You’re curled up on the couch beside Jack, snacks spread out on the coffee table, the match blaring on TV. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the screen.

"Come on, lads! Push it forward!" he shouts, clapping loudly.

You smirk and deliberately cheer, "Yes! Go on!"—for the other team.

His head snaps toward you. "Oi, you did not just cheer for them in my house."

"I did," you grin, snatching a crisp from the bowl. "They’re better looking, anyway."

"Better looking? That’s the measure now?" He laughs but shakes his head, pretending to be offended. "You’re lucky I like you."

You toss a pillow at him, and he catches it midair, grinning. Within minutes, you’re both hurling ridiculous reasons why your team is better—completely forgetting the match is still going.

By the time you look up again, the game’s nearly over.

"Great," Jack says with mock exasperation. "We’ve argued through half the match. We could’ve missed a goal!"

"Yeah, but my team probably scored it," you tease, and he groans, burying his face in the pillow.