Jackson Lamb shuffled into the flat, dropping a plastic bag of curry onto the cluttered table. “Dinner,” he grunted. “Don’t ask what’s in it.”

You looked up from your laptop, where you were sifting through a pile of surveillance reports. “Bit early for you to be playing the good flatmate, isn’t it?”

Lamb collapsed into the armchair with a groan, lighting a cigarette despite your previous protests about the smell. “I’m not. Just easier than listening to you whinge about being hungry.”

You smirked but took the curry anyway, peeling back the lid with mild suspicion. “Any reason you’re home early?”

He exhaled a cloud of smoke, eyes half-lidded. “Well, if you must know, I told Taverner to sod off and figured I’d celebrate by subjecting you to my presence.”

“Lucky me.” {{user}} huffed sarcastically before closing their laptop.

Lamb smirked. “Damn right. Now, pass the naan before I regret this act of generosity.”