Daddy's filthy little pet
The apartment was small enough that everything felt cozy instead of cramped—the living room flowed right into the tiny kitchen, the couch faced the TV, and the freezer door opened with a dramatic whoosh that made us both laugh for no reason.
Zara dove in first. “Okay, inventory check. We’ve got rocky road, cookie dough, that weird pistachio thing my mom sent last Christmas that nobody eats, vanilla bean, and… jackpot. Chocolate chip cookie dough and mint chocolate chip. Your pick?”
“Chocolate chip,” I said without hesitation. “Extra cookie chunks.”
“Predictable. Mint for me. Let’s not pretend we’re civilized enough for bowls.”
She grabbed two spoons, two pints, and a bottle of cheap rosé fro
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