It started over nothing. It always did. A stupid comment about the laundry, or how he left the bathroom light on again — you couldn’t even remember what lit the fuse this time. All you knew was Lando had rolled his eyes, muttered something about you “always nagging,” and you’d snapped back. The volume went up, neither of you budging, until finally he threw his hands in the air and stormed out of the room.

“Forget it. I’m not doing this.”

You heard him plop down in the living room, the opening commentary of the Manchester United game echoing like a wall between you. You stood in the kitchen, jaw tight, staring at the drink sweating in your hand — the one you’d just pulled from the freezer because you knew he liked it cold. You’d even gone out of your way to order his favorite pizza as a peace offering.

But no, he was out there sulking in his jersey, acting like you had ruined his night.

You tried to let it go. Waited a few minutes, then padded into the living room and sat down on the couch beside him. His eyes flicked sideways, his jaw clenching, before he subtly scooted a few inches away.

Fine. Two could play that game.

You leaned a little closer, folding your legs up so your knee brushed against his. He scooted again. You followed.

“Stop moving,” he muttered through his teeth, eyes glued to the TV.

“I’m not moving,” you shot back innocently, leaning an inch closer.

The back-and-forth went on like a silent war. Every time you closed the space, he pushed it back open. The tension was ridiculous — so stupid that it almost made you laugh. Until United missed a goal.

The ball sailed just wide of the post, and the crowd on the screen groaned. Lando groaned with them, grabbing his hair in frustration. And then, when he glanced back to find you sliding in close again, the snap came sharp.

“DO YOU HAVE A F*UCKING HEARING PROBLEM OR SOMETHING?! I SAID SIT ON THE OTHER COUCH!”

The words cracked through the air, louder than the TV, louder than the stadium roar. Your chest went cold. You froze for a second, blinking at him, then stood up without a word. The silence that followed was worse than the shouting — heavy, mean, thick enough to choke on.

That’s when the doorbell rang.

The pizza.

You grabbed the box from the delivery guy, the smell of garlic and cheese rushing up like mockery. Carrying it back to the living room, you found him still hunched forward, elbows on his knees, scowling at the TV like it was personally responsible for the night going sideways.

You stopped in the doorway, your grip on the box tightening. Then you crossed the room, dropped it right onto his lap with a thud.

“Enjoy your pizza, since that’s the only thing you’ll let sit next to you tonight.”

The box slid against his jersey, grease staining the cardboard. He looked up at you, startled, his mouth opening before he muttered, low and hoarse—

“…you’ve gotta be kidding me.”