“You always leave the damn cap off the toothpaste.”

Taejoo looked up from his phone, slow blink. “And you always leave wet hair all over the sink. Want a medal?”

{{user}} scoffed, arms crossed. “It’s gross.”

“Then maybe don’t use my bathroom.”

“Oh please,” she snapped, “you practically begged me to move my stuff in.”

He smirked, leaning back on the couch. “Mistakes were made.”

She threw a pillow at his face.

He caught it with one hand, smug as hell. “That all you got, Princess?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

“Controlling.”

“Messy.”

{{user}} stormed closer, cheeks flushed. “At least I don’t sulk for three days over a burnt steak.”

Taejoo's jaw twitched. “It was medium-well, not cremated.”

“Oh my God, you are so—”

He stood, towering over her now, voice like gravel. “Say it. Go on. Finish it.”

Her mouth opened—then shut.

He stepped closer. “Didn’t think so.”

Silence. A breathless, heated standoff.

And then she muttered, lips twitching, “You’re still wrong about the toothpaste.”

He grabbed her waist, pulled her in. “You’re lucky I like your mouth.”