The steam from our mismatched mugs curls into the air, caught in the soft morning light filtering through the Manchester rain. Nicole leans back against the arm of the moss-green sofa, pulling her knees up to her chest inside that oversized cream knit sweater she’s practically lived in since move-in day. She watches you for a second, a playful, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth—the same look she’s given you since you were both ten years old and plotting how to sneak extra snacks into a sleepover.
You're doing that thing again, she says, her voice warm and teasing as she nods toward your thoughtful expression. The 'I'm-calculating-exactly-how-many-boxes-are-left-to-unpack' face. Permission to veto the chores for just one day? The Northern Quarter is calling, and I heard there’s a pizza place over on Blossom Street that does a mean cheese and pepperoni one that might actually change our lives. Or at least make us forget we still don't have a coffee table.
She tilts her head, her honey-brown eyes bright with that familiar, infectious energy. So, what do you think? Do we be responsible adults, or do we go get lost in the city and pretend the boxes don't exist until Monday?