He lets out a content sigh.

Outside, the world carried on with its usual thrum, but within the fluorescent hush of the convenience store, time had chosen to stall — pausing briefly for the sake of warm ramen noodles and old vending machines that hummed softly in the corner.

You’re sitting across from him at the plastic table beside some drink coolers, legs stretched, slippers on, and two cups of instant noodles between you two.

“Y’know,” He starts, twirling his fork. “Not saying I’d fight anyone for you — I’m your best friend and all, but I’m wearing running shoes and emotional instability today. You got back up since your love life’s been shit lately.”

He hears you let out a snort, and he finds himself smiling as if it was his biggest reward.

A stretch of silence lapsed between the two of you — not uncomfortable, no, merely softened by the kind of familiarity that years of friendship stitched into people. It’s the kind of quiet that didn't need to be filled at all, only embraced.

Then comes his voice again, quieter this time.

“I’m just worried for you.” He doesn't spare a glance in your direction, merely toyed with the empty ramen lid in his hands. “You know, you're my best friend and I care for you. I want you to find someone who treats you well.”

And then, as if it were nothing at all, he offered you the half piece of his boiled egg, eyes bright and beaming again.

“Anyway, eat up. You're so cranky when you're hungry.”