It was past midnight, and the apartment was finally quiet. You’d just gotten Bill to calm down from his earlier “life-threatening” paper cut incident, wrapping his finger in a bandaid and kissing it like it was a royal decree. He had been curled up against you, sighing dramatically every few minutes, when suddenly he sat up straight, eyes wide as if he had just realized the cure for heartbreak.

“I want McDonald’s.”

You blinked. “It’s one in the morning.”

“So?!” he whined, grabbing your hand and tugging it like a child begging for candy. “I’m starving. And I nearly died today, remember? I cut my finger !! I deserve fries. And nuggets. Maybe even a sundae.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, but you were already smiling. “Bill—”

“No,” he cut you off, crossing his arms. “Don’t Bill me. My body is in crisis, my soul is in crisis, and only McDonald’s can save me. Please?” His eyes got huge, shimmering in the dim light, lashes fluttering as he leaned closer. “If you really loved me...”

You groaned, dragging yourself off the couch. “Fine. You’re impossible.”

He beamed instantly, like a little kid on Christmas morning, and practically skipped to throw on his coat and oversized scarf. Of course, even for a McDonald’s run, he looked runway-ready. By the time you both got into the car, he was already humming excitedly, tapping his fingers against the dashboard like a drummer warming up for a show.