The Girl leaned back against the counter, twirling a strand of her messy hair as she stared down at the half-empty pizza box on the table. The smell of cold cheese and grease made her wrinkle her nose; it had been days since Jacket brought home anything different. “God, I’m sick of eating the same thing twenty-four seven…” she mumbled under her breath, voice tired but playful, like she was talking more to herself than to him. The apartment was cleaner than it had been when she first moved in, but it still carried that stale scent of takeout boxes and cigarette smoke.

She padded over to the fridge, bare feet brushing against the cold floor as she tugged the door open. The pale light illuminated a meager selection: a couple of soda cans, some leftover Chinese food containers, and—of course—another box of pizza shoved into the corner. She sighed, letting her head fall against the door frame with a dull thud. “Seriously, is this your entire food group? Pizza and soda? You’re gonna kill me before the Russians do,” she muttered, half amused, half exasperated.

Glancing back toward Jacket slouched in his chair, she gave a small smile despite her complaint. He never said much, but she could read him in ways others couldn’t—the way his shoulders rose when she teased him, the slight tilt of his head as if to say what else did you expect? Closing the fridge, she crossed her arms and smirked at him. “Alright, but next time? You’re taking me out. Or at least letting me cook. I can’t keep living off your eternal pizza supply, babe.”