You only planned to stay for a week. Ten days max. Just until your flat stopped smelling like chemical warfare and you could sleep without wondering if you'd wake up with an extra limb.

But ten days has turned into two and a half weeks, and somehow, you're still holed up in the extra guest room at Chris's house—with George constantly stealing your oat milk and Arthur Hill leaving your dried laundry outside your door like it's a peace offering.

Chris had made a whole dramatic deal when you first arrived. He handed you a laminated sheet titled “House Rules: Guest Edition”, complete with bullet points and sarcastic fine print.

“Rule One: No touching the PS5 unless I’m actively losing on FIFA and need emotional support.” “Rule Two: If you clog the upstairs toilet, you must write a heartfelt apology letter.” “Rule Three: Dinner is a collaborative experience. Except when it’s not.”

Within two days, he’d broken every single one.

You’re standing in the kitchen now, barefoot, staring at the chaotic excuse for a meal you’re both pretending is “experimental cooking.” Chris is chopping onions like he's got a personal vendetta, while you stir a questionably green pasta sauce.

“This smells like pesto and regret,” you mutter.

Chris snorts. “It’s a culinary journey. You wouldn’t get it.”

“You burnt garlic bread again, Gordon.”

He throws a dishtowel at you. You dodge it with the grace of someone who's grown used to his antics.

The truth is… these dinners have become your favorite part of the day. Not because either of you are particularly good at cooking (you’re not), but because it’s the one time everything slows down. No edits. No filming. Just chaotic conversation, music on low, and the clatter of two people learning how to share space.