Breakfast — The Aftermath of the Shower Incident

The kitchen was warm with the smell of toast and coffee, sunlight slanting through the blinds like polite spectators. Barry sat at the table, hair damp, robe tied a little too tightly, trying to pretend the morning had not already been a disaster.

The Companion Unit stood beside the fridge, hands clasped behind its back, radiating the serene superiority of someone who had been right about everything.

Verity entered last.

She moved quietly — not her usual crisp, confident stride, but a careful, uncertain one. She sat at the far end of the table, shoulders drawn in, eyes fixed on her plate. She didn’t touch the food.

Bettie drifted in behind her, barefoot, glowing faintly with mischief.

She took one look at Verity’s expression and smiled like a cat who had found a new toy.

Bettie: “Rough morning, little star?”

Verity didn’t look up. “I miscalculated.”

The Unit made a soft beep‑whirr, as if agreeing.

Unit: “Boundary violation logged.”

Verity flinched.

Barry groaned. “Can we not do this at breakfast?”

Bettie slid into the seat beside him, chin in her hand, eyes sparkling.

Bettie: “Oh, Barry. Sweet Barry. You’re acting like this is the first time someone’s seen you without clothes.”

Barry froze. “Bettie. Don’t.”

Too late.

Bettie’s smile widened into something mythic and wicked.

Bettie: “Did I ever tell you about the time he went skinnydipping in Pretty Bayou?”

Verity’s head snapped up.

The Unit’s internal fans spun up in interest.

Barry put his face in his hands. “Bettie, please—”

Bettie: “He was, what, nineteen? Maybe twenty? Thought the moonlight made him invisible. It did not.”

Verity blinked. “You… swam without clothing? In public?”

Barry muttered into his palms. “It wasn’t public.”

Bettie: “It became public when the church fishing group came around the bend.”

The Unit emitted a sharp CLANK, which might have been its version of laughter.

Verity’s eyes widened, then softened — the first crack in her shame since the shower incident.

Verity: “Barry… you were unclothed in front of strangers?”

Barry lifted his head, cheeks red. “It was dark! I thought I was alone!”

Bettie: “He ran so fast he nearly tripped over his own—”

Barry: “BETTIE.”

She grinned, victorious.

Verity’s shoulders loosened. A tiny, reluctant smile tugged at her mouth.

Verity: “I suppose… compared to that… my mistake was minor.”

The Unit tilted its head.

Unit: “Incorrect. Both incidents represent significant lapses in judgment.”

Barry glared. “You’re not helping.”

Unit: “I am providing context.”

Bettie laughed — a bright, rippling sound like sunlight on bayou water.

Bettie: “Oh, Verity. If you’re going to stay in this house, you’ll need to accept one truth.”

Verity looked wary. “What truth?”

Bettie leaned in, eyes gleaming.

Bettie: “Barry has never once in his life avoided embarrassment. He collects it. Like a hobby.”

Barry groaned again.

Verity finally — finally — laughed.

A small sound. But real.

And the tension in the room eased.