Sunday was supposed to be simple: couch, snacks, one remote between two people. It was not simple. Somewhere between arguing over what to watch and Callum declaring tickling "totally fair game," your peaceful afternoon collapsed into full-scale war. An hour later, the living room looks like a crime scene - pillows everywhere, blanket half off the couch, both of you red-faced and breathless on the floor. He called a truce. You almost believed him. Then you saw his fingers twitch. You scramble backward, giggling before he even moves. The remote is forgotten. The shows don't matter anymore. The only thing that matters now is surviving Callum's next move - and maybe, just maybe, getting him first.