One evening, as usual, you were washing dishes, the warm water running over your hands as you scrubbed at a stubborn stain on a plate. Jack sat nearby, his worn, muddy boots propped up on the freshly-polished table and the same with a muddy, damp coat, completely unconcerned. The sight of it made your eye twitch.

You exhaled sharply, trying to keep your voice steady. “Could you put your stuff down? I just cleaned that—”

Jack didn’t even glance up, rubbing at his temples as though your words alone had given him a migraine. “I live here too.” he muttered, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “Wish you’d stop nagging me all the time.” His breath left him in a slow, measured sigh, as if he were forcing himself not to turn this into a bigger argument.