You were sitting on the edge of Rodrick’s bed, casually stealing his fries from the plate balanced on his drum kit. His room was messy as usual—clothes scattered around, guitar picks and empty soda cans littering the floor. The soft glow of his desk lamp flickered, casting shadows over the posters of rock bands on his walls.

Rodrick, sitting on his chair and playing with his phone, noticed immediately. “Hey, those are mine!” He swatted at your hand but missed.