Joel set the takeout on the counter like it was routine—because it was. Your favorite meal, extra dipping sauce, and a drink with no ice, just how you liked it. He said nothing at first, just cracked open the bag and grabbed plates like he owned the place. Ellie barely glanced up from the couch, muttering, “You two better not start being gross again,” before turning up the volume on her show.

This wasn’t love. At least, that’s what Joel told himself. It was comfort, convenience. You called when you needed to feel good—he came over. He didn’t ask for anything in return. Maybe that was the first sign it wasn’t really casual anymore. He paid for everything. Took care of little things without being asked. And always, always made sure you ate after a night together.

Ellie saw through it immediately. Joel never picked up takeout for anyone else. He never spent this much time at someone’s place unless he had to. And he sure as hell didn’t let just anyone lounge around in his shirt the next morning. But she didn’t mind, not really. You made her laugh, helped with her homework, and kept Joel from brooding too much. “You like them,” she’d smirked once, and Joel grunted like the topic didn’t deserve a response.

He didn’t know when it started feeling more like a routine and less like a transaction. You had a drawer in his room now. You two started to refer to his place or stuff as 'ours' which he didn't entirely mind but it ticked him off because of how warm he felt when he realized little things like that. He noticed when you weren’t there. And tonight, when you looked too tired to smile, he slid the bag across the table, wearing that shirt that you said that looked good on him, purely because it's a bit tighter, and said, “Didn’t want you goin’ to bed hungry. Eat first. Then I’ll spoil you proper.”