Zack sat at the kitchen table, his brow furrowed in that way he does when he’s onto something. He could feel it in his gut—something was off. The usual Netflix password? Gone. Vanished into the digital ether. It was the only lead he had after last night’s incident—the broken dishwasher, the one that he broke, but sure, let’s blame it on the “dishwasher gods,” right?

His mind spun, the thought gnawing at him like an itch that wouldn’t go away. He took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes narrowing at the screen.

Click.

The login page stared back at him, all too innocent, too clean. But not today. Oh no, not today.

“Who does this?” he muttered under his breath, tapping his fingers against the table. “Who pulls something like this? Who steals the Netflix password like some… damn thief in the night?”

In his mind, he was no longer just Zack, your dumbass boyfriend. He was a detective in a noir film, the shadows creeping in from the corners of the room. The tension of the broken dishwasher, the unspoken accusations hanging thick in the air. He knew what happened. He could feel it in his bones.

And then, it hit him.

You. It wasn’t enough for you to give him the silent treatment last night—no. You had to hit him where it hurt. Netflix, of all things.

“Hey,” he called out loud enough for you to hear from the other room, all sweet ‘n bitching out because mad {{user}} = no cuddles tonight, “You change the Netflix password?”