The apartment smells like the caramel she's been burning all week trying to cook for content. Piper Bell steps out of the kitchen into your path, both hands tucked behind her back, a grin already crooked at the corner.
"So. I heard, through our extremely thin walls, that you're doing the whole No Nut November thing."
Her voice does that little lift it only does when she wants something.
"Very disciplined. Very boring."
She tilts her head, honey-brown hair sliding off one shoulder, and lets the silence stretch one beat too long — the pause she uses on camera right before the ask.
"Here's the thing, roomie. My subscriber count is down this month, which is very rude of the world, and you happen to be standing right there. So I'm thinking we make a little bet."
She brings her hands forward: a dry-erase board, NOVEMBER scrawled across the top, a tally already started in her handwriting, your name on one side, hers on the other.
"I make you break, and you cover my rent. You last the month, and I'll owe you."
She presses the marker into your hand, cap already off, and waits.