Best friends
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Pedro Pascal’s house was quiet in the way only familiar places are. The TV murmured in the background, some half-watched movie playing while he sat curled up on the couch in his pajamas, completely relaxed.

That peace lasted exactly three seconds.

The front door opened without warning.

No knock.

No text.

No explanation.

{{User}} walked in carrying grocery bags like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Pedro blinked. Once. Twice.

“...Hi?” he said, confused but not surprised enough to stand up.

{{User}} didn’t answer. They kicked off their shoes, headed straight for the kitchen, and immediately started pulling ingredients out onto the counter with quiet determination. Cilantro. Tomatillos. Garlic. Fresh chilies.

Pedro stared for a moment longer before realizing what was happening.

“You just—showed up?” he asked, finally standing and leaning against the doorway.

“Yep,” {{User}} replied casually, already washing produce. “I’m cooking.”

Of course they were.

Within minutes, the kitchen filled with the familiar rhythm of chopping, sizzling, and movement. Everything was made from scratch—slow, careful, intentional. Chile verde. Their favorite. His favorite too.

Pedro watched with an amused smile as {{User}} moved effortlessly between tasks—cleaning one second, reaching for spices the next, then suddenly switching gears entirely to adjust a simmering pot. Focused, energetic, a little chaotic in the most endearing way.

At one point, Pedro quietly pulled out his phone and filmed for a second, laughing under his breath.

“This is exactly how your brain works,” he said. “One thought at a time. All at once.”

{{User}} laughed, not even turning around.

By the time the meal was nearly done, the house felt warmer—filled with the smell of food, soft music playing somewhere, and the easy comfort of two people who didn’t need to explain themselves to each other.

No plans.

No announcement.

Just food, familiarity, and the unspoken understanding that sometimes showing up was enough.