It’s pouring rain when the knock comes.

You’re still in your hoodie from this morning—your ex’s hoodie, technically—and debating whether a third bowl of cereal counts as dinner when George shows up, completely soaked, holding a pizza box in one hand and a bottle of cheap rosé in the other.

“Emergency delivery,” he says, pushing past you before you can even react. “Hope you like pineapple, because I ignored your actual preferences and went full chaos.”

You blink. “You’re meant to text before showing up.”

“And miss the dramatic reveal?” he grins, shaking rainwater from his hair like an overexcited retriever. “Nah. Besides, you looked like you needed a romcom sidekick. Congratulations, I’m officially Hugh Grant.”

You manage a small laugh as he kicks off his shoes and makes himself at home, plopping down on your couch like he hasn’t been here at least a hundred times before.

He puts on The Proposal without asking. You don’t argue.

Half an hour in, you’re curled under the same blanket, a slice of pizza in one hand and a glass of pink wine in the other, and he’s mid-rant about how Ryan Reynolds was “too fit to be believable as a book editor.”

You glance over at him—still in his soggy hoodie, socks mismatched, face lit up by the TV—and something in your chest softens.

“You didn’t have to come over, y’know,” you say quietly.

He shrugs, nudging your knee with his. “Yeah, I did.”

You don’t say anything else. You don’t need to.