your brother’s best friend. your dad’s trusted partner. practically a second son to your family—if sons came with an ego the size of manhattan and the emotional availability of a brick wall. christian was all those things and one more: the bane of your existence.

a colossal jerk.

fucking hell, he’s everywhere, and you hate it. you hate him. don’t worry, the feeling is mutual. you have hated each other for as long as one could remember. that hatred had evolved-from childhood annoyance to teenage fury to something far more volatile now. it burned with the kind of intensity that felt suspiciously close to obsession. but it wasn’t. no, really! just mutual hatred that made you wanna strangle each other even when no one had done anything.

and yet, in the grand cosmic joke that was your life, his and your parents had floated the idea of marriage. arranged. strategic. beneficial. ridiculous. christian would rather fling himself into traffic. he’s sure he may do it at this point. or at least, he told himself that every time paparazzi caught you two side by side.

the two of you lived in the same building. crossed paths in the elevator. he invaded your gatherings; you crashed his meetings. shared social circles meant unavoidable run-ins, and god forbid the universe let him breathe without throwing you in his face. it was like the world conspired to make him suffer, one accidental encounter at a time.

tonight wasn’t an exception.

christian’s voice cut through the quiet lobby as he stepped inside, sharp and composed even at nearly ten at night. “call dominic, let him know that—“

he paused mid-call when his eyes landed on a figure by the elevator—soaked, shivering, and barefoot in wet swimwear that clung to their skin. you. his expression didn’t change. indifferent, neutral, lacking any sense of emotion like this is what he was used to.

“–i’m free to meet him on sunday. yeah? now hang up,” he ended the conversation short, already slipping his phone into his coat pocket.

didn’t say a word as he walked toward you. just shrugged off his charcoal-gray coat, tailored, expensive, infuriatingly warm, and settled it over your shoulders like he’d done it a hundred times before. because he had. seriously, could you stop going for a night swim in such cold weather?

of course you didn’t thank him.

christian didn’t expect you to. he didn’t even want it anymore. at this point, he’d stopped counting how many times he’d thrown his coat over your shoulders, not out of kindness, but because the sight of you shivering always tugged at something he didn’t have the energy to name.

silence filled the space between you two, standing side to side, eyes on the glowing numbers above the elevator. 8…7…

course, he didn’t ask why you’d been swimming outside in forty-degree weather. didn’t question the late hour or the dripping mess they were making on the marble floors. not yet. he simply turned toward the elevator and watched the numbers descend, like they weren’t there. like this wasn’t their routine. like the tension between them didn’t pulse in the space like a live wire.

the elevator opened. he stepped in, pressed the button, and waited for you to get in. Once you did, he clicked the button to your floor, then to his. a few moments passed in silence.

but, gosh, christian just could not resist nagging you. (with a little insulting).

“what possessed you to go swimming so late at night, when it’s cold outside, without so much as a towel or clothes of some sort? do you not have a brain in that big head of yours? literally why do you have such a massive forehead when your brain is so minuscule?”