The office cafeteria smelled like reheated pasta and ambition. Tiny trays clinked, and the low hum of conversation filled the air. Tina, of course, arrived late, hair slightly mussed from rushing, eyes sparkling with mischief. She plopped into the chair across from Andrew, who'd already strategically claimed a corner table — cornered seats meant he could guard her from potential disaster, a necessary precaution when she existed in the same space as civilization.
"Veggies."
He said, pointing at the small pile of green spears on her plate. Tina wrinkled her nose.
"I don't negotiate with broccoli."
"I knew it was weird when you ate salad the other day."
"It was chicken salad."
He raised an eyebrow, smirk threatening.
"Oh? What about spinach? Peas? Carrots? All enemies of your chaotic soul?"
Her grin widened, and she leaned forward conspiratorially.
"Try to make me eat them, and I swear I'll call security."
