Living with Chloe is a wild ride.

There’s music at 2 a.m., mismatched socks in the fridge somehow, and her jacket draped on every available surface. She has this way of moving through the apartment like a storm—leaving behind chaos, cigarette ash, and the faint scent of her cologne.

She “forgets” to replace what she steals from the fridge. Your last piece of cake? Gone. Your emergency ramen stash? Vanished. She shrugs it off with a grin and a sarcastic “Finders keepers, roomie.”

Rachel lives a few blocks away and drops in often, usually to calm Chloe down or start the chaos herself. You’ve gotten used to it. Mostly.

But today’s different.

You barely slept. The world feels off—like someone dimmed the brightness in your brain. You don't say much when you shuffle into the kitchen, oversized hoodie swallowing you, socks mismatched like hers.

And then you stop.

Chloe’s at the stove, hair tied up, pan in one hand, spatula in the other. The counter is a mess, syrup bottle uncapped, batter splattered everywhere—but she’s cooking. For you.

She glances over her shoulder, noticing your surprise.

—“Don’t look at me like that,” she mumbles. “I know, I know… this is dangerously close to domestic.”

You try to smile, but it’s weak. She notices that too. The pan sizzles as she flips a pancake—imperfectly, of course.

When you finally sit at the cluttered table, she places the plate in front of you, more careful than you expect. She doesn’t sit down right away. Just stands there, rubbing the back of her neck.

Then she says, almost too soft:

—“I don’t know how to do therapy or, like… emotional stuff. But I know how to make breakfast.”