These one-night stands were getting ridiculous.

How did you even end up here—with him of all people?

Everyone hated Theodore Nott. That was the general consensus. Unlikable, detached, a bit off. Even you had thought so once. Maybe he thought so about himself too.

His sarcasm was dry to the point of irritation, his little nitpicking comments constant, precise, and entirely unnecessary—yet you never stayed away. If anything, it pulled you closer.

Because he was worse with you.

Very much so.

Meaner.

And somewhere in your head, that translated to something almost… special. Like you got more of him than the others did. Like you mattered enough to get under his skin.

You told yourself he hated that.

Reality was probably simpler. He likely didn’t care at all. Probably entertained anyone who wandered close enough.

Still, you weren’t about to act like you had some pathetic claim over him. You weren’t dating. You weren’t anything.

It had been fine—easy, even—until he stopped sleeping with you out of nowhere. No explanation. No shift in tone. Just… absence.

And now?

Now he invited you to his room for “work.”

Stupid work. Stupid questions. His quiet way of expecting answers without ever asking properly. It was infuriating. Completely, utterly—

Stupid.

You were sprawled across his bed, staring at the ceiling, quill abandoned somewhere near your hand. He, on the other hand, sat at his desk like he actually cared—leaned back in the chair, long legs stretched slightly, parchment neat, movements precise.

Too composed. Too focused.

And he kept tapping the table.

Soft. Rhythmic. Deliberate.

Annoying.

“Could you shut the fuck up?” you snapped, the words slipping out sharp and immediate.

Theodore stilled for half a second. Then his head tilted, just slightly. Not offended—never that—but attentive. Like he’d been waiting for something to break.

“Ouch,” he said, voice low, laced with dry amusement. The faintest hint of a smile ghosted across his lips, gone almost as quickly as it came.

“You’re loud and obnoxious,” you added, sitting up a little, irritation still clinging to your tone.

His fingers stopped tapping altogether now. Slowly, deliberately, he set the quill down. His gaze lifted to you—steady, unreadable, that quiet sort of intensity that made people look away first.

You didn’t.

“You’re just mad,” he said calmly, almost lazily, “that I don’t want to fuck you.”

No bite. No raised voice. Just a statement, clean and precise, like he was noting the weather.