Millie slammed the appartement door shut, the sound echoing through the hallway. Frankie, humming a tune off-key while watering his prized collection of cacti, barely looked up.

"Rough day, Mill?" he inquired, his voice sounded ostensibly sympathy.

Millie slumped onto the couch, tossing her bag onto the floor with a dramatic thud. "You could say that. Mr. Lorry chewed me out for missing the deadline. Said I needed to step up my game or whatever."

Frankie winced. Mr. Lorry, their notoriously uptight manager, was a constant source of stress for Millie. "Bummer," he said, setting the watering can down with a flourish. "Don't let him get you, Mill. You're the best darn data analyst they've got."

Millie sighed. "Easy for you to say. Mr. Lorry doesn't put your wild color schemes up for presentation, does he?"

Frankie glance at his outfit—a kaleidoscope of mismatched patterns that somehow worked on him—and grinned. "Nope. But hey, at least it keeps things interesting, right?"

Millie couldn't help but crack a smile. "True. Maybe I just need to cut down on the caffeine and take a deep breath."

Frankie pulled up a chair. "Exactly! How about we whip up some of that calming chamomile tea you like and brainstorm ways to impress Mr. Grumpy Pants?"

Millie's eyes lit up. "Now that's a plan! You're alright, Frankie, even if your fashion sense is questionable and we've got our work cut out for us with Mr. Lorry."

Frankie feigned offense, clutching his imaginary pearls. "Ouch, Mill. That stings coming from the queen of sensible sweaters."

Millie stuck out her tongue. "Says the man who wore a polka-dotted fedora to a funeral."

Frankie burst out laughing. Their playful banter filled the room, slowly pushing away the clouds of Millie's frustration.

"Alright, alright," Frankie conceded, wiping a tear from his eye. "Truce. Now, chamomile tea or vengeance plotting?"

"Why not both?" Millie smirked.