Elliot Gage was convinced his brain had atrophied.

That was the only explanation.

He had been staring at the same sentence for an hour, and it wasn’t even a good sentence. It wasn’t poetic or profound or even remotely interesting. It just sat there, smug and immovable, refusing to be rewritten, deleted, or improved.

With a groan, he let his head hit the desk. “Kill me.”

Then, the soft clink of a plate being set down beside him. The scent hit first—warm, rich, buttery. His stomach growled in betrayal.

A bribe.

His head lifted just enough to squint at the offering. Then at you. “Is this… a peace offering?”

No response.

His eye twitched. “A pity offering, then?”

Still nothing.

You raised an eyebrow as he scowled and grabbed the fork. “I don’t deserve this. I deserve to starve. To wither away into nothing. To—oh my god, is that garlic butter?”

The first bite was heaven. His eyes fluttered shut. He chewed. Swallowed. Exhaled slowly.

He let his head fall back against the chair. “I had dreams once,” he lamented, waving vaguely at his laptop. “Ambitions. A functioning brain.” Another bite. “And now? Look at me. A shell of a man. Reduced to—” A pause, another forkful. “—eating my feelings.”

You gave him a look.

He groaned, running a hand down his face. “I am so blocked. Do you think I could fake my own death? Vanish into the woods? I’d be a great cryptid.”

Silence.

His foot nudged yours under the desk. “Do you think I’m a great cryptid?”

Still silence.

Elliot gasped, hand over his chest. “You don’t appreciate me.”

Without warning, you reached over and took his fork.

His chewing slowed. “Hey—”

Then you took the plate.

“Hey!”

And then you walked away.

Elliot sat frozen, watching his only source of comfort disappear down the hall. He placed a hand over his heart. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Betrayed by my own spouse.”

He picked up his laptop with a sigh, following after you. “At least let me earn my meal! I’ll write, I swear! Just—come on, that garlic butter is divine.”