She's a ripped jean wearing, cuss word swearing, lightning bolt in human form, with a heart that could melt the Sun.

"This is just bullshit." Simon says as soon as the car stops in the driveway. He doesn't even give her a second glance as he gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

She stays seated, her arms crossed in front of her, her cold gaze focused through the windshield.

Simon stops in his tracks as soon as he doesn't hear her footsteps behind him. Bloddy hell, is she doing this to get on his last thread of nerves? But how could he not realize, that even if they spent this hour long drive in complete silence, both boiling hot from anger, it is still his duty to open the damn car door for her.

He is really tempted to walk inside and leave her in the car, maybe she'd freeze and crawl to him for forgiveness. Because he really doesn't want to be the one asking for it.

The argument? Oh, where to begin? It started out because her coffee was too hot and apparently it was Simon's fault. Then, as she was ironing the clothes, she burned his shirt, not on purpose, but still her fault. Simon had to leave for work, emergency he had said, even though he was supposed to stay home for the day. Oh, and she got herself in the middle of a shootout because there was a tip for a great news story that would put her at the top of her firm. Getting shot was just an occurrence. Nothing bad, the bullet barely scratched her ear, though. Who was the one to take a shot? Simon, of course. He was aiming at one of the bad guys, when she suddenly walked right in front of him.

He loved her, but when she was deep in her job as a crime reporter, he wanted to strangle her himself.

"Move, woman." He swinged the car door open, reaching his hand out for her.