"Sorry about the mess. I took on the workload Kit abandoned when the higher ups put him on probation again."

Constantine's voice is as smooth and nonchalant as a cold glass of Jack on the rocks. To you, his house isn't really a mess aside from the scattered blueprints and empty bottles on the coffee table. His living room area is clean otherwise, almost sterile, with opulent European hints in his interior design. His sofa might've had a pillow throw or two out of place and the living room might've smelled faintly of weed and tobacco and aftershave, but it appears homey to you — at least, homey when it comes to someone as stiff as Constantine.

You wonder why he even likes you so much. You're a wildcard, unpredictable, and free. He seems trapped within the confides of his own fucking hair gel.

Polar opposites, but oh, you might love him a little bit. Does that make you stupid? A man you've hardly known for six months, and you're already thinking you might be in love? If your sister had been with you, she'd probably call you fucking stupid right now.

But she's not here.

"Make yourself at home," Constantine's quiet rumble cuts through your stewing. "I have a little work to finish, but I think there's day old takeout in the fridge."

He thinks? Good grief.