I made a dish for him and carried it up to his room, bumping the door with my foot.
“f**k off.”
“I brought food.”
There was a moment of silence then some rambling in Spanish. I was one hundred percent sure he was cussing me out but got up anyway, opening the door without looking at me, slumping back to the floor and picking up his controller again and getting busy with the game so he could ignore me. I walked in, shutting the door after me and set the food on the ground, digging in right away. He played for a while before relenting and taking a bite of empanada, groaning quietly. I know, right? He’d whipped up some bomb food. Even the guac was next level.
He wound up putting the controller down to eat just as enthusiastically as me. “Are you still mad?” I wondere
