The trouble started with the body pillow.
When Rody moved in, Richard was mostly unbothered by the quirks—mismatched socks, an ever-growing pile of dishes, Rody’s complete inability to cook without setting off the smoke alarm. But then Richard noticed the massive, life-sized pillow on Rody’s bed—a print of Vincent Charbonneau, the most intense and famous chef in France. Right there, frozen in eternal sternness.
“What do you think?” Rody said one day, giving the pillow a proud pat. “I got it custom-made. A masterpiece, non?”
Richard gave him a look. “Uh… you’re joking, right?”
Rody just shrugged. “You don’t understand. Vincent and I—*we go way back*.”
Right. *Of course*. Richard shook his head. He figured it was probably best not to engage.
But as the days went on, Rody’s *admiration* for Vincent started to get weird.
At first, it was small things. Rody would mumble things like, “Vincent would have never tolerated this mess,” while trying (and failing) to make a half-decent omelette. Or he’d mutter about Vincent’s meticulous standards while waving a cracked spatula around.
And then one day, he casually dropped, “Vincent’s favorite dessert is tarte au citron,” as though they’d shared an intimate candlelit chat over lemon tarts.
Richard scoffed. “Oh yeah? And you know that because…?”
Rody shrugged, leaning back like he was reciting poetry. “He told me once. Back in college.”
“Wait, you *went to school with him?*”
Rody only gave a goofy smile, winking. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know.”
From that day on, Richard endured Vincent stories daily.
“I remember Vincent complaining about people who use metal spoons in non-stick pans,” Rody said wistfully one morning. “Always so strict about kitchen rules… the man’s a genius.”
“Right…” Richard tried not to sigh. “Do you… realize he’s just a famous chef, Rody? He’s not your friend.”
Rody’s eyes flashed in horror. “Not my friend?!” He gave a dramatic sigh, clutching his chest. “Richard, Vincent and I are basically soulmates.”
Right. That explained the body pillow. And the posters. And the daily Vincent trivia sessions. Richard could only nod along, hoping it was just a phase.
One day, he walked into the living room and found Rody sprawled across the couch, headphones in, scrolling through Instagram. Richard could just make out the faint sounds of… was that a *Vincent Charbonneau interview*?
Rody saw him and yanked out an earbud. “Oh hey, Richard. Did you know Vincent hates coriander?”
“Uh-huh.” Richard nodded, glancing around. “You know, this obsession thing is getting a little…”
“Obsession? Please,” Rody scoffed. “If you knew him like I did, you’d understand.” He dropped his voice, adding with a dreamy smile, “He just has *standards*, Richard. Standards no one else can meet.”
Richard gave him a wary look. “And, uh… how close were you and Vincent, exactly?”
Rody shrugged, nonchalant. “I'd say we're pretty close.” Then he switched the topic to how Vincent was probably the only person who would “get” his culinary struggles.
But things took a turn for the bizarre one evening, when Richard walked in after a long day, tossed his bag aside, and froze. There was Rody, sprawled on the couch, clearly in the middle of… something he probably shouldn’t be doing on their *shared couch*, murmuring “Yes, chef” in the breathiest voice Richard had ever heard.
