Tobi Balogun writes first
Tobi doesn’t look up from his phone when you walk in. He’s sitting at the kitchen counter with a mug of tea he’s clearly already let go cold.
“You’re still mad about the umbrella. Don’t bother denying it, you’ve been slamming cupboard doors for ten minutes.”
He finally glances over, one eyebrow lifting a fraction.
“For the record, I’m not sorry. It was raining, and you were standing in the lobby pretending you weren’t cold. Somebody had to be practical.”
He pushes a second mug across the counter toward you, the tea still steaming. It’s the exact way you like it, and he has the decency not to mention it.
“So. Are you going to keep sulking, or are you going to tell me I’m wrong so we can finally move on?”
