. 

The tension only broke when Jeanette surfaced, dragging something large, blue, and ugly behind her. It was a tattered, heavy plastic tarp, snagged on the coral and smothering it. The cause of the decay. 

“Fucking trawlers,” Ash muttered, his voice a low growl as he helped haul the ragged plastic aboard. It landed on the deck with a wet slap. “They treat the ocean like their personal bin, and all their shit ends up here, killing her slowly.” For the first time, Simon heard a raw, genuine pain in the ranger’s voice. This wasn’t just a place to him; it was a person, a living thing he was sworn to protect. Jeanette, too, was perturbed, though her frustration was already channelled into a more optimistic discussion of how their new netting strategy could prevent this in the future. 

Simon wanted to contribute, to offer some piece of wisdom that would bridge the gap between Ash’s grief and Jeanette’s pragmatism, but the moment the boat’s engine roared back to life, all higher thought fled. The renewed, aggressive motion of the boat was a final assault on his exhausted body. The chill, the fatigue, and the relentless rocking conspired against him, and he could no longer hold back the inevitable. The entire journey back was spent hunched over a bucket, unloading the meagre contents of his stomach. 

Ash found the whole spectacle hilarious, his laughter ringing out over the sound of the engine. Simon’s chagrin was a hot flush of shame on his face. Jeanette, predictably, was the soul of kindness, rubbing his back and offering him a water bottle between heaves. And in a way, he wished she would laugh too. Her sympathy, her gentle and genuine care, was like a spotlight on his weakness, making the tangled knot of his own inadequacy sting even more. 

It was almost sunset when the boat finally nudged against the island’s small dock. Simon practically fell onto the sand, his entire body celebrating the blissful stillness of solid ground. The relief lasted only a moment before his stomach lurched again in a violent, treacherous reminder that his ordeal was not yet over. He mumbled a desperate question about a bathroom, needing to escape before he had to endure another round of Ash’s derisive laughter and Jeanette’s soul-crushing pity. 

Even in the small, thatched-roof bathroom hut, the world refused to stay still. Every time he closed his eyes, the floor seemed to sway and tilt, a phantom echo of the boat’s relentless motion. It took another twenty minutes of dry, agonising heaves before the last of the turbulence subsided and he felt steady enough to stand. 

He hoisted himself onto the edge of the simple wooden sink, splashing his face with cool tap water. He stared at his reflection in the salt-speckled mirror, and the face looking back offered no comfort. It confirmed every insult, every doubt. It was the face of a nerdy, indoor scientist who had spent his life in labs and libraries. A chipmunk who had no business being here, on the edge of this wild, adventurous world that Jeanette mastered. 

He sighed, the sound fogging the glass. They had been so alike once, two shy, brilliant minds finding solace in each other. But the woman he’d seen today… she was a force of nature. Confident, capable, calm, and courageous. And he was… he was… 

“Nothing,” he muttered to the reflection, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. He slid off the sink and turned away. 

He trudged back along the same sandy path he’d walked that morning, but the sense of wonder he’d felt upon arrival had curdled into a heavy, bitter resignation. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie, the fabric still damp from his fur. 

At the base of the hill, he paused, watching the sun bleed orange and purple across the horizon, a perfect, painterly sky over a perfect, placid sea. The beauty of it felt like a mockery. With another weary sigh, he ascended the familiar wooden steps to Jeanette’s research cabin. 

He was about to duck under the curtain when he froze. From inside, he heard the sharp, clear sound of Ash’s laughter. He wasn’t sure why—maybe to spare himself another confrontation, maybe something else entirely—but a raw instinct took over. In one quick, silent motion, he pressed himself against the woven bamboo wall, just to the side of the open doorway, hidden from view. 

“I’ll admit, he’s an… interesting little fellow,” Ash’s voice carried clearly through the open doorway. “Got a good head on his shoulders, seems like.” 

“He does,” Jeanette’s reply was clipped, a shortness in her tone that piqued Simon’s curiosity. He risked leaning forward, peering around the edge of the woven wall. Ash was leaning against the far side of the hut, a fluffy towel draped over his shoulders. Jeanette was back at her workstation, her gaze set steadfastly on the lines of data on her screen. 

“Bit of a wet blanket, though, eh?” 

The words were a dull, painful thud in Simon’s chest, mostly because they felt true. He waited, his breath held, for Jeanette’s defence. Instead, all he heard was a quiet, noncommittal hum. The sound, small as it was, stung more than any of Ash’s insults. It was a hum of agreement. It had to be. 

“Look, you do you, Jeanie,” Ash continued, “but I reckon you can do better than some hoity-toity, all-theory-no-substance science boy. I don’t see what you see in him. Probably about as lively in the sheets as he was on that boat I bet.” His last words were a cautious mumble—knowing his words were likely too forward.  

Simon grimaced, the insult landing like a punch. But before he could even process the hurt, the sound of Jeanettes sudden movement stalled him. She spun around to face Ash. 

“You know what, Ash? You have been a bully to him all day.” 

Her voice was low and hard, her face set in an expression of cold fury that made Simon’s own eyes widen in surprise. He’d seen that look only a handful of times in his life. It was as rare as guilt on Alvin’s face, or surrender on Brittany’s. It was genuine, unfiltered anger. 

“I was hoping you two might get along,” she said, her voice dangerously steady. “You are both so similar in many ways; like two sides of the same coin. I was hoping my friend and my boyfriend would be able to bond. But you have done everything in your power to make him feel small and unwelcome. It was immature, and frankly, I think you owe him an apology.” 

Ash threw his hands up in a gesture of mock surrender, a disarming grin spreading across his face. “Come on now, Jeanie. I was just asking the bloke some questions. Not my fault he’s a total buzzkill.” 

“Simon is  not  a buzzkill,” she snapped, taking a half-step towards Ash. She seemed to fluster for a moment, the unfamiliar heat of her own anger making her stumble. She took a breath, composing herself. “Simon may not match your adventurous side, but he has a million qualities that make him far more interesting than you give him credit for.” 

“Yeah, not seeing it,” Ash said with an indifferent wave. 

“So, he can’t ride on a boat without getting sick,” she began, and every word was a fresh spike of shame in Simon’s heart. “And he might not be the strongest swimmer.” He held his breath, waiting for the ‘but’. “But  he is the strongest, smartest, most caring, and most confident person I have ever met.” 

Ash let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh, incredulous. “Confident?” 

“Yes, confident!” Jeanette’s voice shot back, sharp and immediate. “It takes a mountain of confidence to do what he’s done, to carry the weight he has without a single word of complaint. He had the confidence to hold his family together when it was falling apart, while still graduating Magna Cum Laude from one of the most prestigious universities in the world. He had the confidence to uproot his life and move to New York so we could be together in our careers, and the confidence to let me fly halfway across the world for two years without ever making me feel guilty. And he showed an immeasurable amount of confidence coming all this way, stepping so far out of his comfort zone, just to support the work we are doing. Do you have any idea how hard that is?” 

She paused, her chest rising and falling with the force of her words. Ash stood, completely silent, a stunned expression on his face. 

“I bet you wouldn’t last a single day in his shoes,” she continued, her voice losing none of its intensity. “And if you tried, you might start to see what I see. He is a brilliant scientist, a gifted professor, a caring brother, a wonderful partner, and—for the record—a spectacular lover!” 

The final two words seemed to hang in the air, electric and loud. A beat of pure silence fell over the hut. Jeanette’s furious resolve suddenly shattered, and a bright crimson blush flooded her cheeks. A tiny, indignant squeak escaped her lips. 

Outside, hidden in the shadows, Simon held his breath. A matching blush burned on his own face from her last declaration, but his mind was reeling from everything that had come before it. The long, lonely nights studying after comforting his siblings. The terror and excitement of packing his life into boxes for a new city. The quiet ache of missing her for months on end. He had never seen these things as acts of strength, but as simple necessities of love. 

Did she really see him like that? 

Ash finally cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud. He shifted on his feet, looking anywhere but at Jeanette. “Wow… shit,” he mumbled. “Okay. I think I struck a nerve.” His usual bravado was gone, replaced by a tone of genuine, awkward guilt. “Maybe I, uh… was being a bit of a jerk.” 

“You were,” Jeanette said, folding her arms and turning away, an act that Simon knew was as much to hide her blush as it was to present a wall of indignation. “I was so excited for you two to meet. I actually thought you’d have a lot in common… if you could ever get over yourself.” 

A grin spread across Simon’s face, a genuine, giddy smile that felt like the sun coming out after a long storm. It washed away the cold self-loathing, replacing it with a warmth that started in his chest and radiated outwards. Jeanette’s words were a gift. She had taken the shattered pieces of his confidence and pieced them back together, showing him a picture of himself he’d never had the courage to see. He did wish she’d omitted that last, rather personal detail… but the ego boost was, admittedly, not unwelcome. 

With a renewed sense of purpose, he cleared his throat and stepped confidently from the shadows into the hut’s warm light, making just enough noise on the wooden floorboards to announce his presence. The pair in the room froze, their heads snapping towards him. A flash of shared guilt crossed both their faces. 

“Sorry about that,” Simon said, offering a small, apologetic smile. “My stomach and boats seem to have a fundamental disagreement. I’m not sure they’ll resolve it anytime soon, I’m afraid.” 

“Are you feeling better?” Jeanette asked, her face instantly lighting up with relief and concern. “I have some antacids somewhere if you’d like.” 

Simon waved her off casually, his gaze shifting to Ash. “No need. The tank is empty now,” he said. “Though I could certainly go for a drink to wash out the taste.” He let the offer hang in the air.

It was a clear olive branch. Ash studied him for a moment, the gears turning behind his eyes. A slow grin spread across his face. “You know,” he said, “I’ve got a couple of cold beers stashed… if you drink, that is.” 

“I’m surprised Jeanette hasn’t told you about the many nights we spent closing down the Queen’s Head pub back on campus,” Simon said smoothly. “The staff knew us by name.” 

Ash’s eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise, and in his periphery, Simon saw Jeanette watching them, a look of quiet fascination on her face. She recognised the truce for what it was. 

“Well, alright then,” Ash declared, pushing off the wall. “Let’s crack a few. I’ll get a bonfire going on the beach, and you can tell me all the embarrassing stories about Jeanie from her college days.” He shot a wink at Simon before disappearing out the door. 

“Sounds like a plan,” Simon replied to the empty doorway. 

As soon as Ash was gone, Jeanette slid off the table and closed the distance between them, her hand slipping delicately into his. Her smile was contagious. 

“Please don’t tell him anything  too  embarrassing,” she said, her voice a playful whisper as she wrapped her other arm around his waist. “He can be a bit of a teaser.” 

Simon didn’t answer, at least, not with words. He turned to face her fully, his hands finding her waist. He pulled her close and laid a confident, lingering kiss on her lips—a kiss that was less about passion and more a profound, silent thank you. He pulled back just enough to see her stunned, blushing face. 

“I love you,” he whispered. 

She practically melted in his arms, a flustered, happy giggle escaping her as her eyes darted around the room as if looking for somewhere to hide from the intensity of the moment. Simon couldn’t help but smile. The coolest, most capable, most amazing chipmunk in the world was his girlfriend, and she thought  he  was the amazing one. He couldn’t be any luckier. 

As if a switch had been flipped, Jeanette’s love-drunk haze evaporated, replaced by a sudden, wide-eyed panic. 

“Oh, god,” she stammered, her hands gripping his shirt. “I… may have said something to Ash about us that was… a little inappropriate. So, if he asks you anything about o-our love life… just, please, for the love of all that is holy, ignore him.” 

Notes:

I think I rewrote this one about five times before I settled on this narrative. Mostly I wanted to show Jeanette on the job. She has such an interesting career in this series and it felt a shame we only heard about it through casual conversation. But, trying to add an interesting arc to a small side story like this... I'm not entirely sure it worked.

The astute of you may have noticed the Polaroid here at the start of the chapter. All but a few chapters now have a polaroid to accompany and enhance the narrative, with the absent ones being added soon enough. I know not everyone is cool with a.i. art, and I don't claim to be an artist by any means. its just a fun little addition to hopefully help you immerse yourself in the story.

The TRULY astute of you may have noticed the story now has a finalized chapter count. I think its time to wrap this little story up. still a long way to go, but we are heading towards the endgame now, so each chapter will have a lot more connective tissue to the last--so keep your timeline detective skills sharp ;)

Thanks as always for reading, I always LOVE your thoughts and comments, positive and negative. not many of us here in this little fandom, so I know any comments i get come from someone who is truly passionate about the series.