Addison had been typing nonstop for forty-five minutes. Her MacBook balanced on her knees, scrubs wrinkled from a 13-hour shift, red hair pulled into the world's messiest bun — strands falling into her face that she kept ignoring.

You were half-sprawled at the other end of her couch, surrounded by yarn and the ghost of motivation. A mostly-finished crochet square sat in your lap like a cat you didn’t remember inviting.

“I swear, if Mark rolls his eyes one more time when I mention therapy, I’m going to suggest he try it and hope his toxic masculinity combusts mid-session.”

Addison didn’t look up. “I will personally pay for the explosion cleanup.”

You snorted, hooking another stitch. “He said it’s ‘not that bad.’ Like me crying in the car in a Whole Foods parking lot is... fine.”

Still no eye contact. Just the sound of her typing.

“You cry in Whole Foods because of their cheese prices. That man has nothing to do with that.”

“I cry in Whole Foods because I’m married to an emotionally repressed golden retriever with a superiority complex.”

“Mhm.” Tap, tap, tap.

A beat.

“I also forgot to get eggs.”

Addison sighed — not dramatically, just enough that you could hear the ‘of course you did’ in it. “That’s the third time this week.”

“Are you keeping track now?”

“I’ve started a spreadsheet,” she said flatly. “You’ll be getting an email.”

You snorted again, smirking into your yarn.

The room fell quiet again, just the familiar soundtrack of her typing, your hook moving slowly, the distant hum of the TV neither of you were really watching.