Added more masterpieces in our gallery ♥️ need to make a proper museum setup!

Hey yall! I just wrapped up a week of cat and house sitting for a family member who has two daughters- and they gave me full permission to play with any of their toys...so I did! This is my personal mini-me barbie modeling her favorite fits and accessories from the girls' toy boxes. Not pictured are the dolls that live here, who all got hair rescues. The horse also got a bath and brushout as he was covered in mystery smudges. Which outfit is your favorite?

This is my whole Kenllection, they're celebrating they've managed to line-up their schedules and have a while to catch-up.

I'm happy with them, I love them all. There are some more that I'd like, but they're hard to find and expensive, so there's that😅 I'm looking forward for May's DOTM theme.

Who is your favourite Ken of this bunch?

Ken veio ajudar dessa vez, voltamos para o rosa, mas agora com uns detalhes, agora só colocar as coisas no lugar, acho que estou finalmente satisfeita!

She thought it was just another morning

Gigi sat at the table in her purple kitchen, iPad glowing beside her, MacBook open with tabs stacked like accusations across the screen. Half-finished notes waited for her return. She was dressed like she had somewhere to be, even though she didn’t — something decent, something put together. As if keeping the outside right might force the inside to follow.

She told herself she was fine.

She had been telling herself that all morning.

The article wasn’t even the kind that usually got to her. Just edits. Timelines. Cleaning up someone else’s messy wording so it read cleaner, made more sense. Nothing graphic. Nothing that should have stayed with her. One of her simpler tasks from the part-time work at the newspaper.

But her focus kept slipping.

Same line. Same paragraph. Over and over. The author had made a lot of mistakes.

She pushed back from the table and stood, deciding on tea like that might fix it — like it always used to.

It took more effort than it should have.

The kitchen light hummed faintly above her as she moved, familiar, steady, something she didn’t have to think about. The kettle, the cup, the motions came easy, automatic. Her hands knew what to do even if her mind lagged behind.

She poured the tea and stood there a second longer than she meant to, staring into the cup as if waiting for something else to happen.

Then she turned toward the fridge.

She didn’t think about it.

She just moved.

Then she reached for the milk.

Just a drop. That’s all she ever used.

Her fingers closed around the paper carton — cool against her skin, solid, normal.

She tipped it slightly—

—and stopped.

Nothing was wrong.

That was the problem.

The carton looked fine. The counter was clean. No smell. No mess. No sign of anything out of place.

But the sight of it — square, sharp edges, the weight of it in her hand — pulled something loose in her mind that refused to settle back where it belonged.

Milk.

Floor.

Chairs.

Table.

Windows open.

Her breath paused without her permission.

She stared at the carton a second too long, her grip tightening just enough to feel the cardboard give, as if proving it was real, as if it hadn’t simply appeared there.

It hadn’t.

She knew that.

She had taken it out herself.

Used it before.

Normal.

Everything was normal.

So why did it feel like it wasn’t?

Her breathing picked up.

Her eyes shifted without meaning to — counter, sink, window, back again — checking, rechecking, searching for something she couldn’t name.

They settled on the black curtain.

The thought didn’t sit right.

The Milk Stalker had come in this way.

Oddly, she had never unlocked that window. Neither had Michael.

Michael.

He should be resting. Not getting up again. Not dealing with—

Kris.

Lovena.

That phone.

Those messages — all broken and stacked, lines that didn’t match, numbers repeating until they no longer felt like mistakes.

Her breath came shorter now, catching before it could settle.

Ophelia.

The thought hit harder than the rest.

Gigi shifted her grip and moved to set the milk back, meaning to finish the tea, meaning to just move past it and return to the table.

But when she bent, the motion pulled something loose.

A wave of lightheadedness rose fast — not enough to drop her, but enough to make the room tilt in a way that felt quietly wrong.

She stilled, one hand catching the edge of the counter.

Too fast.

She had moved too fast.

Or maybe she hadn’t eaten.

The thought came and drifted away without landing.

Her legs felt weaker than they should have, strength thinned out without warning. She tried to straighten, but it didn’t come clean.

Her balance shifted before she could correct it.

Her grip loosened.

The milk slipped from her hand.

It hit the floor with a hard, hollow slap.

The sound echoed louder than it should have, sharp in the quiet kitchen.

The carton tipped once, dented at the corner, then settled on its side.

It didn’t spill.

It didn’t leak.

She pressed a hand to her chest, as if in prayer, silently thanking God the milk was still intact. The mere thought of a trip to the store would ruin her afternoon. Even the idea of going somewhere today made the edges of her vision blur.

The milk carton just stayed there.

Intact.

Too close.

Her hands started to shake. Not much at first — just enough to make her fingers curl in on themselves like they didn’t know what else to do.

Her breathing turned shallow and fast, catching on itself.

She swallowed, but it didn’t help. Her throat felt tight, dry.

She tried to move, to step forward, to pick it up, to fix it—

But her knee didn’t hold.

She caught the fridge door—

—and slid instead.

Not a fall. Not exactly.

Just lowering without control.

One knee hit the tile harder than she expected.

Then the other.

The room didn’t spin.

It just felt… wrong.

Michael’s footsteps came in from the other room, quicker now.

“Gigi?”

She didn’t respond right away.

“I’m fine,” she managed, but it came out thin, like it didn’t belong to her.

Michael stepped into the kitchen and stopped when he saw her — down on one knee, breathing wrong.

He crossed the space without hesitation and dropped down in front of her.

“Hey,” he said, low.

Gigi looked at him, but it took a second to focus.

He reached for her hand and took it, firm and steady.

“Babydoll… slow down,” he said. “Breathe. Deeper.”

She tried.

It didn’t come easy, but it came.

He stayed there with her, steady, not letting go.

“Yeah baby,” she said, voice uneven. “Lovena kept pushing that phone in our faces. The messages she was trying to show us were a jumble of one-line phrases or demands.”

Michael nodded once. “I noticed.”

His eyes stayed on her.

“But right now, I’m worried about you.”

Gigi looked at him. “It has.” Tears slipped down her face.

“Same digits all the way through,” she added. “Something about it feels familiar… and wrong.”

The words settled heavy between them.

“I don’t like that it’s been causing flashbacks to my childhood,” she said quietly.

Michael’s eyes flicked toward the hallway, then back. “What bugs me — and Kevin too — is Luke didn’t go off when the Milk Stalker hit. He didn’t bark at Lovena either.”

Gigi’s gaze shifted. “No… he didn’t.”

“He would’ve,” Michael said. “If it was someone he didn’t know.”

“Or if something wasn’t right,” she said.

Michael frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.” Her grip tightened slightly in his. “It just… doesn’t feel right.”

He watched her a moment longer, then made his decision.

“I’m changing the locks,” he said.

Gigi met his eyes. “We’ve never needed to.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

A quiet settled between them, thick with things unsaid.

“We used to leave it open,” she murmured.

“Not anymore.”

Michael kept hold of her hand a moment longer, watching her breathing.

Then something in him shifted.

His jaw tightened slightly, his attention moving past her — to the door, the window, the dark beyond.

“We’re done playing this loose,” he said, voice still low, but set.

Gigi didn’t argue.

“I’m changing the locks. Every one of them.”

His thumb pressed once against her hand.

“And from now on, those doors and windows stay shut. Locked. I don’t care if we’re home.”

A beat.

“I’ll have Hunter come out. Get cameras up. Driveway, the Jeep… and our truck.”

Another pause.

“That’ll cover the doors too.”

His eyes came back to her.

“Not happening again.”

George and Luke were nearby.

Gigi didn’t move much.

She stayed where she was, low to the floor, Michael’s hand steady in hers, the weight of them around her keeping everything from slipping further.

The room still didn’t feel right.

But she wasn’t alone in it.

Michael didn’t let go.

As he lifted her, her left leg went numb beneath her, dead for a second before the needles and burning came rushing back, sharp enough to make her catch her breath.

He steadied her without letting go, one hand firm at her arm, the other at her back, keeping her upright.

Gigi leaned into him, her hand resting against his shoulder.

Michael stayed close.

“I love you, babydoll,” he said softly. “You’re my world.”