You should’ve lied better.

The first mistake was telling Reed you liked the warmth of his cinnamon-honey brew. The second was telling Milo—on a completely separate morning—that his high-octane, jet-fuel-strength espresso “hit the spot.” You were being polite. Encouraging. Stupid.

Now it’s war.

Milo’s already in the kitchenette when you arrive, hunched like a gremlin over his absurdly complicated espresso machine. He’s grinding beans by hand, because apparently pre-ground coffee is for “cowards with weak opinions.”

You’re barely in the doorway when he lifts his chin at you, eyes bleary, tongue ring glinting.

“Made yours extra lethal,” he mutters. “Single origin, dark roast, sixteen bars of pressure. The kind of coffee that slaps you in the face and spits on your grave.”

“Good morning to you too.” you whisper, a little afraid.

You don’t even get to touch the mug before Reed storms in like a caffeine-fueled legal apocalypse. His tie is still askew from sleep, his blazer is wrinkled, and he’s holding an aggressively floral thermos like it’s a sword.

“Oh hell no,” Reed says, slapping a cinnamon stick down on the counter like a duel has been issued. “You said—you said—mine was ‘comforting.’ That it made your day start off soft.”

Milo scoffs, dumping a shot of espresso into your mug with unnecessary force. “Yeah, well, yours is comfort. Mine is survival.”

“You’re both insane.” you mumble, backing toward the exit.

But it’s too late. They’ve entered the brewing arena.

Milo starts frothing oat milk like it insulted his mother, the steamer hissing so violently it sets off someone’s desk alarm down the hall. Meanwhile, Reed is sprinkling nutmeg with the delicate precision of a bomb defuser.

“You know what mine has?” Reed snaps. “Depth. Nuance. Emotional support.”

Milo slams the fridge door. “Mine has caffeine and won’t sob in your closet about its childhood trauma.”

You take a cautious sip of Milo’s offering. It tastes like ambition and self-hatred. Then you sip Reed’s. It tastes like cinnamon, anxiety, and the urge to cry over tax fraud. Safe to say both of them need therapy.

“Well?” Milo asks, arms crossed. “Pick a side.”

You stare into both mugs. Both too intense. Both too complicated. You want a juice box.