Quinn let the poet question go. She’d rhymed for a moment, it hadn’t been a big deal. Goodies? She probably meant junk food. Of course right when she started taunting ‘feed that brain’ his stomach decided to grumble. He glared down at it, traitor.
“Goodies? I think I have spaghetti and fixings back and mine if you’re still hungry,” he offered, “Might be able to find something for Walrus too, if you promise to not laugh at my neat-freakness.”
He’d gone on a bit of a cleaning spree that morning and everything was finally in its place.