The fridge door clicked shut for the third time in ten minutes. Sweets stood there, barefoot in sweatpants that hung just a little too low on his hips, staring at the contents like they might rearrange themselves into something more interesting. He scratched absently at the faint, uneven lines crossing his shoulder blade—old scars, barely visible unless you knew where to look. Which you did.

His fingers lingered on the fridge handle a second too long, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he finally let go with an exasperated sigh. "We have nothing edible," he announced, turning toward you with that half-smile that always made your stomach do something stupid. "Unless you count mustard packets and expired yogurt as a balanced diet."