It began, as many of Gregory's most pivotal moments did, with spaghetti.
Not the graceful, plated kind you see in lifestyle blogs—no, this was feral spaghetti. Chaotic, noodle-draped like Medusa in a carb mood, garnished with marinara trauma and the haunting suspicion that he'd accidentally used cinnamon instead of paprika.
Maurice sniffed from his perch atop the spice rack. "You've summoned the ghost of holiday cookies. In pasta form. An abomination."
Gregory twirled a forkful of the cinnamon-paprika-spaghetti and mumbled, "Innovation is messy."
Maurice tilted his head. "So is a nervous breakdown. And at least that doesn't taste like confused gingerbread."
Still, they ate it. Because healing isn't linear—and dinner often isn't edible.
Afterward, full of regrets and marginally more cinnamon than any soul deserves, Gregory flopped onto the couch and groaned.
