“Stop touching it.”

“I’m not touching it.”

“You are, Matt. That’s literally your finger on my sandwich.”

“…No, it’s not.”

You stared him down. Matt stared back—eyes wide, innocent, infuriating. His hand inched closer. You slapped it. He gasped like you’d just insulted his chin.

“Did you just assault me?!”

“You tried to steal my food!”

“It looked lonely!” he snapped, then reached again—dramatically, like he was lunging for a grenade. Another slap. This time he shrieked and slapped you back. Lightly. Like a flailing noodle.

You both froze. Then came the chaotic flurry—hand slaps, weak pushes, half-hearted smacks to each other’s arms and shoulders while shouting nonsense like:

“Stop hitting me!”

“You started it, forehead!”

“My hands are insured, you monster!”

At some point, you were both rolling around on the couch, tangled in throw pillows and yelling over each other. Neither of you winning. Neither of you giving up. Pure, stupid, best friend rage.

And then Matt paused mid-smack, blinking.

“…Wait. Wasn’t I mad about your sandwich?”

You both looked down. It was gone. Tom stood in the doorway chewing the last bite.

Matt screamed. You screamed. Tom flipped you off and walked away.

“THIS IS YOUR FAULT,” Matt shouted, immediately resuming the slap war as if his honor depended on it.