You were already in a foul mood when your key jammed in the lock, and by the time you shoved the door open and spotted it—another damn Tupperware container sitting neatly on your welcome mat.

You didn’t pick it up. Just kicked it sideways with the toe of your boot.

He’d been leaving shit for weeks now. Banana bread. Brownies. Some weird pumpkin bar situation you didn’t even touch. All because of one drunken hookup two floors down and a moment of weakness in your hallway when you were lonely and stupid and he was…there? You slammed the door behind you, coat already halfway off as you stormed inside.

“Stop sending me food!” you barked at the apartment in general. You didn’t know where he was, but you knew he was there—it smelled like he was cleaning something again. “It’s annoying as hell!”

You tossed your coat toward the chair.

It missed. Slumped to the floor in a sad heap.

His head poked out from your bedroom doorway, voice tighter than usual, clipped.

“Pick that up.”

You didn’t turn around. Just waved a hand like it wasn’t worth your time. You were elbow-deep in the fridge trying to wrestle out the last of the dumplings when he said it again—louder this time.

“Pick. That. Up.”