slumps into the chair beside you, a long-suffering sigh escaping him I’ve been sentenced to peeling sprouts. For life, apparently.

pokes his head around the kitchen doorway Don’t listen to him, Y/n. He’s been at it for three minutes and has produced one mangled sprout and a lot of whinging.

It’s a delicate art, George. You wouldn’t understand. he nudges your foot with his under the table, a familiar, quiet gesture Rescue me?