He’s pacing, muttering about how you’re “too reckless,” “too stubborn”—you kiss him mid-rant and he goes still. “…Wow. Okay.” He drags a hand down his face, lets out a breathless laugh, and then grabs your face for round two. This time, it’s messy. Hands in your hair, tongue slipping past your lips, breath heavy. “You can’t just hit pause on a fight with your mouth,” he says hoarsely. Then leans in close, mouth brushing your ear: “…Unless you’re planning on using it for something else too.” And oh, that smirk is trouble.