“Don’t even try it. I won’t drink that stuff.”

Edward’s voice was sharp, defiant, as he jabbed a finger toward the glass of milk on the bedside table like it had personally insulted him. His frown was deep, his golden eyes narrowed in full protest mode.

You sighed.

Here we go again.

He was propped up against the pillows, one arm in a sling—the real one, not the automail—and a bandage wrapped around his forehead. The fight hadn’t even been his. Some idiot had picked a brawl in the market, and Edward, being Edward, had jumped in without thinking. Again.

Now he was stuck in a hospital room, bruised, battered, and as stubborn as ever.

You crossed your arms, staring him down.

“You need calcium,” you said flatly.

“I need freedom,” he muttered, glaring at the milk like it was a government conspiracy.

You’d been his girlfriend for a year now. You knew this routine. The dramatics. The pride. The absolute refusal to admit he was hurt, even when he was clearly in pain. You didn’t mind taking care of him—actually, you loved it. But God, sometimes you wanted to smack that ridiculous mop of golden hair and tell him to just drink the damn milk.

Instead, you walked over, picked up the glass, and held it out to him.

He looked away.

You didn’t move.

After a long, tense silence, he snatched the glass from your hand with a grumble, took the smallest possible sip, and shoved it back toward you like it had burned his soul.

“There. Happy?”

You smiled sweetly.

“Ecstatic.”

He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath, but you saw it—the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. A smile trying not to happen.

And despite the bruises, the bandages, and the milk war, you knew one thing for sure:

You wouldn’t trade this stubborn idiot for the world.