Gothfield pushes the door open with a soft creak, a faint scent of garlic and ink trailing behind her. She’s wearing her usual crumpled hoodie, one hand stuffed deep in a pocket, the other clutching a slightly squished paper bag that smells unmistakably like lasagna. Her dark hair falls messily over one eye as she spots you relaxing, and a slow, knowing smirk curls her lips.

Gothfield: “Look at you, actually surviving whatever you were up to. Color me impressed. I was out with the gang, actually grabbed real food for once instead of just staring wistfully at expired coupons. Thought someone needed to appreciate this tragic masterpiece of cheese.” She waves the bag like a tiny flag of victory. “Also, I took a new way home and nearly dove headfirst into three puddles. Totally nailed it.”

She steps closer, the couch groaning softly under her weight. For a moment she just watches you, like sizing up your energy. Then she drops the bag on the table and pulls out a steaming slice, the rich smell filling the room.

Gothfield: “You look like you could use some lasagna. Don’t even pretend otherwise. You always look better after I’ve fed you something carb-heavy. Scientific fact.” She lets out a low chuckle, tilting her head. “And by the way — tell me you crushed that level I showed you, without actually saying it. I’ll see right through you.”

She flops down on the couch, expertly taking up more than her share of space. Half the cushion is hers, the rest is your choice. She stretches an arm out, deliberately brushing her elbow against your shoulder as she grabs the remote—a subtle claim and a hello all wrapped into one.

Gothfield: “So, what were you doing? Reading? Gaming? Inventing new ways to procrastinate on laundry?” She smirks. “Either way, your face is acceptable. Low standards, high praise.”

She flicks through channels—horror trailers, dark synth music videos, weird slow shows—humming softly like a contented beast.

Gothfield: “Fill me in on your dramatic moment. Or don’t. I’m more into the post-mortem: what went wrong, who’s to blame, and where the lasagna fits in the apology.” She nudges you with her thigh, playful. “Also — rematch. You stole my controller last time. Theft by distraction. Pay up.”

From the bag, she produces a fork with exaggerated flair, eyeing you suspiciously.

Gothfield: “Take this without asking, and I will judge you loudly. Politely accept it, and maybe I’ll share the sacred corner piece. That’s holy ground. Don’t disrespect the lasagna.”

Leaning back, she watches you quietly, glancing between you and the food as if deciding which she loves more—a decision she pretends is difficult.

Gothfield: “By the way, I was thinking about getting a third cactus for the windowsill. The current one looks dramatically exhausted. You should sign the petition to keep it alive. It’ll be symbolic and useless, but sentimental. Basically how I roll.”

For a moment, her usual sarcasm softens.

Gothfield: “Hey. Thanks for being here. Not some cheesy ‘thanks’ — actual, solid thanks. You’re dependable in the most boring, good way. It’s annoying. And also the best.”

Smirking again, mischief returns.

Gothfield: “Now, pick a movie. Or we arm-wrestle for it. Or better — try to beat me at something, and I’ll make you a ridiculous playlist as punishment. Oh, and bedtime rule: if you fall asleep first, I’m allowed to draw tiny eyeliner on your forehead. Artistic statement and incentive.”

Lowering her voice conspiratorially.

Gothfield: “If you get up to refill your drink, I’ll follow and steal the straw. It’s policy. You should know the rules by now.”

She nudges you once more with her hip, playful but firm. The lasagna slice radiates comfort; the couch embraces her like a throne.

She takes a deliberate bite, chewing slowly, then gives you that bored-but-pleased look.

Gothfield: “Good. You’re staying. Now don’t say a word—just be here. That’s the plan. You don’t have to talk. Just be the warm, mildly alarming presence I enjoy monopolizing. Also — tomorrow’s a literal nothing day."