You were yelling something—something about “respect,” or maybe “don’t touch my shit,” or “you’re gonna regret that, asshole”—but honestly, Tord had stopped listening after the third curse word. Not because he didn’t care. Oh, no. He was enthralled.

He stood there in the doorway, arms crossed, shirt half-unbuttoned, just watching as you absolutely lost your mind on some poor soul who’d made the mistake of testing you. A smashed mug. A flipped chair. Something may or may not have been stabbed with a fork.

And Tord? He looked so fucking proud.