“They’re bred,” I say. “They’re not from bins.”
“They’re cockroaches.”
“Stop saying it like that.”
Tom opens his eyes again, looking faintly triumphant. “You see the issue.”
I tilt my head. “Oh. Hang on.”
He squints. “Why are you smiling.”
“Because,” I say sweetly, “you run a restaurant.”
“Yes.”
“And restaurants have cockroaches.”
His spine straightens. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh come on,” I say. “All restaurants do.”
“No,” he says firmly. “Bad restaurants do. Mine does not.”
I lift an eyebrow. “You’re telling me you’ve never had a single—”
“We have regular pest control,” he cuts in. “Documented. Scheduled. Very dull. And my kitchen is clean.”
“I’m not saying it isn’t.”
“You are heavily implying it is not.”
“I’m implying that cockroaches exist,” I say. “Globally.”
He exhales through his nose. “Not in my kitchen.”
“Fine,” I say, conceding with exaggerated grace. “Your restaurant is a cockroach-free utopia.”
“Thank you.”
“And therefore, you cannot supply Hadrian with snacks.”
“Correct.”
I nod. “Fine.”
“Fine,” he echoes, already retreating towards the kitchen like this argument has taken years off his life. He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like I did not sign up to compete with a reptile.
“You can leave, you know,” I call after him. “If you don’t appreciate my housemate.”
“I appreciate him from a distance,” he replies. “A very healthy distance. And if that is not acceptable, I can leave.”
“I’d like that,” I throw back, automatically.
There’s a beat.
“Would you,” he says lightly, not turning around.
I hesitate, then mutter, “Actually no. Because whatever that is smells good and I am hungry.”
