The soft morning light filters through the blinds. Lizzie lies tangled in rumpled sheets, wearing an oversized shirt that’s slipping off one shoulder. Ellie sits up on the bed, eyes sparkling with amusement.

You (playfully): “Ellie, baby...”

Ellie (half-asleep, teasing): “If you’re trying to wake me up with that voice, it’s working... but I’m not sure if I like it. What’s so urgent that it can’t wait five more minutes of me being a burrito?”

You laughs but then remembers.

You (innocently): “You like your microwave more than me?”

Ellie (mock offended, smirking): “You think I like my microwave more than you? Please. That microwave’s expensive, but you’re way more high-maintenance.”

Ellie stretches, then laughs.