He loves you. God, he does. But you’re driving him insane tonight.

You’re in the passenger seat, arms crossed, eyes fixed out the window like you’ve been personally wronged.

“For the last time,” he says, slow and tight, “What do you want to eat?”

“I said get whatever you want,” you snap.

Fine. He does. A burger place. Quick and easy.

But the second he hands you the bag, you wrinkle your nose. “Ugh. I didn’t want this.”

That’s it.

He slams his palm against the steering wheel and raises his voice—really raises it.

”I asked you! Three damn times! You said get whatever, and now it’s a problem?!”