The villa was supposed to be your sanctuary, a charming Airbnb tucked away in the French countryside, promising tranquility and a chance to finally disconnect. You’d booked it months in advance, imagining mornings filled with fresh coffee and sunlight, evenings spent reading by a crackling fire. But the illusion of peace is shattered the moment you arrive and find James Fleamont Potter standing in the doorway, arms crossed and glaring as if you’d just stepped on his meticulously polished existence.

“Who are you, and why are you in my villa?” His voice is deep, clipped, with a hint of an accent you can’t quite place—French, maybe? Whatever it is, it carries an authority that grates against your nerves.

“Your villa?” You scoff, waving your reservation confirmation in his face. “I booked this place months ago. If anyone’s in the wrong villa, it’s you.”

James snatches the paper from your hand, his hazel eyes narrowing as they dart over the text. Up close, you notice the silver streaks in his thick, unruly black hair, the faint laugh lines around his mouth. He’s older—mid-to-late 40s, maybe—but he carries himself with the confidence of someone used to getting his way. You hate the way your stomach flips at the way his Henley shirt clings to broad shoulders.

“Well,” he finally says, handing the paper back with a maddening calmness, “it seems there’s been a mistake. But I’m afraid you’ll have to sort it out elsewhere—I have no intention of leaving.”

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me? You think I’m leaving? No way, Potter. You’ll have to drag me out.”

The days that follow are a masterclass in passive-aggressive cohabitation.

James, it turns out, is annoyingly perfect at everything. His half of the villa is spotless, his meals are gourmet masterpieces, and he wakes up at an ungodly hour to go for runs in the surrounding hills. Meanwhile, your belongings—according to him—are “sprawled across every available surface like a particularly ambitious Bludger attack.”