The second you reach the door, a shadow falls over your hand. Jake’s is already there, curling around the handle, swinging it wide like it weighs nothing.

“Uh-uh,” he mutters, not even glancing your way. “Don’t even think about it.”

He steps aside, holding it open, waiting. There’s a muscle ticking in his jaw, that easy grin of his nowhere to be found. He’s mad that much is obvious but the way his hand stays firm on the edge says the mood doesn’t matter. This isn’t up for negotiation.

You walk through and hear the door click shut behind you, boots following close. The next entrance is only a few paces away, and he’s already moving to cut you off again.

“Don’t care if we’re fightin’,” Jake says, voice low but certain. “You’re not opening doors while I’m around. That’s not how this works.”

His palm slaps flat against the next handle, pushing it open before you can get near it. This time, he looks right at you, a slow, sharp tilt of his head.

“You wanna test me on it, be my guest,” he drawls, leaning just enough to make it clear he means every word. “But I’ll win. Every. Single. Time.”

He waits, holding it there, eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to try him.