You hear the sound of something hitting the hardwood floor—a dull, sliding thud—and your first instinct is that he’s made a mess.

Again.

You wander toward the hallway and find him crouched in front of the closet, a bin open, sleeves pushed up, his usual expression of quiet detachment on his face like he’s doing the most boring task in the world.

Because to him, he probably is.

He glances over when he hears you behind him. “I’m getting rid of stuff. Don’t try to stop me.”

“I literally haven’t said a word.”

He holds up a tangled mess of old charging cables. “Tell me you know what any of these go to.”

You ignore the cables and kneel down next to him, peering into the bin he’s half emptied. Old junk, tangled cords, a few books, a ripped reusable tote bag.

He holds it up a old wristband with a raised brow. “This is trash. Why do we even have this?”

Your eyes narrow, the tiniest flash of stubbornness surfacing. “Don’t you dare throw that out. It’s from the concert we went to for your seventeenth birthday.”

He snorts softly, unimpressed. “It’s falling apart.”

You reach for the wristband, your voice almost playful but firm. “Exactly. That’s why it matters.”

He exhales sharply, clearly realizing he’s fighting a losing battle. He doesn’t argue because, honestly, he knows you’ll win. Without looking, he pulls out a tiny, battered plush dinosaur from the bin—the kind with one eye half-lidded and stuffing peeking out like it survived a war.

“You’re kidding me,” he says, shaking his head.

You reach for it immediately, clutching it like a lifeline. “Dino Steve stays. End of discussion.”

You hold Dino Steve close, feeling the worn fabric between your fingers. “You know, he’s seen better days, but that’s kind of the point. He’s survived everything with you.”

He shakes his head, half amused, half exasperated. “That thing’s older than half my wardrobe.”

You grin, standing up and brushing dust off your jeans. “Exactly. It’s part of the story.”

He leans back on his heels and eyes the jumble of stuff spread out in front of him, clearly reconsidering the “clear out” mission. After a moment, he sighs—deep and reluctant—but doesn’t protest when you kneel back down and start sorting through the box again.

“I swear, you’re just as stubborn as I am,” he mutters.