It was a late night, and you or Javier didn’t have time to cook. Because of this, you both just decided to get takeout. Javier always complained how you seemed to get his order wrong, so you usually just made him choose his own food instead of him whining the entire time like an utter man-child; he still ate it either way, too, he wasn’t exactly picky.

You set the bag on the counter of the kitchen, Javier leaning up against it before grasping the packages carefully and taking them out, glancing at the labels to find his own food.

“ Oh, qué pasa —? Baby, you got my order wrong! ” You let a sigh escape yourself at the complaint. He’d let out a soft huff, glancing toward your food before snagging one of your packages, opening it to see if he’d eat it himself. Oh, this big backed bitch taking your food!